Snow Jam (4 page)

An overnight with a man I didn't know but couldn't stop looking at.

If Sunny had meant sparks to be flying between us, she'd misjudged. Rick was broody and uneven, nice one minute and rude the next. That the rude had a spice to it wasn't something I'd have texted Sunny for fear my texts would be waylaid. And because I didn't want her to know.

And because I didn't want me to know. I was possibly starting a new job in a town another couple hours from here. Last thing I needed as an entanglement with some backwoods bad boy.

"So can you cook?" Rick asked when he came back inside. He smelled of cloves, and of snow and trees and wilderness. I was surprised to find I kind of liked it
–
it was clean and uncomplicated. Not that Rick himself was uncomplicated. He began rattling off a list I think was supposed to lose me after about the fifth item, but I was pissed at his presumption that I should cook, determined not to let him beat me, and good at this kind of verbal sparring. Plus I was hungry.

When he got done, I said, "Do you have a crock pot?"

He blinked at me. "No."

"OK, then. Iron skillet?"

"Of course." He was starting to grin. What, didn't he mind being beaten at his own game?

"Then I'm putting you in charge of grating cheese. I'll make the fajitas."

It was companionable working together in the kitchen. The gas stove whomped to life and clicked out again with the funny ticking sounds such stoves make. It served to make me realize how quiet everything was where we were. I'd always figured snow makes everything quiet because it muffles sounds like motorcycles, delivery trucks, airplanes, etc. I'm a city girl. But even out here the snow made everything sound pristine
–
utterly silent, as if the silence had a quality somehow.

Rick did more than grate cheese. He set the table, with a cloth and glass dishes, not placemats and paper plates. I tried to get past my own preconceived notions. He poured water from one of the big plastic bottles like offices have in dispensers, then fetched himself a beer and held one up to me while raising one eyebrow.

"Yes, please," I said. I was doing the fast version of fajitas, squeezing the lemon juice (bottled, but you can't have everything) and orange juice (ditto) directly onto the steak after rolling it in salt, pepper, oregano and thyme. Ordinarily I'd marinate the meat in the juice and spices for a couple hours but I was hungry enough to bite into something.

Or someone. And that was a bad place to let my head go.

As we worked together, we brushed up against each other occasionally as I reached for a towel or he got down glasses. There was a funny little pang then, an almost electric snap that actually kind of hurt. Part of it was probably nothing more than static electricity but part of it felt like a warning.

Or a lost opportunity.

I left the pan on the stove. It was well cared for, nicely oiled, and I'd take care of it after dinner. We sat down across from each other at a very small table and I realized I was waiting for him to take a bite and give an opinion.

He did, in the best way possible
–
by taking a bite as he
’
d just started talking about something and then stopping, looking surprised and then grinning. "This is good," he said, sounding pleased rather than surprised.

I grinned. "Thanks." He'd just given me a little thrill of pleasure. He had green eyes, I noticed again, and there was something compelling about the crows' feet around them, like he'd had time to grow up a little, but likely it came from being outdoors a lot. This was a fishing cabin after all.

"So you're a friend of Sunny's?" I asked. She'd never mentioned him, or anything about knowing Jeep rescue volunteers, or living in a state where such people would be a necessary part of life.

He shook his head, finishing a bite of his fourth or fifth fajita. Granted we didn't have anything with them, but he still had a healthy appetite.

"Friend of Kurt's," he said, and went on to say something about having known him back in college.

I didn't say anything, distracted for a moment. I might have thought twice before getting into a car with him if I'd known that, though guilt by association isn't fair. Sunny's husband Kurt is a jerk, something those of us who love Sunny have known for years and are pretty sure Sunny herself is in the process of realizing.

"How often do you get up here to fish?" I asked when he took a break from eating. Surely that wouldn't bring up too many unhappy memories?

It made him smile, though there was something tinged about it. "Well, not much in the middle of winter," he said, as if I should realize that the cabin was only a couple miles from where I'd been stranded on the highway.

"It's hardly the middle of winter," I said, a little more sharply than I'd intended. "I hadn't expected to find any snow. I thought Georgia was, I don't know, sunny and warm."

"Georgia's never ready for snow," he said with a verbal shrug that seemed to take the pressure for our circumstances off me and put it back on the state, where I was more than happy to have it. "So you're headed for Hanlin. Vacation?"

It was probably the least intrusive way he could have asked me,
So, what the hell are you doing in Georgia if you don't even know to anticipate snow in the spring?
but it still put my hackles up a little.

Down, girl
, Sunny said in my head.

"Job interview," I said, and looked past him for something else to comment on. Like the bookcase behind him. It was stuffed to overflowing, mirroring my own passions. My friends are always after me to put the book down and "get a life," as if a life is something I can pick up in the
–
'er, bookstore. I've got a career, and I had a life until the recession meant a lot of the friends who were part of that life became social media friends as they lit out from Nevada to greener pastures.

Like I was doing. And there was no reason he couldn't know all that, not like I thought he was going to become a stalker because he knew where I might end up working. Besides, he already had me here. Stalking would be pointless.

And that sent a frisson of unease down my spine rather than pleasure. Rick noticed the direction of my gaze and turned to look. When he turned back, I pointed my chin at the books. "Am I seeing a full set of John D. MacDonald Travis McGee books?"

His grin lit his face. He turned around and leaned his chair back on two legs, reaching for a handful, then turned back and lay
Dreadful Lemon Sky
and
Tan and Sandy Silence
on the table along with a couple others. "You're a fan?"

