by Lori Wilde
She passed some regal homes overlooking the lake, but she knew this wasn’t her destination. Katie had mentioned that her home was modest. Which was absolutely fine with Gabi. An adorable bungalow was exactly what she was looking for. Having grown up in Beverly Hills in a house so rambling that she and her parents could go days without seeing each other, modest sounded perfect. Her mind was already spinning images of Iris’s English cottage from The Holiday.
Just like in the movie, her house swap with Katie Cheek had been straightforward—my keys for yours, my car for yours, my situation for yours, no questions asked.
Swapping places, sight unseen, might sound crazy to some, and in fact she could scarcely believe she’d done it.
But that was the point, wasn’t it? Shake things up. Have an adventure. Step outside her comfort zone. Although it had taken a lot of self-control not to Google Katie’s house on the Internet.
After a few minutes, the houses began to thin and the land flattened. She drove past a golf course, a small airfield, and a Christmas tree farm.
Um … there was nothing much out this way. Could the GPS be programmed incorrectly?
She pulled over to the side of the road, dug around in her purse for the address and house key that Katie had mailed her. She was busy double-checking the numbers with the GPS coordinates when knuckles rapped smartly against her window.
“Eeek!” She startled, jumped.
A big, handsome man in his early forties, wearing work boots, a green paint-stained John Deere cap, and a worn gray pea coat, stood beside her car. She glanced in the rearview mirror and spied a battered old green pickup truck pulled up behind her Camry. A pickup truck with a gun rack in the back window.
She hiccupped. “What do you need?”
He made a motion like turning a crank, asking her to put the window down.
Mmm, right. She wasn’t about to trust this guy. Without glancing away from his face, she stuck her hand inside her purse, felt around for her stun gun. “What is it?”
“You look lost,” he said in such a kind way that it made her feel guilty for assuming he was up to no good.
Gabi sized him up with a lingering glance. It was the most profound thing anyone had said to her in a long time and it stilled her hand inside her purse. “I don’t need any help, but thank you for stopping.”
Still, he didn’t leave. “Are you gonna make me keep yelling through closed glass?”
Reluctantly, she lowered the window an inch.
“I’ve scared you,” he said, backing up and holding his palms up at shoulder level. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I promise I’m not a serial killer.”
“Isn’t that exactly what a serial killer would say?” She tightened her fingers around the stun gun, debated whether pulling it out for him to see would put her at an advantage or a disadvantage.
He chuckled. “My name’s Nate Deavers and I’m a former Navy SEAL. Does that make you feel any better?”
“Oh well, if you say you’re a Navy SEAL, then it’s got to be gospel.”
A wide smile hooked his mouth. “You’re from a big city.”
She notched up her chin and allowed herself to smile back. “That obvious?”
“Yep. I hope you weren’t trying to keep it a secret.”
“I have no secrets,” she said.
“Isn’t that exactly what someone with secrets would say?” he teased.
She liked his sense of humor. “My name is Gabi Preston. I’m a law student.” Former law student, but he didn’t need to know that. “Feel more informed now?”
He laughed again, a hearty, comforting laugh. “What is it you’re looking for?”
Another profound question. What was she looking for? Freedom. Self-reliance. Mistress of her own fate. Intangible, immeasurable goals.
“Katie Cheek’s house,” she said, settling on her immediate objective.
“You’re right on top of it,” he said, and pointed down the dirt road to her right, directly adjacent to the Christmas tree farm.
She turned in her seat and saw a round white structure that looked to be some kind of tent. Katie’s house must be just beyond that.
“Thank you,” she said. “I apologize for my paranoia.”
“Always better safe than sorry.” Nate saluted and ambled back to his pickup.
She sat in the car, waiting for him to drive away, then took a deep breath and sank back against the seat. “Chill out. This isn’t LA,” she mumbled, and turned down the dirt road, drove pass the tent thingy.
Her GPS announced, “You have reached your destination.”
Ignoring it, she motored over the hill and came to the edge of the lake. Puzzled, she turned around, and cruised slowly past the tent.
“You have reached your destination,” the robo voice said again.
Seriously? The tent was it? This was Katie’s place? No cute ivy-twined cottage. No adorable lake house bungalow. Never in a million years would she have guessed that Katie lived in a tent. Why did Katie live in a tent?
Gabi stared, dejected, as it fully sank in that she’d be bunking in a tent. Hello chasm.
What had she’d gotten herself into?
CHAPTER 2
At Christmas play and make good cheer, for Christmas comes but once a year.
—Thomas Tusser
Gabi got out of the car and her designer heels sank into the damp earth. Not the proper footwear for navigating a pasture’s bumpy terrain. Maybe she should buy a pair of cowboy boots. Better yet, maybe she should get a motel room.
What had she been thinking?
In truth? She hadn’t fully thought this through. That’s what she got for not asking for details. An adventure was what she’d wanted and that’s what she’d gotten.
Purposefully, she readjusted her chin, her spine, and her attitude. Okay. Bring it. She was on board with whatever circumstances threw her way. This was part of her journey. Had to embrace the new in order to strip away the old, right?
