“Wow, that’s really impressive,” Imogen said, sounding like she actually meant it. “What does the overall winner for the season get?”

Ty surveyed his fire pile, satisfied. He glanced back at Imogen. “Fame and fortune, babe, plain and simple.” He turned full around, realizing she was shivering. “You cold?”

She nodded, her arms crossed across her chest.

“Go get your sweatshirt.”

“I didn’t bring one. I only brought this sweater I’m wearing. I thought it was sufficient and I was trying to pack light.”

“I knew there was a catch to that tiny backpack you brought. I’ll get the fire going and that will help, and the sleeping bag is plenty warm, especially with me there to heat you up.” Ty gave her a wink. “But in the meantime, grab my sweatshirt. It’s in my pack.”

“I don’t want to go through your bag.”

“Why not? I can’t imagine the sight of my underwear is going to upset you in any way.”

“Well, no. But it seems like a privacy violation.”

“I’ve got nothing to be private about.” Not in his bag anyway. Maybe he did have one tiny little thing that he kept from most people, but it wasn’t a big deal. And as much as he liked Imogen, he couldn’t foresee telling her he couldn’t read. She’d run for the hills and he just wasn’t ready for that yet.

“Okay. Thanks.” Imogen stood up and patted her front pocket. Ty knew she kept her phone in there when her purse wasn’t available and she did pull it out. “Wow, I just got a message. Who knew you could get cell reception out here? I wonder if I can check my e-mail?”

“No e-mail.” Ty frowned. “That’s just wrong.”

She nodded. “You’re right. But I should check to see who called. It might be my parents or something.”

“I can authorize that,” he said with a smile. Hell, he’d brought his cell, too, because Toni would have a heart attack if he didn’t. “Then put a sweatshirt on and come over here and share my body heat.”

Imogen didn’t say anything, and Ty glanced over to see her listening to her voice mail with a weird expression on her face. “What’s wrong?” he asked her when she hung up.

“Nothing.” She crammed the phone back in her pocket and looked around. “What was I doing?”

“Getting a sweatshirt,” he said carefully. He hesitated, thinking it was none of his business, but the red stain on her cheeks bothered him. “Who called you?”

She was inherently honest, to the point where he had heard her say something, then immediately confess it wasn’t the truth. He suspected she couldn’t lie to a straight question like his. He was right.

Biting her lip, she said, “Um. Evan Monroe.”