"Read them all the summer after my senior year of high school." I picked them both up and turned them over to read the blurbs on the back. "I think I had a crush on Travis McGee."

He smiled, slow and lazy. "You realize he's not real, right?"

"To my everlasting sorrow, yes. You've read them?" Too late realizing this might easily be his father's
–
the ones I'd read were my father's and we'd had some long father/daughter nights talking about something my mother and sister didn't understand.

But he smiled. "My brother used to drag them along on every family vacation. Or in David's opinion, forced death march."

I sputtered on my water. "Not a fan of the outdoors?"

Rick raised a brow. "Oh, big fan, if it includes sitting anywhere and forgetting sunblock and turning bright red and going through a couple books in an afternoon. He's a certified genius and a complete helpless mess outside."

There was a friendly note in his voice, like his brother's lack of he-man skills was a subject he was protective of, and his brother's foibles something that made him like his brother even better.

It made me like him even better. This Rick had some redeeming features. Still, I was glad I'd sent Sunny the fish-filled text with the approximate location of the cabin and my plans to stay here.

Girl can't get too careful.

Then he took the books from me, brushing my fingers with his as he did so, turning them back over to say something about the signature color series of the Travis McGee books, but whatever it was, I missed most of it, my breath catching as our fingers touched. He felt that, right? It almost hurt, like a flash of electricity. I was much too curious about what it would feel like if that flash moved between us when we were naked, flesh to flesh, mouths and hands engaged. Would we end up with electrical burns?

There. That. That was the exact sort of thing I didn't need to be thinking. So I got up and started to clear, and Rick stood and started to help me, and I tried not to yelp at him that he didn't have to bother but say it politely and graciously
–
something about he'd rescued me, let me handle this, I'd leave everything dried on the counter and he could just tell me where to put things away.

He didn't bother answering, a sort of selective hearing thing I found a little rude, and I followed him to the tiny galley kitchen again, where we worked together, him washing and me drying though I'd have preferred a switch. I hate drying dishes, they never feel totally dry, especially once the towel takes on water, and I was getting cold. Having my hands in warm water would have been welcome. I was starting to wonder about the chances of a hot shower since Rick did the soap suds in one half of the double sink, rinse water in the other half version of washing
–
how big was the hot water heater? Then I started to wonder about the bathroom and whether there was one
–
the cabin wasn't huge and I hadn't taken that close a look around and I hadn't needed one before this, though the minute the thought crossed my mind I did and I was no longer sorry to not have my hands in warm water.

"There," he said, pointing out the last place for the last utensils. He was rubbing Crisco on the frying pan, the motion of his hands on the hot iron hypnotic. If he hadn't said something, I'd probably have stood there staring.

Everyone has their conscious or subconscious things they look for in the opposite sex. I know a lot of my friends at least talk about looking at asses and crotches and how big a guy's hands are and other sexual indicators, and that's fine, though I don't really believe them, because when we're alone or when they're actually dating the guy or when the conversation turns serious, just enough drinks in for the walls to come down but not so far that everyone's outdoing everyone else or reached a totally silly place, that's when they talk about some of the same things I do.

Eyes. Color, shape, how much they communicate. Super dark or light eyes catch my attention. Eyes that show the smile. Eyes caught in a web of crows' feet, like the guy
–

Whose kitchen I was only stranded in. I was on my way to Hanlin, for the last interview for a job I really wanted, then some play time with Sunny and back to Las Vegas, hopefully to pack. I am not getting sidetracked.

And hands. A guy's hands matter to me in a very snobby way, Jenna once told me, which made me snort Diet Coke through my nose and ask, "Come again?"

Jenna, bubbly and laughing now, said, "OK, maybe it's a reverse snobbery." When I'd waved at her in a
please, enlighten me
way, she'd laughed and said if I met a man with manicured nails and no obvious cuts, scratches or bruises, I considered him a wimp.

I'd taken instant offense
–
and just as quickly realized she was right. A guy with a pair of hands that look like the owner of the hands is at home under the hood of a car, knows what the lyrics "56 Chevy with a 396" means, who could build a patio or fix a garbage disposal or stroke the hair of a child who fell down and skinned a knee? That guy's a turn on for me.

Also forearms, the more corded and strong the better. And eyes. And shoulders.

I tried redirecting my thinking again, but Rick's hands were right there, taking the dish towel from me, spreading it to dry over the edge of the sink.

I shivered again.

"Cold?" he asked.

"A little. Also, I need to use your restroom?"

He pointed it out, down the tiniest of all hallways behind the wall where the refrigerator was. At best guess, the cabin was under 700 square feet: not a tent, but not a luxury condo in Atlanta, either. "You probably want a shower, too."

All the nice thoughtful guest responses went away. "I'd love one." Heat in the cabin seemed to come from the fireplace that warmed the minute living room but even the strip of wall that served as kitchen was a little too far away from the fire.

"We'll let the water heater have some time and then no problem. Do you play Scrabble?"

"Badly," I said, moving toward the bathroom.

"Let's play for money," he called after me.

You're safe
, I told myself as I stood in Rick's bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. He'd been polite, mostly, and Sunny knew where I was and who I was with, so that form of safe was covered. He'd been rude by turns, too, so I got the idea Rick just saw me as a person he was going on out of his way to do a favor for. I couldn't think of a polite way to tip him, but probably Sunny could get me his info and I could send him something when I got back to civilization.