The domed tent sat atop a plain wooden deck. Off to one side was a large chicken coop, and a black and white cow grazed contentedly in the field. Animals? Was she supposed to be taking care of animals? Katie hadn’t said a word about animals.
Her heart, which had been nesting in her stomach, glided right on down to her shoes. Gabi had never had a house pet, much less been around farm animals.
She hiccupped. Her lungs tightened and her head buzzed dizzily.
Calm down. It was okay. She could handle this. Momentarily, she closed her eyes, let the fear wash over her and away, then brusquely dusted her palms. Move forward.
The sun was sinking toward the horizon, bumping through gray clouds, sending cool fingers of winter to silver the long grass ruffling in the breeze. The scent of the lake and Christmas tree pine tinged the air, smelling both earthy and surreal. She paused on the deck of the tent house, inhaled deeply, and listened to the silence.
The chirp of a bird. The whisper of the wind. The gentle sound of her own breathing.
Ah, peace. Nice. Very nice. She could get used to this.
The ping of a metal axe against wood cut the quiet. Gabi lifted her head and glanced around. Less than fifty yards separated her from the Christmas tree farm, and through the branches of the trees she spied a man chopping at a fir that he felled in three easy whacks.
He wore a blue flannel shirt that rippled in the back every time he swung the axe. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscles and giving her a show of strength, agility, and timing as he picked up the downed tree and tossed it effortlessly onto a flatbed trailer parked down the row of trees.
Her gaze dropped to his masculine backside hugged by a pair of faded Levi’s. Uh-oh, she knew that butt. It was the same scrumptious ass she’d seen less than half an hour earlier at the coffee shop.
It was He-Man.
He pulled a red bandana from his pocket, mopped his face, then turned and caught her staring. Across the distance, his gaze sl
ammed into her harder than a head-on collision. The air shot from her lungs so quickly, she couldn’t even hiccup.
Holy writ of attachment!
With two ground-munching strides, he reached the barbwire fence, and gracefully climbed it.
Eeps! He was coming over.
Unprepared for a face-to-face with him, Gabi backed up. Fast.
She smacked into the door of the tent. Heart racing, she spun around, fumbled for the key, got the door open, and tumbled inside. The strap of her designer handbag dropped from her shoulder to the floor, and she sagged against the door.
This was crazy. She wanted him. Truly wanted this stranger, but of course she was too unnerved by that realization to have a conversation and figure out where this was going.
Nowhere. It was going nowhere. She wasn’t here for an affair. She was here to get her head screwed on straight, and all he would do was unscrew it.
Chicken.
Maybe. But she wasn’t ready to talk to the likes of him. He was just too damn hot.
Outside, a truck horn tooted. She peeked out the window to see that a red pickup with a trailer hitched to it had driven up to the front gate of the Christmas tree farm. Did everyone around here drive pickup trucks?
He-Man, who was halfway across the road toward her, stopped, shrugged, and went back where he belonged, waving to the man who got out of the red pickup.
Whew. Crisis averted.
Relieved, Gabi turned back to the room and for the first time really saw the inside of the tent. It was, in a word, surprising.
For one thing, the interior was a lot more luxurious than she expected. The approximately eight hundred square feet of circular space included an impressive limestone fireplace on the north side of the room, surrounded by a plump sectional sofa. To the east was a full kitchen with butcher-block countertops and stainless-steel appliances. Between the living room area and the kitchen sat a small dining room table and four wooden chairs hand painted in a whimsical chicken motif. To the south where Gabi stood was a full-sized, white wrought-iron bed dressed with a yin-yang patterned comforter. Paneled walls partitioned off the west side, which she supposed housed the bathroom. Hand-scraped, knotty pine flooring invited her to take off her shoes and relax. A skylight let in what light remained of the overcast day.
Maybe tent living wouldn’t be too weird after all. She stepped deeper into the home and turned to glance behind her. On the back of the door was a Christmas wreath and a plaque that read “Home Sweet Yurt.”
A yurt.
So that’s what this was.
The room was chilly, and she looked around for a thermostat, only to realize there wasn’t one. Was the fireplace the only heat source? That was an intimidating thought. Umm. Maybe there was another flight back to LA tonight.
Suck it up.
No running away. She could do this. It would be like fancy camping. Except that she’d never been camping and had no idea how that worked.
Outside, she heard the ping of an axe again. Clearly yurts were not soundproof, but at least the noise reassured her that He-Man had decided to respect her privacy and he’d gone back to his business.
Good. Great. This was the perfect time to fetch her luggage from the car and start settling in.
She breathed a sigh of relief, picked up the keys she’d dropped along with her purse when she’d run panicky into the yurt. Head down, she pulled open the front door, strode forward—
And plowed smack-dab into a wall of blue-flannel-wrapped muscles.
Yeeps! She jumped back, lost her balance, and wobbled precariously on the edge of the deck.
“Whoa there.” A strong masculine arm slipped around her waist, held her securely in place.
“I’m okay,” she said, meaning, You can let go of me, but he didn’t get the hint.
She lifted her head, met those simmering dark eyes, and hiccupped.
Loudly.
