by Cathryn Fox
Papers rustle. “How can that be possible?”
“It’s run on the honor system.”
Mom grumbles under her breath. “That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet it’s true,” I say.
“The sooner we sell it the better. I was wondering why the cost of utilities hadn’t gone down.”
Gram left Mom money to take care of the place, but never told her she was going to keep it running. Interesting. Maybe she held out hope that one day my mother would want to return to her roots and take over where Gram left off. I never understood why she disliked the small fishing village so much.
“I contacted a realtor today.”
“Good. Try to get a fair price, but don’t price it too high or it won’t move fast. When will it be assessed?”
“The realtor is coming by tomorrow.” More papers rustle, and it’s clear I only have half her attention. That’s nothing unusual. “Did you know that I found a bunch of letters at the studio? From some law firm wanting to buy the place.”
“The studio is yours, and I can’t tell you what to do with it, but if I were you, I’d sell it.”
“Mom—” I begin, about to have the same conversation with her that I’ve had a hundred times before. Selling it is not what Gram wanted, and I’d never go against her wishes. Ever.
“Your grandmother was too sentimental,” she says, cutting me off.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as we rehash this for the umpteenth time. What is it that Einstein said about doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? Yeah, that’s insanity, and so is arguing with my mother. She’ll never see things my way, and I’ll never see them hers.
“I’ll let you know what the realtor says,” I tell her, and then we end the call.
I’m off the cottage access lane and back on the main road by the time we hang up. The snow begins to fall a bit heavier, and I turn on my wipers and drive to the car return place in town. Once I finish up, I walk along the water and hug myself tighter. I might have to dig one of Gram’s coats out, even if it is going to be three sizes too big.
My hair and clothes are wet from the big fluffy flakes by the time I reach the B&B. There are fresh tire tracks in the snow, but whoever came home has left already. I kick off my shoes, peel off my wet sweater, and shove the lawyer’s letters into my desk drawer. A noise sounds from upstairs, and I straighten.
“Hello,” I say and listen carefully. There were no cars in the driveway, just fresh tracks, so I don’t think anyone is back unless they walked here from the shore like I did. I steal a glance at the clock. It’s three in the afternoon, and they’d all likely still be at work, right? I move to the end of the banister and listen again. I hear another big bang, and I back up.
“Anyone there?”
When I don’t get an answer, I take a few small steps away from the stairs.
“Probably mice.”
Hopefully Nate can take care of that when he gets back. I’m about to close the front closet door—Gram hated it open—but stop abruptly. How did this white coat get here? It definitely wasn’t here earlier. Gram only ever wore dark colors, so it can’t be hers. A small laugh bubbles up inside me along with a memory. Gram said white clothes were a canvas for an artist—meaning every time she wore white, she spilled something on it. Eventually she only bought dark colors.
Well, wouldn’t you know. It’s exactly my size.
As I slip my arms into it, I spot another pickle jar on the credenza, a couple of tens in it. Have they really taken up a coat fund for me? I don’t know whether to smile or shout. I can buy my own coat. Cripes, I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time. But this… Well, this is unnecessary and…so incredibly sweet. My heart squeezes at the display of brotherly and sisterly love. Still, I’ll be sure to tell them to keep their money, now that I’ve found this beauty.
Back in the kitchen, I make some tea, shrug from the coat, and take my mug to my den. I’m here to sell the B&B, but I’m also here to work on my theorem, and I need to get at it. I boot up my computer and blow on my hot tea as I go over my notes.
Before I realize it, the afternoon is gone. I’d lost myself in the complex inner workings of quantum systems as I try to provide an ironclad guarantee that it really has done what it claims. But the path I’d gone down today broke far quicker than the last one.
The back door opens, and I reach for my tea, only to realize it has gone cold. Bags rustle, and the fridge opens and closes. The water turns on and off, and it sounds like someone placed a pan on the stove. Footsteps come toward the den, and I sit back in my chair. It groans a bit.
“Hello,” Nate says, and pokes his head into the room. “Hey, I didn’t realize you were home.” His gaze moves over my face and my body, and he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Your car is gone.”
As I take in the mountain of sexiness and testosterone overtaking my doorway, Nate smiles at me, and I force myself to breathe calmly. Honest to God, that smile is a distraction, not to mention all six feet of strength and muscle. His mere presence awakens my body without even trying. Perhaps it has something to do with the way he looks at me and not through me.
I swallow hard before I say, “Took it back to the rental. From here on out, I’ll be driving the land yacht.”
“Land yacht?” His phone buzzes, but he ignores it. At least this time I know it’s not Bridgette. That thought makes me smile.
“Gram’s big old Thunderbird. It’s in the old carriage house out back.”
“Ah, you’ll never pass by a gas station again.” His brow furrows as he glances at me and my cold, half full cup of tea. “Have you eaten?”
“I…uh, meant to, but I forgot.” My stomach takes that moment to rumble.
“I just restocked. I’ll make you something.”
I stand and say, “I thought I was supposed to be cooking for you?”
“We’ll cook together. Let me rinse off and get changed first.”
