“Yeah.” She nods from the hallway. “You never know.”

  Is it me, or was her smile a little sad before she closed the bedroom door?

  I pull a hand down my face and pace to the kitchen. As soon as I put the groceries away, I’m having a beer.

  Chapter 7

  SUNDAY MORNING

  Becca

  By the time I dress in the en suite the next morning, I’ve realized my mistake in showing up at Dax’s cabin.

  The reason one-night stands work is because they last one night. One exquisite, perfect, no-regrets night before you each return to your respective lives. I should’ve thought about the consequences of sleeping with a guy who’s on the first day of his vacation. Hard to go back to your respective anythings when you live on the same mountain.

  There was no mind-blowing sex last night like the first night. There wasn’t so much as a kiss. I came back out of the bedroom and sipped half a beer until it grew warm, then excused myself to bed. I should have suspected that outcome. After all, I’ve never heard of a two-night stand.

  I have no excuse for my showing up here rather than bunking in a variety of other places at Grand Lark. Other than the real reason: I wanted to see him. I wanted to see his handsome face and hear the low rumble of his voice. When he tossed that blanket around me last night and zeroed those gorgeous eyes in on me, I nearly started purring.

  I should’ve prefaced that by saying I’m not the clingy type. I don’t mind temporary, or moving forward. Heck, I love it. I’ve made several moves—changed states, made new friends, switched roommates. Not only do I not mind change: I thrive on it.

  However. There’s no denying I’ve made things awkward by being here. I could’ve muscled Dominic out of the restaurant’s spare bed—he’d have let me. Then I’d be awake and in my office working away. Instead I have to walk out into the common area of cabin 13 before canoeing up the driveway to my car.

  I was hoping Dax liked to sleep until noon so I could escape without seeing him. Cowardly, I know, but that was my hope. Until I heard him puttering around in the kitchen.

  Well. Here goes nothing.

  I whip open the door and then step into the living room. Dax stands in the open kitchen, hip leaning against the countertop, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee.

  “Good morning!” Maybe if I act like nothing’s wrong, nothing will be. He dips his chin in a nod before sipping from his mug.

  “Wow. It’s coming down out there.” Great. Now I’m talking about the weather.

  I swallow nervously as I pace to the kitchen. Dax’s eyes go to my bag, which I slip off my shoulder and rest on one of the barstools.

  Because of course I’m leaving. Of course I’m vacating the premises. Before things get really weird. We didn’t make promises, and I don’t want him to feel as if he has to make any.

  “Look,” I start.

  “Tree’s down.”

  “Pardon?”

  “In the road at the top of the driveway. You can’t drive back to the office until we remove the tree.”

  Not that I don’t believe him, but I walk to the front door and look out the window. I can see my car. A huge downed tree, fat limbs pointing to the sky, blocks the road.

  “Oh my gosh.” Six inches to the left and my Toyota would’ve been a crunchy metal pancake. In the driveway, close to the house, Dax’s Jeep sits in gathering water.

  “Guessing you can’t drive me to work either?”

  He shakes his head, just once. “Not until this lets up.”

  With a sigh, I face him. He’s leaning there on the counter looking too good for words. Strong and sexy. Silvery stare focused on me, T-shirt hugging his muscular arms...

  “How do you feel about a two-night stand?” I ask with a grin.

  A low laugh escapes his throat. I grin wider. I thought I was kidding, but now that he’s smiling at me, I’m sure that I’m not.

  “Seconds,” he says, pushing off the counter to approach me, “are not out of the question.”

  “No?” I ask on an exhale.

  “Not for me. You?”

  I shrug one shoulder and drop it.

  “You know how I feel about uncertainty, Princess.” He hoists an eyebrow.

  Oh, I know. He likes to hear the word “yes.” Clear, concise “yeses” back to back when he’s in the process of making me lose my mind.

  Is it suddenly hot in here?

  “Why do you call me ‘Princess’?” I ask, rather than talk about any of this “yes” business.

