I throw on the jacket hanging on the back of my chair and then head out the front. I manage to hold onto my anger and righteous fury the entire march over. I will not be distracted by his big shoulders or his big hands that were thick and strong and yet tender, not to mention his big . . .Stop it, Finley!
His black SUV is still parked out front. I stomp up the steps, cross the narrow patio, and pound on the door.
No answer.
I bang again. “I know you’re in there.”
After a few tense seconds, I press my ear to the wood.
Silence.
No, wait. There is a sound. Some kind of scratching.
It’s not coming from inside the cabin though.
I walk around the porch and turn in the direction of the noise.
There’s Archer, the rat. He’s down by cabin two, and he’s—my mouth drops open.
He’sdigging?
I gape in stunned silence for a long minute as he fixes my haphazardly formed ditches, punching through the frozen dirt with the shovel as if it’s as fine and soft as beach sand.
Every spring when the snow starts melting, the puddle outside cabin two gets bigger and closer. I’ve been meaning to fix it, but I haven’t had time or resources.
I had someone take a look last year, and what I really need is a piece of equipment to grade the slope so the water will run away from the cabins, but I don’t know how to drive a machine, and I can’t afford it even if I could. So I’ve been digging by hand, but it’s slow and hard work, and I’ve barely made a dent, and now . . .
He doesn’t turn around as I approach, my footsteps muted by the sound of the metal scraping through the dirt in rhythmic thrusts.
His back is to me. I halt in my tracks, struck motionless by the twist of his body under the thin, long-sleeved shirt as he moves.
I tear my gaze away to check out his progress.
Don’t ogle the enemy.
He’s almost done. It’s not perfect, but it will get us through for a few months, maybe even until next year.
I’m stunned and maybe a little turned on. The combination is enough to make me forget my bloodlust in favor of having my curiosity assuaged.
When my tongue unsticks from the roof of my mouth, I finally speak. “What are you doing?”
He turns around and eyes the weapon hanging loosely at my side before walking over to cabin two and resting the shovel back where I had left it against the wall.
He faces me, pulling off his gloves, running one free hand through his disheveled hair, and I do my damnedest to not notice the broadness of his shoulders, the tapered waist, the long legs wrapped in messy jeans.
I fidget, suddenly conscious of my old, frumpy jeans and ratty jacket, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
“Finishing up the work on your drainage issue over here.” He nods toward the channels he’s dug up.
“Why? Why are you fixing it?”
He rubs his bristled jaw. “Because I don’t want you to shoot me?”
I frown down at the ground. I should not be disappointed he wasn’t encouraged into manual labor because of my magical boobs.
“Is that the only reason?”
One corner of his mouth quirks up. “And I want you to let me stay a little while.”