He continued dressing, talking to her as if putting on clothes in front of an audience was a regular occurrence.
“I checked the weather this morning.” He snapped the waistband of his boxer briefs and then tugged a T-shirt over his fabulous chest. “We’re expecting another six to eight inches today.” She didn’t mean to look down when he said that, but she did and he noticed.
With a grin, he continued, “Another four to five inches tomorrow and possibly another two to three the day after that.”
Covered in jeans and a T-shirt, he wasn’t any less tempting than three seconds ago. He slipped his arms through a blue button-down a shade lighter than the towel he’d discarded on the floor. And now that her brain was working again...
“When do they expect to dig us out?” she was able to ask.
“There’s no talk of digging anyone out, but there’s an emergency service hotline if anyone is without heat or food. Both of which we have at the moment. The problem occurs when the snow becomes too heavy for the power lines.”
“But you have a generator.” She didn’t bother putting a question mark on the end of that sentence—the alternative sounded too unpleasant.
“It’s on the fritz.” He finished buttoning his shirt. He left the top two buttons undone like she remembered. “We have fireplaces all over the house. We won’t freeze.”
“I can take a look at it.”
His face flinched into an expression of disbelief. “I took a look at it yesterday. The gas tank’s full, but it won’t kick on.”
“Yes, but I know how to repair a generator. Do you?” She propped one hand on her hip and sipped her coffee, letting that new detail sink in.
“Not particularly.”
“I’ve repaired one before. And don’t make a joke and ask if I brought my pink toolbox.”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that.” He sat to pull on his socks and slipped his feet into shoes he didn’t have to tie. “Again, I’m tempted to ask who the hell you’ve been dating. I’d never ask you if you have a pink toolbox. You hate pink.”
He remembered, and that made her smile.
When he stood, he stepped closer to her, smelling woodsy and fresh rather than like chlorine. He looked as delicious wearing clothes as he did out of them. Unbelievable.
“May I?” He held out a hand for her coffee mug and she gave it to him. He took a sip, swallowed and closed his eyes to let out a soft “ahh” before handing her mug back. “I swam before I indulged. That tastes incredible.”
She bet he did, too.
See? It was thoughts like that she needed to eradicate. Neither should she swoon because he’d remembered she hated pink.
“Um. Sorry to intrude,” she said belatedly. “I wanted to check out the rest of the house.”
“No intrusion.” His voice slipped into a seductive husk that she’d started accepting was simply his normal speaking voice. “You’re always welcome in my bedroom.”
“Very funny, Mr. Mayor.” She forced a droll tone.
“Can’t blame me for trying.” He smiled, his gaze fastened to hers and for a moment she wanted to say to hell with dancing around each other. She wanted to suggest they rid themselves of any restrictive, unnecessary clothing and make love on his massive bed while the snow fell and the wind howled. They could spend the rest of the day—the week—buried under thick quilts and silky sheets, leaving the room for food or drink. And only then to restore their spent energy so they could twist up the bedding again. Instead, she said nothing.
“The coffee is tempting. You’re even more so.” He drew her chin up with a knuckle and she got lost in the greys and greens of his irises. “But if I can’t have one, I’ll take the other.”