This close, she was hit with the full force of his manliness, and He-Man wasn’t an apt enough description. His chest felt as if it had been sculpted from granite. His hands were tanned and nicked with various scars. Workman’s hands. He smelled of the outdoors, and a few strands of Christmas tree nettles were caught in his thick, golden brown hair.
His posture was relaxed, nonchalant. So why did he remind her of an eagle scoping out prey? His sharp-eyed gaze locked on to hers, held her captive. There was something cool and über-masculine about him. She felt scrutinized. Appraised.
Hot adrenaline pumped through her body and her knees weakened.
Alpha He-Man.
He canted his head, one cocky eyebrow shooting upward on his forehead. “Where is my sister?”
“What?” How would she possibly know the answer to that question? “Who are you? Who is your sister?”
“Joe Cheek,” he said. “I live across the street, and Katie is my sister.”
Gabi stood on tiptoes in order to see over his mountainous shoulders. “You live on the Christmas tree farm?”
“It’s not just a Christmas tree farm. We raise all kinds of things. Alpacas, miniature horses, goats, sunflowers, coastal hay …”
Children? she wondered, and then immediately wondered why she was wondering. Who cared? He’d said “we.” We raise all kinds of things.
Her gaze drifted to his bare left hand. No ring. But that didn’t mean anything. Lots of married guys who worked with their hands didn’t wear wedding bands for safety reasons.
“If you’re here, who’s cutting down trees?” she asked inanely as the sound of the biting axe kept ringing in the air.
“Customer. Some people like chopping down their own trees. Dive into the full Christmas experience.”
“Oh.”
“Where’s my sister?” he repeated, his brows uniting in a scowl.
Her stomach jumped. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Last night Katie left me a voice message that she was leaving town for the holidays and asked me to look after the animals and her houseguest while she was away, but she didn’t say where she was going. Where is she?”
His nearness made her dizzy. So dizzy she could scarcely breathe. “You’ll have to ask her.”
“I’ve tried, dammit. She told me to mind my own business.” Joe gritted his teeth and squeezed Gabi’s arm. Not tightly, but firmly enough to let her know he was serious about wanting an answer.
Her belly turned to cement, and she hiccupped. C’mon, seriously? Stop with the hiccups already.
Over the years, she’d been to numerous doctors seeking a cure for the embarrassing hiccups and she’d been told there was no physiological reason for her frequent bouts of what the doctors called synchronous diaphragmatic flutter. “Start living life for yourself,” said her family physician, who’d known her since childhood, “instead of always doing what other people want you to do, and the hiccupping will resolve.”
Well, that’s why she was here, wasn’t it? Except the hiccupping seemed to be getting worse instead of better, and she suspected it had something to do with this man and his imposing biceps, heated brown eyes, and granite chin.
Yes. Most definitely. Yes.
Get a grip.
She hiccupped.
Alpha He-Man grunted, and without another word, dragged her inside the yurt.
Her elbow tingled between the firm grip of his finger and thumb. Gabi dug in her heels. Just because he was a gorgeous alpha guy didn’t mean he was entitled to manhandle her.
“Hey. Wait. What are you doing?”
“Drink of water.”
“Doesn’t help.” She hiccupped.
Disregarding her, He-Man lugged her to the kitchen sink, drew a glass of tap water, and thrust it into her hand. “Drink from the opposite edge of the glass.”
“I’ll hu—hic—humor you, but it doesn’t work.” She put her mouth to the side of the glass farther from her, bent at the waist, and flipped her head upside-down so she could drink from the edge of the rim. From her upside-down view, she was eye-
level with his crotch. Instantly, a hot flick of lust licked her and she closed her eyes tight.
Oh dear! She hiccupped in the middle of swallowing, and water splashed all over her chin. Feeling like a giant doofus, Gabi raised her head.
Alpha He-Man handed her a kitchen towel.
She dabbed at her chin—hic, hic, hic.
“Spoonful of sugar.” He nodded, but then snapped his fingers. “Wait. Katie doesn’t keep sugar. I wonder if stevia works the same?”
“Sugar doesn’t—hic—work.”
“Vinegar,” he said firmly, and took a bottle of raw apple cider vinegar from the cabinet.
“Look, I’ve been dealing with recurring hiccups my entire life. I’ve tried every home remedy in the book,” she said. “Water, sugar—hic—” Her chest jerked. “Vinegar, peanut butter, hot sauce—hic, hic—cocoa powder—hic—”
“Sounds like the recipe for brownies from hell,” he muttered.
That made her laugh in the middle of a hiccup and it came out sounding like a belching frog. Her cheeks burned. Classy, Gabrielle. Truly classy.
But he didn’t seem the least bit bothered by her unladylike noises.
“I’ve tried breathing into a brown paper bag, chewing dill seeds—hic—”
He sank his hands on his hips, looked stumped. “Well damn, Trouble, where do we go from here?”
Trouble?
A strangle thrill ran through her. Had the man just given her a nickname? Trouble? Her? Gabi almost laughed. She was the furthest thing on the planet from a troublemaker. She was a people pleaser. Everyone in her world had to be happy or Gabi couldn’t be happy. Hence her rocky relationship with law school.
“What does help?” he asked.