  “Do you drink coffee?”

  I blink at his question in response to my question. Sly, this one. “Who doesn’t?”

  “My ex-girlfriend.” He turns away to pour me a cup.

  I stare at his broad back and wonder who she was. What she was like. How long they dated.

  Something else I don’t make a habit of is feeling jealousy’s sting. I don’t worry about the past…or the future. I’m frowning by the time he faces me, steaming cup in hand.

  “I have milk but no cream.”

  “Black is fine.”

  “Not going for fine.” He levels a lingering gaze at me that reminds me of every delicious thing we did Friday night. Then he walks to the fridge and returns, tipping the half-full gallon of milk until a healthy splash lands in my coffee. It’s the perfect tan hue. Just the way I take it.

  “Sugar?”

  “Yes, dear?” I quip, and the air electrifies between us. I clear my throat and quietly amend, “No, thanks. This is perfect.”

  He leans forward and I smell the spicy, earthy fragrance of his aftershave or soap or cologne. “That’s what I was going for.”

  Dax

  I can tell Becca’s uncomfortable. Which is counter to the way she was on our first night together. She wasn’t shy or awkward, but now... I watch her as she stands rigidly at the sliding glass door and looks out at the trees in the back.

  Definitely uncomfortable.

  I’m not.

  My comfort level has been tested and retested over the last year. Once you’re holding the worst hand life can deal you, you have a certain resolute spirit about the rest.

  I consider what I know about the blonde in my cabin. She’s lived in a lot of places; her brother and she have a challenging relationship. She showed up at my door with enough supplies to last the week but then tried to escape come morning.

  She’s a runner.

  I recognize the trait because I used to be one. When I was in my early twenties and I didn’t know how to handle women or sex or relationships. That shit’s behind me and has been for a decade. My thirties, even though I’m only in my third year, have brought perspective.

  It’s been a hell of a trio of years.

  “How old are you, Princess?” I wash my mug and turn it upside down on a dry dish towel. I turn to face her, watching as her eyebrows climb until they disappear beneath her hair.

  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that a lady never reveals her age?”

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect. Just figured I’m older than you.”

  “Not by much.” She assesses me as if she’s never considered how old I am, purses her lips, then says, “You’re, what? Twenty-eight?”

  I offer a wry smile.

  “Thirty?”

  I hold up my thumb and gesture that she needs to go higher.

  “Thirty-tw...” she hesitates and I hoist my thumb higher. “Thirty-three?”

  “You said ‘thirty-three’ like it’s geriatric.”

  “You look younger. That’s all. Six years isn’t that big of a gap.” She rolls her pretty eyes.

  Six years makes her twenty-seven. That’s about what I’d have guessed.

  “Your brother’s older,” I say.

  “Doesn’t his bossiness presume that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She’s been walking toward me as she talks. Her swagger’s back. That easy, smooth gait hinting that she’s good on her feet. She’s in a tight pair of dark blue jeans with a few rips at the thighs. They elongate her already long legs.

  “And what of your siblings, Dax?”

  I shake my head.

  “Parents?”

  “They live in Ohio too.” My brow crinkles as I realize what I said. “My mom lives in Ohio,” I correct. “Dad passed recently.”

  Her entire face changes. Her pale eyebrows angle to show her concern, her mouth softens, and her eyes broadcast the words before she speaks them. “I’m so sorry.”

  She closes the gap between us and rests her palm on my chest, and it’s not a rehearsed move.

  Becca means it. She’s looking up at me with so much care, her small hand warm against my shirt, that my throat thickens with grief.

  My biggest concern when my dad became sick was making sure my mom was going to be okay. After he passed, my focus was on guiding her to the next stage of her life—a life without him. I became so preoccupied with my mom’s okayness that I haven’t given enough (any?) thought or attention to my own.

  I manage a silent nod of thanks to Becca.

  “My parents drive me crazy,” she confesses easily, “but I would miss them very much if they were gone.”