I admire his crisp white button-down shirt and dress pants. He must have had a meeting today. I must say, he does look rather nice.
“Nate?”
He sticks his head back in. “Yeah?”
“Do you know anything about the white down coat in the closet?”
“Ah, nope,” he says, with a flinch in his eyelid so slight I almost miss it.
“Maybe I will play that game of poker with you, and I’ll let you win so I can pay you back.”
He holds his hands up, palms out. “I have no idea what you’re taking about.”
Sensing I’m fighting a losing battle, I say, “While you’re upstairs, would you do me a favor and check the trap? There was a loud noise up there today.”
“Not a problem. Nice job on the fire by the way,” he says, and a little thrill goes through me at the compliment. Which is totally ridiculous—all I did was toss a log on the fire. It’s not like I solved my theorem. It just feels that way.
Nate disappears upstairs, and I hover near the landing. “Anything?” I call out.
“Yeah, the trap is intact, but the cheese is gone.”
“Great.”
He steps into the hall. “I think we’re dealing with a ninja mouse,” he says and makes some chopping martial arts move. It’s as adorable as his botched western accent.
“Damn.”
“I checked the foundation earlier, and I think I found a spot where they’re getting in. I stopped at the hardware store on my way home and grabbed some foam to fill it. I’ll do that right away.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“We could always get a cat.”
“True, but what would we do with it after we sell the place?”
“You could take it with you,” he says from the top of the stairs. His fingers go to the buttons on his shirt, and he pops ea
ch one through its hole. I try not to stare, really, I do, but I’m hopeless. The man has a beautiful body, an array of muscles I just can’t seem to stop fantasizing about. Maybe I should have sex with him, get it out of my system so I can move on to more important matters.
How’s that for logical thinking at its worst?
I clear my throat, and under the guise of picking lint off my yoga pants, I bend forward. “If it wasn’t the traps, I wonder what the banging noise was.”
“Old houses creak. Could have been the pipes. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary up here.”
“That’s a plausible hypothesis,” I say, and he arches a brow at me before disappearing into the bathroom to shower and change. I go back to check on the fire and warm myself up a bit. I stand before the hearth and try not to visualize him removing his clothes, those big hands running soapy water over his gorgeous body. My fingers twitch; I steeple them, and not because I want to drop to my knees in prayer. Nope, that’s not the reason I want to drop to my knees at all.
Good God, girl, get it together.
Ten minutes later, he comes back down the stairs, and this time, his look is casual, with low slung jeans and a navy T-shirt. I like it. A lot.
“How does pasta sound?” he asks.
“Carbs are my favorite.”
He grins. “Come on. I thought I’d make spaghetti and meatballs. Something simple.”
“To you. What can I do to help?” We enter the kitchen, and all the ingredients are laid out. “Wait, you make the sauce from scratch?” Who was this man?
“Yeah, don’t you?” he asks with a teasing grin.
“If I can’t nuke it, I don’t cook it.”
Laughing, we both go to the sink to wash up. “What are the nails for?” I ask, gesturing toward a box on the counter.
“Back deck. I need to get at it before we get too much snow. The wood is being delivered tomorrow. Will you be home to get it?”
Home.
That sounds so strange. This isn’t my home, even if I’m playing house with all these guests.
“I should be.”
After we dry our hands, he grabs the can opener from the drawer and hands it to me. “Why don’t you open the tomatoes, sauce, and paste.”
As I open all the cans, he grabs a pot, fills it with water, and places it on the back burner. He tosses in some salt, reaches for another pot, and puts it on the front burner. “That one is for the pasta, and this one is for the sauce.”
“Should I pour these in?” I ask, and he nods, his hard body brushing mine as he looks over my shoulder. Working to ignore the quiver along my spine, I dump the tomatoes, sauce, and the tomato paste into the pot.
He gestures to the jar on the counter filled with ladles and spoons. “Give it a stir, and we’ll let it simmer while we make the meatballs.”
I reach for one of Gram’s big wooden spoons and mix the sauces together. “Now what?”
Nate opens the package of ground beef and dumps it into the bowl. “We’ll spice these up and put them in the oven.”
I help him toss in onion, garlic, basil, oregano, breadcrumbs, and an egg, finishing it off with a dash of salt and pepper. I must say, cooking with Nate is rather fun and educational.
“Now, we get messy.” He mixes it with his hands then takes about a spoonful of beef into his palm, shapes it into a ball, and places it on the parchment paper on top of a tray.
“That looks easy enough.” I reach in, and when I do, our hands touch and linger for a second. My gaze flashes to his, and I breathe a little quicker. Lord, how desperate am I if the touch of a man’s hands when making meatballs together is messing with my libido? Nothing about this is sexy. Nothing. Then why the hell does it feel like it is? I pull my hand out, form the ball in my palms, and show it to him.
“Perfect,” he says, but he’s not looking at my meatball. Nope, not looking at my meatball at all. His gaze is on my mouth.
I drop the ball onto the parchment paper, and a heavy, tension-filled silence ensues as we empty the bowl and fill the tray. Once done, we go back to the sink and wash our hands, but this time we’re touching a little more, our fingers tangling, lathering the soap as the hot water pours over us. I can barely breathe, let alone speak, when he turns off the tap.
