From the Inside Flap
So, there wasn't a Mrs. Carlson on the scene. Divorced or died? She watched him place the clothes on the sofa and then turn to her hesitantly. "You're welcome to get changed in the bathroom," he said, "but I thought you'd rather dry off in front of the fire."
He had a thermometer in his hand. "Here." He held it up. "As I said, if it's lower than thirty-five degrees, you've got hypothermia and I'm taking you to the hospital."
"Rectal is more accurate," she said absently. She was sure she'd read that somewhere.
He raised his eyebrows. "Let's start with the mouth. I don't know you well enough yet to try anything else."
She blinked and would have blushed if she wasn't frozen. Taking the thermometer, she placed it in her mouth. They watched each other while they waited for it to beep. His lips curved up a little at the corners, and she dropped her gaze to her feet. She could barely feel them.
Please, Santa, don't let me have hypothermia. I want to stay here.
It beeped, and Hal took it out of her mouth. "Thirty-five-point-one," he said wryly. "Wow, you escaped that by a whisker. All right, I'll go in the kitchen and make you some soup. Is tomato okay?"
"That would be lovely," she said, still shivering.
He met her gaze for a moment, his blue eyes bright in the firelight. A warm tingle ran down her back, although that could just have been her spine defrosting. Then he gave a brief nod. "Shout when you're done," he said, and left the room, closing the door behind him.