  I nod again. I miss him a ton.

  She stops touching me, and only then do I suck in a breath and narrowly avoid doing something really manly...like tear up. I clear my throat to dislodge the lump there.

  “Did your brother give you the day off?” I ask, mostly to change the subject.

  “Tad texted me frantic that I’m not at the office. He has no reason to worry. Last night I stuffed the office laptop into my overnight bag.”

  “So you could’ve worked remotely the entire time.” I narrow my eyelids and reroute my gaze to her bag, still sitting on the barstool. She has the decency to look chagrined. Nose wrinkled and teeth bared, she gives me an exaggerated wince.

  “I didn’t mean to run away this morning,” she says. “I just... I don’t know what I expected.”

  “A weekend filled with sex?” I venture.

  She lets out a surprised “Ha!” And we’re back. The vibe in the air isn’t quite the white heat of Friday night, but it isn’t far off.

  “Maybe. Yeah. I don’t usually do this.”

  “One-night stands? Me neither.”

  “Um...no. I don’t usually do more than one night.” She squeezes one eye shut like she’s expecting a blow of judgment. She won’t get it. I don’t make a habit of judging anyone. Too time-consuming.

  “I changed your mind?”

  “Well.” She finishes off her coffee and sets the mug down. I take it to the sink. “Keep in mind I was choosing between holing up with Dominic and coming here, where there’s plenty of space, an indoor gym, and a hot tub. Plus, you have a shower.”

  Despite her joking tone, I feel a frown transform my face.

  “Dominic?” A bite of jealously lurks in my response.

  “I didn’t mean we literally would have holed up together. He was stuck at the office too.”

  “He likes you, Princess.”

  “Ew!”

  “Gorgeous women usually know when they hold the cards. Know how to use it against us.”

  She overlooks my compliment and goes with “Ooh, spoken like a man who has been at the whim of a gorgeous woman.”

  Shit. Walked into that one. I press my lips together.

  “Let’s agree not to talk about your past relationships.” She holds up a hand like a stop sign.

  “Or yours?”

  “That seems fair.”

  She leans against the counter, training her foxy little smile on me.

  White-hot.

  It’s back.

  “We can play this weekend by ear,” she suggests.

  “Princess.” I straighten, folding my arms over my chest. “You’re going to be in my bed again and we both know it.”

  Her mouth drops open like she’s alarmed, but there’s no denying the spark of interest in her eyes. “Easy, there, mister. We had one good night, but it doesn’t mean you’ll woo me into another.”

  “I don’t woo, babe.” I stand over her, lowering my lips to her ear to whisper, “You’ll come to me. And when you do, I’ll give as good as I gave Friday night.”

  When I back away, her breasts lift as her breathing speeds up. She doesn’t have a quip for that, which tells me plenty. She wants me again—as much as I want her.

  “You mentioned cooking.” I throw her words from last night at her. “Lunch is on you.”

  “What about breakfast?”

  “Coffee was breakfast.” I wink and leave her in the kitchen, flustered, pink cheeked, and wanting me.

  Perfect.

  Chapter 8

  SUNDAY

  Becca

  Let’s play Never Have I Ever. I’ll start. Never have I ever had a guy play hard to get.

  If that’s what Dax is doing.

  I thought men wanted sex 24-7. And I’m pretty sure what I have going on works for him—in the bedroom anyway.

  Yet here I am, with a book in my lap while Dax carefully crafts a handmade fishing lure over an open tackle box. Watching those big fingers tie tiny knots and fasten feathers to the hook is weirdly erotic. It reminds me of how he unlatched the delicate straps of my sandals. He has nimble fingers for a wide, muscly guy.

  The flat-screen TV hanging above the fireplace is on and tuned to the Weather Channel. Same outlook as yesterday. Flooding. Storms. More rain. Tad texted me again to let me know that most of the roads leading in and out of town are okay. It’s our mountain that has issues.

