Love on the Lake (Lakeside #2)(3)
Originally, Van planned to convert the garage into a self-contained apartment, but he decided it would be better to keep the garage space as is, and instead he ripped off the roof, added dormers, and turned the space above it into an apartment. That way, the garage still functions as it should.
It has a small workshop, loads of tools, and Van’s BMW, which he rarely drives anymore, favoring the ancient pickup truck that once belonged to Grammy Bee, our grandmother, who drove it until she passed away a year and a half ago. She left the cottage and its contents to Van. Turns out there was literally millions in uncashed bonds and piles of cash tucked all over the cottage. I tried to tell him I didn’t want any of it, but he set up an investment account for me. I plan to leave it where it is until I retire, or maybe pass it on to my own kids one day, if I have any.
There’s a set of stairs inside the garage that aren’t as steep as the ones that run up to the second floor from the outside. But I can’t remember the code to open the garage door, so this is my only option.
I manage to clunk my way up the outside staircase with my suitcase in one hand and my other bags hanging over the railing. The landing is small and narrow, making it difficult to maneuver with my bags.
I turn the knob, assuming it will be open, since the only reason people lock their doors around here is to keep out the wily raccoons. I step inside and drop my purse and overnight bag on the floor, which I instantly regret because the surface is still plywood—so much for 85 percent finished—and there’s a lot of sawdust.
My suitcase is still on the landing and the door wide open when I realize I’m not alone in here. It’s also not a raccoon keeping me company. Or a family of squirrels. Or bats.
Beyond the spiders, which I’m fairly certain there must be a few of, is a man. A shirtless man. He’s crouched down with his back to me, and he’s wearing a pair of huge headphones that look like they came out of the eighties or something. But there aren’t any wires, so they must be new. They look clunky. They might explain why he has yet to notice that I’m standing here, gawking at his very bare, very muscled, very tattooed back.
A sun sets over a frozen lake, the watercolor design bright and beautiful; the snow-covered trees hold hints of pink, orange, and yellow, a reflection from the sun peeking through the clouds on its descent toward the horizon. Snow swirls across the landscape, making it seem like the sun is trying to fight its way through a snowstorm. There’s script arching over the sun, but it’s too small to make out from this side of the room. On his left triceps is an hourglass with only a few grains of sand left in it, as if time is running out.
He’s currently laying the floorboards on the other side of the loft. He taps in one of the long pieces, all those muscles flexing deliciously, and then lays another board beside it. He takes a pencil from behind his ear and makes a mark before replacing it.
A moment later he uses his foot to prop up a board and picks up some device with his other hand.
I shriek when it whirs to life and I realize belatedly that it’s a saw. The loud noise ceases, and both the board and the saw clatter to the floor.
“What the shit?” The man unfurls from his crouched position, rising to his full and very intimidating height. From the back he’s incredible to look at, but from the front—he’s just. Wow. He’s not a snack. He’s a seven-course meal, including the decadent dessert.
His dark hair is covered by a backward baseball cap, the ends curling around his ears and the snapback. His eyes are the color of snow on a moonless winter night, a murky kind of gray that shifts and changes like shadows. His nose is slightly crooked, as if it’s been broken and not set properly; his lips are full and ridiculously kissable. He has a scar on his chin, which I only notice because his cheeks and chin are decorated in what I’d guess to be a couple of days’ worth of stubble, and a pale, hairless line is evident.
His shoulders are broad, and his chest, defined and thick, has a smattering of that dark-brown hair. His abs ripple and his thick biceps flex as he yanks the giant headphones off. His worn, paint-splattered, and tattered jeans hang low on his hips and are dragged farther down by the tool belt around his waist, exposing that glorious V of muscle, which leads my eye south to the magic wand that is hidden behind his fly.
He will absolutely be starring in my fantasies in the very near future.
Except he won’t be angry like he is now.
I quickly drag my gaze back up so I’m not ogling him anymore.
He tosses the huge headphones on the floor. His gray eyes are a storm of shock and annoyance. He motions to the saw at his feet. “I could have cut my fucking foot off!”
“Why would you use your foot to balance the wood anyway? Isn’t that unsafe?” What the heck is wrong with me? Since when do I talk back to people I don’t even know? But as I look between him and the saw, I realize I have met him before.
Months ago.
I made an ass out of myself then too.
“Are you fucking serious? Rule number one in construction: always, always make your presence known when someone is handling power tools.”
“You were wearing headphones. How was I supposed to make myself known when you can’t even hear me? Especially over the sound of that thing.” I point at the electric saw thing lying on the floor.
“Those aren’t headphones, they’re ear protection! And all you had to do was knock loudly and say hey, and I would’ve heard you just fine. The banshee shriek is unnecessary.”