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.”
“I didn’t expect you to be in here! And I certainly didn’t expect it to sound like the set of a bad horror movie!”
“Did you not see the truck parked in front of the garage?” He shakes his head and mutters something I can’t hear. “Who are you even? And what are you doing up here?” He holds up a hand when I open my mouth to speak. “Wait. Let me guess: you’re that new lady from the city that they hired down at the planning department, aren’t you? I have permits for everything, so you’re wasting your time. You can take your Gaucho-Parade-designer-clothes-wearing butt right back out the door.” He points to the door, one thick eyebrow raised.
Gaucho-Parade? Is that some Pearl Lake insult? “My butt does not look like a parade.” I pat my bottom, offended, trying to decipher his meaning. Maybe he’s referring to Gucci and Prada, neither of which I’m wearing. “And I’m not from the bylaw office. I’m Teagan.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” He gives me a look I’m all too familiar with.
It’s the one the girls I used to hang out with back in Chicago gave me after Troy broke off the engagement and told me that he and Portia were together.
The one that said that they couldn’t wait for me to go away. That they wanted me gone.
“You don’t have to be so rude!”
Way to make an even worse second impression than the first one, Teagan, I mentally chastise myself. I’m already embarrassed over the fact that I’ve scared the crap out of him and could have accidentally caused him to lop off a limb. Now I get to add the humiliation of him not remembering me at all.
I thought our first introduction was pretty memorable, considering how awkward I made things when I told him he had basketball-player hands and made him compare our hand sizes. And when he told me he liked football, I made an even more awkward comment about how much full-body hugging there was in that game.
“I’m Donny’s sister. We met last year.” I’m not sure reminding him of our previous meeting is going to help my case at all.
“Huh?” He stares blankly at me.
I remember that I’m the only one who calls my brother that, and that it’s not his favorite nickname. “Van’s sister,” I amend. “Last fall. We met. Very briefly. In the driveway.” I motion toward the door, as if that’s going to help. “You’re Aaron. You work with Van’s fiancée, Dillion.”
His eyebrows lift with something like surprise, maybe because I remember his name and he apparently doesn’t recall our introduction at all. “Sorry, I got a shit memory.” He rubs the back of his neck and glances at the door. I can’t tell if he’s thinking about doing a runner or what. But I can say that it makes his biceps flex enticingly.
I wave away the comment and try to do something other than ogle his muscles. “It’s fine. Like I said, it was very brief. Anyway, I’m Van’s younger sister. He said this place was eighty-five percent finished and that I could stay here for a few days.”
“It will be when I’m done laying the floor.” He motions to the planks lying at his feet.
“Great! That’s just great.” I want to do something with my hands, like run them over his chest, so instead I clasp them in front of me. “I don’t want to intrude, you know, what with them being recently engaged and all. I know they’ve renovated the cottage, or maybe that was mostly you?” I don’t wait for him to answer; instead I barrel on, powerless to stop my mouth. “Anyway, the walls are thin, and I don’t need to hear things I shouldn’t.”
“Right.” Based on his arched brow, that last part was something that should have stayed inside my head.
“I’m going to grab my bag.” I thumb over my shoulder.
“Knock yourself out.” He turns away, bending to pick up the plank he dropped when I first scared the crap out of him.