Nobody Does It Better(9)

He’s right. That’s what I need to uncover sooner rather than later.

Sooner as in during these last days before the wedding.

After I say goodbye to my dad and slide into my truck, my phone rings.

What do you know? It’s sooner calling.





6





Shaw





With the phone cradled between my neck and shoulder, I rub my hands together, trying to warm up as I turn on the truck’s heater. Tahoe is balls-cold this time of year. “You’re saying your grandpa was going to help you get the cabin ready?”

“Yes. He was going to do all that, you know, manly stuff,” she says with a laugh, since we both know she doesn’t like handling those tasks. “Check the fireplace. Test the stove. Do stuff to the water heater. Make sure the gutters are un-guttered. You know what I mean.”

I laugh lightly. “All the things you don’t want to do.”

“Exactly. I freely admit I detest things with knobs and wires that require tools and hammers.” She emits a shuddering sound that’s horror-flick cringeworthy. I start to make a knob joke—because she can’t really detest a knob that can hammer well—but since I’m now officially jockeying for pole position with Jamie “Mr. Perfect” Sullivan, I might need to dial down the usual banter.

Be a little more sophisticated.

“Tools can be confounding,” I say.

“Exactly. Now, if Perri was around, I’d have her do that stuff. But since I’m getting the cabin ready for her honeymoon as a wedding gift, it was going to be Gramps and me. He was going to do all the maintenance, and I was going to change the bedding and set out towels, and make sure they had plenty of pretty shampoo and body wash.”

“I’m sure Derek will love the body wash. Make sure to get him a gardenia or lavender-scented one.” I’m not turning off the humor hose completely.

“Very funny. The body wash is for Perri.”

“Like I said, I’m sure Derek will enjoy the body wash,” I say, then it’s my turn to cringe, horror movie–style. “Wait. Let’s not talk about my sister and body wash. Back to Gramps. What happened? Is he busy at the horse ranch?”

Shortly after her granddad moved his family to the States two decades ago, he began working as a ranch manager and eventually went on to buy his own spread. Now he owns one in Nevada as well as the cabin here in Tahoe. He did well for himself for sure.

“Nope. He’s just not feeling so great. He has a stomach bug, and he’s staying at their main home an hour away.”

I pride myself on my iron stomach, glad it’s made of metal. “That’s no fun.”

“I know. He was planning on coming over this afternoon, but he has a date with the porcelain god. So Arden and I were on the phone, trying to figure out if I could find a local handyman. It’s getting late though.”

“I’ll do it.” There’s no way I’ll let another man save the day for her.

“Well, that was easy. Arden said that Gabe mentioned you were up here meeting with your finance guy, so I was hoping you were still around. I don’t have a clue how those dang fireplaces work. You’re handy, right?”

I puff out my chest. “Damn straight. No fireman worth his salt is un-handy.”

“And you’re worth your salt, I presume,” she says, a little flirty. “And you’re not too far away.” Her tone is the most inviting I’ve ever heard.

I smile, loving the direction this is heading. “I’m pretty damn close. Give me the address.”

She does, and I tell her I’ll be there in forty minutes.

Yup. There’s no time like the present to figure out my feelings, to sort lust from jealousy or from something more.

I drive straight toward the cabin, following Google Map’s route as the robotic lady’s voice tells me to take this winding turn up this hilly road then that steeper curve up an even steeper street. The whole time, the sky turns a hazy shade of orange around the edges, the clouds billowing, swelling with a hint of snow.

By the time I pull into the driveway, up here in Steepville on the corner of Steepington Avenue and Holy Shit That’s Steep Road, the ground is coated in the first flurries.

I hope they fall fast and furious.





We get foul weather in Lucky Falls now and again, but nothing that necessitates snow boots. Today, I say thank you to Old Man Winter when Vanessa greets me on the porch decked out in peel-me-off jeans, fluffy boots, a white knit cap, and a red-striped sweater that fits in an eye-popping kind of way. I know fuck all about fashion, but since Vanessa wears retro stuff pretty much all the time, I’m guessing that’s some fifties-style sweater.

And if the fifties were all about breast-hugging tops, God bless that decade. That sweater is doing things to her tits that might drive me insane with lust.

But I’m nearly already there.

“Hey, snow bunny.”

“Hey, snowman,” she says, wrapping her arms around her waist, and her remark throws me. Snow bunnies are sexy; snowmen are definitely not. Has she just friend-zoned me in favor of Jamie?

Oh, hell no.

That is one zone I won’t go into without a fight.

I point to the house. “Get inside, woman.” A flicker of something—perhaps interest—flickers across her warm brown eyes. “I don’t want you to freeze.”