Page 8 of That Stranded Feeling

As she reaches into the cupboard, her long, baggy sweater lifts to reveal a band of bare flesh above her leggings. Turns out it was hiding a perfect round butt that is now right at eye level.

She kicks one leg out backward, ballerina style, as she reaches.

“Almost got it.” Her voice is muffled by the cupboard.

“Seriously, I can get up there and pass it down.”

“It’s fine.” Her leg stretches farther back, almost horizontal. The shape of the muscle in her thigh is visible through the stretched fabric. She’s petite, but possibly stronger than she looks.

“This is quite the gymnastic move you’ve got going on here.”

“Yoga.”

“What?”

“Not gymnastics. I do yoga.”

So, she lives alone in a cabin at the end of a long lane that leads nowhere, has a deaf dog, does a lot of yoga, and her name is Summer. All the signs point to her being a hippie.

“Got it,” she cries and pulls her head out of the cupboard, followed by a bright red radio. She emerges with such gusto that the stool’s front feet lift off the ground.

“Oooh.” She holds the radio above her head as she starts to topple backward.

Instinctively, I grasp her waist to stop her fall. “Careful.”

My hands make contact with that strip of exposed skin. It’s soft and warm.

I lift her off the top step and place her feet gently on the ground.

“That was close,” I tell her, as she looks up at me.

There are only a few inches between us, and my hands are still on her bare flesh. Neither of us moves. Well, not if you don’t count the stirring in my jeans. My heart, already doing overtime from stress, turns up another notch. The thought of sliding my hands farther up her sides flashes through my mind, and my eyes are drawn to the curves of her top lip.

I need to get a grip. She’s a cabin-dwelling tree-hugger and represents a lifestyle I loathe. Not to mention it would be a huge betrayal of trust to grope someone kind enough to take in a stranger in need.

“Are you about to hit me over the head with that?” I nod at the radio that she’s still holding in the air.

Her face is flushed—from the embarrassment of almost falling, I assume.

She lowers the radio and pulls away. As she moves, my fingers drag across her skin—as though she’s a magnet they cling to until the last second. I’d swear I can feel goosebumps, but I’m not in contact with her long enough to be certain.

“I would have been fine,” she mutters. “I don’t need saving.”

“Everyone needs saving sometimes.”

“Yeah, thanks, Oprah.”

She makes a softhmphsound as she turns her back to me and walks away. I’m pretty sure she would have smacked her head on the wall if I hadn’t caught her, but I get the impression that pointing it out wouldn’t be a good move.

She takes the radio to the sink, wipes off the dust, pulls out a handle from the back and starts winding it.

“It’s hand-cranked? Things like that exist?”

I lean sideways on the counter next to her.

“You’ve seriously never seen one of these before?”

I fold my arms and laugh. “I’ve seen battery ones. But then, I don’t live in the middle of nowhere. Or in 1952.”