Nobody Does It Better(11)

With a glance back at me, Vanessa’s eyes brighten again, like that was the best answer in the world. “You helped fix a pipe for her?”

I nod. “Sure did. Got a pipe you need me to fix?” There’s a dirty connotation in there somewhere, but I’m not sure it needs to be jumped on.

“I don’t think so. But you never know. Also, I used some juniper-and-sage room spray after I cleaned. I swept up and vacuumed while you were on the roof.”

Granted, I didn’t get a great look at the place before, but it looks pretty damn good now. “You’re speedy. And the cabin both looks and smells good. I’m sure the newlyweds will appreciate it.”

“I hope so. And I know I owe you that hot chocolate. But I ran into a tiny problem when I was starting to make it.” She wiggles her fingers so I will follow her to the kitchen.

She taps the edge of the stove. “Burner won’t turn on.”

“Dr. Handyman at your service.” I mime donning a stethoscope then check out the stove, giving it an inspection and listening to its heartbeat. She chuckles as I go. I pretend to snap off rubber gloves as I issue my pronouncement. “And the diagnosis is . . . you have a faulty igniter.”

Her eyes widen in mock outrage. “Take that back. I do not have a faulty igniter.”

And she’s being flirty right back.

I make a note of that in the back of my libido. I mean, my brain. I tuck it away in my brain.

But then a voice reminds me this isn’t a new style of interaction. Vanessa has always played on the teasing side of the fence.

I step a little closer, my eyes locking on hers as I take my time, my voice going low, raspy. “I don’t know anything about your igniter, but I highly doubt it’s faulty.”

“It’s definitely not faulty,” she whispers, a hint of desire floating on her words.

“I’ll just make sure.” For a few seconds, the air seems to hum and crackle. Like we’re not going to fix stoves or check fireplaces. Like we’re going to rip off clothes. Then I’ll hoist her on the counter and wrap those legs around my hips. Kiss the breath out of her. Drive her wild with my lips and hands and body.

Instead, I focus on helping her, since that seems to get this woman going. I fix the stove while she tells me what she worked on inside the cabin. She turned on the hot tub to make sure it heats up properly (Gramps cleaned it a few weeks ago), changed all the bedding, straightened all the rooms, hung fresh towels, and scrubbed the bathrooms. “I even checked to make sure the water runs and isn’t rusty. See? I have a handy side.”

I shake a finger at her, chiding. “Don’t be taking my job away.”

“I would never do that. Just trying to be helpful.”

“You’re very helpful. And you’ve made this cabin quite lovely.”

“Hey, are you hungry? I picked up sandwiches at the market.”

I pat my stomach, shaking my head. “Nope. Had a late lunch with my dad. But thanks for offering. Maybe later.” And I leave it at that, because later would be good.

“Yes, later,” she says, agreeing, and I like her answer very much.

As I finish the stove, she tilts her head as if she’s deep in thought. “Should we chop wood for the fireplace? There’s a bit on the deck, but it won’t last long.”

I lean my head back and laugh.

“What’s so funny? Don’t you know how to chop firewood?”

“Course I do. I’m a fireman. I can handle an ax just fine. I just thought it was funny when you said we. Don’t worry—I’m not letting you handle an ax.”

One eyebrow rises. “You think I can’t handle an ax?”

“I think it’s dangerous for anyone who doesn’t know how to use one. Plus, I’d love to make sure you have enough firewood to be warm and toasty. So I’ll go outside and play Paul Bunyan for you,” I say with a wink.

“Then I’ll make sure I have hot chocolate for you when you come back in.” She flicks a lock of chestnut hair off her shoulder. “Think you’d like a little treat?”

Does she even know how sexy she sounds when she asks that question?

“I do want a treat,” I tell her, but the treat is already here—us alone in this cabin as afternoon spills into evening.

That’s the best treat I could have.

As she grabs milk, a bag of gourmet chocolates, and some spices, I head outside to chop some wood. As I work, the snow falls softly and quietly, with no sign of stopping as nighttime tiptoes into Tahoe. Doesn’t take a genius to realize we aren’t leaving this cabin anytime soon, or likely even tonight.

I stack the wood, return the ax, and head back inside, where I find Vanessa whipping up what smells like a delicious drink.

I whistle in appreciation as she wields whisks, spoons, and chocolate with deftness. “Damn, woman, you are a gourmand.”

“I’m of the belief that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who like chocolate made with water”—her gagging face says exactly what she thinks about that—“and those who like it made with milk.” She smiles devilishly.

“And what kind do you think I am?”

As she stirs the pot, she studies my face. “I think you’re the kind who’s going to enjoy what I give you.”