Take My Breath Away. Christie Ridgway
got this.”
“I can help—”
“Part of the service.” The smallest of smiles poked a dimple in her left cheek. “You’re paying enough for it.”
Though he supposed he should go into the house and leave her to it, he stood another moment, watching her efficient movements. When Grimm came bounding up—no ball this time, but a stick—he rubbed the dog’s sides then threw the piece of wood into the trees. “Go get it, boy. Go get it.”
Still transferring logs, Poppy spared him another glance. “So...what is it you do?”
Oh, hell. He should have concocted a cover story. Writer of the Great American Novel? No way could he pull that off. A trial period as a Trappist monk? Not that, either, because he thought that would mean a vow of silence, which he’d obviously already broken. “Uh...”
“Forget I asked,” she said, her focus returned to the wheelbarrow. “None of my business, anyway.”
See, it was that indifference that made her the perfect landlady. As he’d told Linus, she wasn’t the least bit interested in him.
And it was stupid, how that rankled.
Just another reason he should go inside to his books and his resolution not to let his emotions rule him this month. Still, he hesitated. Inside, alone, the tearing pain might find him as it had last night, when it dug its talons in him during a dark and flame-filled dream, leaving him to wake in a cold sweat and overcome by grinding grief.
Poppy tossed another piece of wood on the stack. “Are you settling in okay? Our amenities are pretty stripped-down, I admit. Is there something else you need?”
He didn’t know what made him say it, and say it in such a low, seductive voice. “Are you offering turn-down service?”
A clear pink color rushed over her face and Ryan realized that was the response he’d wanted. Bastard that he was, this studied indifference of hers was annoying. When he’d arrived at the cabins, and especially when she’d shown him into his rental, he’d felt the thrum of awareness that had pulsed like electrified wire between them. She’d practically run from the place, run from him, and...
And he didn’t know why that continued to bother him so and what he thought he was doing, teasing her like this.
Remember? No crazy this year.
It’s why he’d decided to go hermit.
Ryan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sorry. It was a stupid thing to say.”
“I won’t sic Grimm on you this time.” Clearly avoiding his gaze, she grabbed the last of the logs and placed them at the top of the stack. Then she seized the wheelbarrow handles and walked away without a backward glance, her color still high.
Leaving his interest in her still as keen as the moment he’d taken her hand in his and felt a strong, sizzling, decidedly sexual jolt.
* * *
POPPY SHOVED HER cell phone in her jeans pocket, her son’s excited voice still echoing in her head. And then we saw Mickey at breakfast and Donald, too, and it was the best pancakes in my whole life.
How could hearing such happiness make her heart ache so much? Trying to shake off the melancholy, she bent to yank the squeegee from the bucket of water at her feet and returned to the task of cleaning the outside windows of cabin three. She’d managed to extract the broken key from the knob with needle-nose pliers and was intent on getting it clean inside and out.
Thanks to good weather, much of the snow in the clearing had melted, leaving slushy, continent-shaped patches. It was still dazzling white on the ski slopes’ mountaintop, but from her vantage point the sun was warm enough that she’d discarded her jacket and was working in a thermal T-shirt covered by a plaid flannel shirt. It was another hand-me-down of Brett’s, oversize and with a bleach stain on the front. She’d done nothing more with her hair than a loose side braid.
The mascara and the pink lip gloss were her only concessions to vanity...and to the renter she hoped to engage in conversation if he emerged from his cabin sometime soon.
It had been five days since he moved in, two since they’d had their last verbal exchange over the woodpile. She thought it was time she put on her friendly face and made nice. There was good reason for it. As the manager of the cabins, it was part of her job description to provide a pleasant environment. She knew this from her years running Inn Klein’s front desk. Every guest was a possible return guest, not to mention a point of referral. If Ryan Harris enjoyed his stay, he might spread the word about the cabins to family and friends. And if she was going to convince her siblings that she was right to do something more than ignore the abandoned ski resort property, she needed to show them it could be a moneymaker.
At the moment she was a little concerned that Ryan Harris wasn’t enjoying his stay. Not that she’d been spying—she’d just been casually glancing out her windows—but she’d noticed the man had her same nocturnal habit. As in, not sleeping. She’d get up and go to the kitchen for water only to see that his interior lights were on, as well. Most relaxed and stress-free people weren’t up and about at 2:00 a.m. and 3:00 a.m. and 4:30 a.m.
He’d looked tired when she’d seen him heading to his car the day before. Maybe he needed an extra blanket at night. Or perhaps the house’s furnace was working improperly. Wasn’t it up to her to address those needs?
Are you offering turn-down service?
Her belly flipped at the memory of those words and for the millionth time she wondered why that harmless sexual innuendo had flustered her so. Her flushed reaction was mortifying to recall, and recall it she did, about once an hour. Each time she wished she could erase it from her memory, but since that wasn’t possible, she’d decided another interaction, one normal and congenial, would be the way to stop the other from establishing an endless replay loop in her head.
It was damn silly to get so unnerved around him, she knew that. Sure, he was incredibly good-looking, but at twenty-seven, Poppy had encountered plenty of handsome men, including the one who had fathered Mason. But even Denny Howell hadn’t made the hair on her head tingle at the roots.
Are you offering turn-down service?
Her imagination ignited and her mind started off in a dangerous direction as her arm moved the squeegee down the dirty glass. But before any clothes were shed, she heard the click of her guest’s cabin door being opened. Showtime, she told herself, pushing other thoughts away. Pasting a smile on her face, she turned.
“Mr. Harris!” she called, waggling her tool to get his attention. “Ryan!”
Even from across the clearing his blue gaze knocked her back a little. Hot prickles rose on her skin and she considered scrubbing her face with a handful of snow.
It would only make her mascara run.
So she kept the smile pinned in place as he made his way to her side. Today, his jeans were as battered as hers, but he wore them with a navy wool sweater that had carved bone buttons riding along one shoulder. His jacket was thrown over his arm. He’d nicked his chin shaving, and a dab of toilet paper was stuck on the cut, drawing her attention to his perfectly formed lips.
She swallowed her sigh and pointed with her forefinger to her own chin. “Um...”
He cocked an eyebrow, clearly puzzled.
She tapped her face. “Looks like your razor’s new.”
With a stifled curse, he felt for the bit of tissue. For some reason that small sign of imperfection relaxed her. She could do this. They could have a simple conversation. Maybe she’d even invite him over for dinner...?
No. That was taking hospitality much too far. But friendly she could manage. “How’s your morning going?” she asked in a bright voice.
His eyebrow winged up for a second time. “Uh, good?”
Apparently her new game