  My phone tweets—my text ringtone—and I lift the screen and read yet another text from Tad: I forwarded the main office number to my cell. I’ll handle any calls and maintenance. Don’t worry about work.

  Sure, you may see it as a day off, but I know what this is about. Tad isn’t giving me time off out of the goodness of his heart. I heave an audible sigh and plunk my phone down before staring blindly at my book.

  “Bad news?” Dax asks, not looking up from his work.

  “Tad thinks I’m an imbecile,” I huff. “Like I can’t handle phone calls or maintenance or running this place in his absence? He’s doing everything remotely for me!”

  I slap the book closed. Frustration set to simmer, I cross my arms and address Dax. “You asked how old I was earlier.”

  This earns me a chin raise. He pegs me with pale eyes.

  “And you’ve addressed me as ‘Princess.’ Does that mean you also believe I’m immature and imbecilic?”

  His mouth pulls at the corners, his brow wrinkling. He snaps into the expression so seamlessly, I have the impression he’s more a frowner than a smiler. He sets the lure aside and rests his elbows on his knees.

  “Listen closely, Princess. You have an issue with your brother and I get that, but don’t take it out on me. And don’t accuse me of things that aren’t true.”

  That’s fair.

  “Why ‘Princess,’ then?” I ask with fifty percent less venom.

  Dax doesn’t have to pause to think of his answer.

  “It’s the way you move. There’s an elegance to you. You hold yourself with confidence. Like a princess. A duchess.” He tosses a hand. “Royalty shit.”

  I blink, flattered despite the fact that he just used the words “royalty” and “shit” together.

  “You a dancer?” His eyes are assessing.

  I’m stunned speechless for a few seconds. “I was.”

  “Thought so.” He nods, reaches for his lure, and resumes tying feathers on it once again.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Didn’t know,” he says. “Like I said, it’s the way you move.”

  Observant for a guy who slings drinks.

  “Have you always been a bartender?” I ask.

  “Never bartended. I own bars.”

  “Bars plural?”

  “Yep. Two.”

  “And you’ve never tended bar.”

  “Filled in, but no, not full time. I’m better at owning. Not that great with people.” He spares me a glance. He doesn’t strike me as “not that great with people,” but then again he had my pants off inside two hours of meeting him, so maybe I’m not the best person to ask.

  He drops the lure into the tackle box and shuts the lid, sitting back on the couch in a sturdy slouch that doesn’t make him look any less powerful.

  I’m not the relationship type, so hanging out with a guy is a new concept. Moments where the only sounds in the room are the low murmur of the television and the other person breathing (while you study his profile and wonder which parent is responsible for that fantastic nose) are rare for me.

  “I guess I’ll make us lunch.” I stand and start for the kitchen. “Do you have a preference?”

  I stop short when Dax shoves his fingers into my back pocket and tugs me backward a few steps. His tug becomes more of a pull, but I recover my balance and end up sitting on one of his heavy thighs. When I turn my head, I’m looking down at his upturned chin, narrowed eyes, and sensual smirk.

  “Graceful,” he says.

  “Always.”

  “Maybe I should call you Grace.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  We smile at each other.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Princess.”

  “Even though you planned a fishing vacation all by yourself?”

  “Even though.” He dips his head into a nod.

  I believe him. He hasn’t minced a word with me yet. It doesn’t seem to be his style.

  I think I might be in way over my head.

  Dax has yet to come up for air.

  I set a quesadilla in front of him a few minutes ago and I’m watching, eyes wide, as he gobbles the last of it while moaning “Mmm” as he chews. He’s not covered in food or anything. In fact, watching him eat is almost erotic. Memories of the other night and him doing some fantastically fine dining cause a shudder to tap-dance down my spine.

  “Want mine?” I tip my plate, which holds the other half of my own quesadilla. They were big. I’m too full to eat the rest.

  He doesn’t ask if I’m sure, simply takes my plate and wolfs my food down as well.