Page 236 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

SHAW

An hour and a half later, I’m finished with the roof detail, and the sun is dropping in the sky.

Carefully, I climb down the ladder, set the tools neatly in the garage, and return to the porch. Beneath the fine dusting of flakes are pine needles and dried leaves, so I grab the broom I spotted in the garage and sweep those up, then I do the steps too.

Nothing wrong with going above and beyond.

Satisfied with my labors so far and hopeful about their ability to impress a woman—since that’s key in any manual labor—I stomp the snow off my work boots and rap on the door.

A few seconds later, Vanessa opens it, the hinges squealing in misery. “One, you don’t have to knock. Two, I think the door needs a little oil.”

I smile mischievously, unable to resist the low-hanging fruit. “Nothing wrong with a little lube now and then.”

She snickers, shaking her head in amusement.

Guess I can’t quite dial down the banter all the way. But who wants an off-switch on a dirty mind anyway?

I find the WD-40, oil up the hinges, and return the can to the garage once more. Then I tug open the newly silent door, dusting snowflakes off my hair.

Vanessa scurries over. “Wait. You still have some snowflakes on you.” Reaching up, she lightly swipes a hand over my head.

Why, thank you, manual labor. Thank you very much.

“I think you missed a spot.” I tap the back of my skull.

With a smile, she brushes her hand against me once more. I nearly purr. I might even arch my back.

I head inside, shed my coat, remove my boots, and issue a report. “The gutters are cleaned, the chimney is topped off with a quick brushing, and as a special bonus just for you, there are no raccoon bodies inside it.”

She breathes a big sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. Not just for us, but for the wildlife.”

“It’s best for everyone if the raccoons get to keep being bandits.

” I lift my nose, catching a whiff of something.

“What did you do in here? It smells like . . .” As I step into the spacious living room, I sniff a little more, trying to detect the scent.

“Like juniper and sage maybe? Hey, are you secretly a Starbucks barista whipping up juniper lattes?”

She shuts the door behind me, reaching for my coat and hanging it on a hook by the door. “As a matter of fact, in the last hour, I’ve converted this cabin into a clandestine Starbucks. Be prepared for an onslaught of lumberjacks and wood nymphs.”

“You don’t say?”

“Word is there are plenty of both around here.”

“I was aware of lumberjacks, but wood nymphs who like coffee drinks? That’s news to me.”

“Have you had those juniper lattes? They’re incredible.”

“You won’t get any argument from me.”

She arches a brow. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who orders a juniper latte. How did you wind up with one?” Then her face darkens, and she shakes her head. “That was a stupid question. You probably had one on a date.”

She spins around, heading for the kitchen, and I need to dispel that notion right now, even though I am savoring the hint of jealousy in the word date . “I didn’t have one on a date. Mrs. Jansen bought me one when I helped her fix a broken pipe in her yarn shop.”

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.”

A groan rumbles up my chest. “That is exactly the kind of man I am.”

A few minutes later, my mouth is watering as she pours the chocolate mixture into two mugs. I reach for mine, but she swats my hand away. “What the hell? You’re toying with me. It’s sitting here, tempting me, and you won’t let me have it?”

“It needs to cool off, Shaw. And while it does, I’m going to tease you even more,” she says, and yanks open the fridge. She comes back brandishing a canister of whipped cream.

I like her style of teasing. “When did you become such a taunter?”

“When we got snowed in,” she tosses back as she dispenses some whipped cream on top of the steaming mug of chocolate then on my nose.

Yup. She’s dropped a delicious and provocative substance on my body.

Maybe not the first body part I had in mind for whipped-cream kink, but I’ll take what I can get. I move a little closer to her. “And now how do you propose I get that off my nose, snow bunny?”

Her smile is magnetic. It’s sweet and dirty at the same time. “I don’t know, snow devil. How do you want to get it off?”

Dear Lord. Did she take extra foxy pills today? I reach for her hand and slide my fingers along her palm, noting the hitch in her breath. Correction: noting it and loving it.

I drag her finger along the whipped cream on my nose, watching her eyes go bigger, wider. And because there’s no time like the present, I bring her finger to my mouth.

And lick off the whipped cream.

She gasps.

“My turn,” I murmur. Grabbing the whipped cream, I drop a dot on her cute nose.

She stares at me inquisitively. “And am I licking it off now? Or are you?” Her tone is purely coy, thoroughly playful.

This time, I swipe off the cream, and before either of us can say a word, she grabs my finger and licks it off me, humming around the tip.

Holy fuck.

Vanessa swirls her tongue, licking and, dare I say, simulating , and also stimulating , as she gives me one snug, tight suck and a flick of her tongue, as if she’s letting me know what she’d like to do.

I’m starting to get some answers to my questions.

More than starting .

I want more of this woman. Pretty sure I want all of her. The question remains, what does she want from me?