“What now?” I practically squeak out.
He puts the tray into the oven and adjusts the temperature. “Now we spice the sauce,” he says, his voice thick and rusty.
I lean against the kitchen table, admiring his body as he pulls a set of measuring spoons from the drawer. “How did you get so good in the kitchen?” I manage to get out through the tightening of my throat.
“I used to fend for myself a lot,” he says, and I recall his absent father and his mother, who clearly spent a lot of time alone in her room. That had to be tough. Nate said he hadn’t seen her in years. I’d like to ask what happened, but don’t want to pry too much. Still, watching so many women come and go from his life must have had a lasting impact.
“Can you crush the garlic and toss it into the sauce?” he asks, and hands me some strange piece of equipment that I might find at the doctor’s office during my regular girly routine. I stare at it like it’s some foreign object because, basically, it is.
“Uh…”
Nate laughs. “Like this,” he says, closing his hands over mine and squeezing until the garlic oozes out of the little holes. I don’t miss his little intake of breath, and when he takes his hands away, his thumb brushes lightly over my flesh.
“Now, put that into the pot and stir,” he says.
I dump the garlic in, and he adds a mixture of spices, his body close to mine, touching intimately as I mix and he works around me.
“Like this,” he says, his mouth near my ear, his chest pressing into my back as he closes his hand over mine and helps me stir. Except, the delicious smell of the sauce is quickly overpowered by Nate’s unique aroma of freshly soaped skin with a splash of testosterone.
“Perfect,” he says, and the heat in his voice seeps through me. I turn to face him, and for one pulse-pounding moment we stand there, eyes locked, tension taking up space between us.
No man, and I mean no man, has ever looked at me the way Nate is looking at me now. Eyes dimmed, hungry, he presses against me, and the bulge between his legs dents my stomach. It seems incredible—I don’t attract men like Nate. But evidence points to the contrary. The proof that he’s as hot for me as I am for him is growing, thickening, pressing against my body. Holy Hell, is it ever going to stop?
I sure as hell hope not.
I throb deep between my legs as my body takes stock of his girth and size. I’ve only been with one other guy, and he definitely didn’t measure up to Nate. That thought inspires me and frightens me at the same time. But there is one thing I know for certain, I’m in over my head with this one.
“Kira,” he says, his breath fanning my face, and I lecture my knees to stay strong.
I probably should put a stop to this, end it now and get my focus back on the tasks at hand. His fingers go to my face, and he brushes the backs of his knuckles over my cheek. That touch goes straight to the needy juncture between my legs and dances around and shouts loud enough to make itself known.
I shiver, determined to break free, but that inner voice stops me. Why shouldn’t I go for it? This man has no idea who I really am, or what I do for a living. He’s obviously not into my brain, which is a refreshing break. Just yesterday I said I’d love for a man to want me for my body only. Isn’t that what’s going on here? He’s not looking for anything but a hot roll between the sheets.
Go for it, Kira. Hook up with the hot lobster fisherman while you’re in town.
He’s seasonal, will be shipping out soon, and I likely won’t be around much longer than that.
Thick fingers grip my h
ips, drag me closer. His head dips and my lips automatically part. As we stand toe-to-toe, his slow inhale fills me with a rush of things to come, but a niggling hint of unease trickles in behind it. I have no doubt this guy is a masterful lover and knows exactly what to do and say. What if I screw it up, turn it into that same fumbling mess as I did in university? We have to share this house. How would I ever face him come morning?
“Nate,” I whisper, and once again before I engage my brain, I say, “I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.”
“I’d prefer it if there wasn’t any biting or chewing,” he teases in a soft voice, his eyes a raging firestorm of want and desire as they roam over my face. “At least on your part.”
The words, “I’m not that experienced,” leap from my mouth. I don’t bother telling him that “not that experienced” means I’ve only been intimate with one guy who knew as much about sex as I did.
The muscles in his jaw tense, and his entire body stiffens. His hand falls from my face as I mentally kick myself for opening my stupid mouth.
“Maybe this isn’t a great idea,” he murmurs. A quick pause and then, “I don’t want—”
The back door bangs open. Nate jerks away as someone comes rushing in, a new set of footsteps on the kitchen floor. We both turn as Jason, wearing one of Gram’s toques, comes crashing in like a damn bull.
“Someone egged the house,” he says, breaking the intimacy and what might have been had I not opened my mouth.
In the end, though, maybe it was for the best. I’ve never had a hookup in my life, and I definitely shouldn’t start with a guy like Nate.
I don’t think.
Chapter Eight
Nate
“What the hell?” Nate says, as Jason’s attention bobs from me to Kira and back to me again. He’s probably trying to decide if he walked in on something.
He waves a finger back and forth between us. “Wait, were you two—”
“I was showing Kira how to make spaghetti sauce. She doesn’t cook much,” I say, downplaying what actually transpired right here in the kitchen in front of a hot stove, as I step farther away from her. “Are you sure it was eggs?” I ask, a ploy to switch gears in his brain.