Stranded (5 page)

He motions to the refrigerator with his head. “In the fridge.”

“Thanks.” I push my chair back and limp over to the fridge. He doesn’t have a lot in there, so it’s easy to find the cream. I carry it back to the table and sit down. “What are you going to do today?” I ask as I pour creamer into my coffee, then stir.

“I need to chop some firewood.”

I look at him with surprise. “In this weather?”

“I’m getting low, and if the power goes out again, I want to have plenty to keep warm.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

“What about you? Any big plans?” He grins. “Besides washing your undies, that is.”

I gape at him. “Okay, enough already. You saw my . . . my lady parts.” My face feels like it has burst into flame. “Do you have to keep talking about it?”

He laughs softly. “That depends.”

“On what?” I find it hard to meet his eyes.

“On whether you’re going to flash me again.”

My gaze shoots to his, and I narrow my eyes. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

A slow smile lifts his lips. “You’ve done it twice so far, and I’m just wondering when the next show is scheduled.” Smirk. “I’d like front row seats.”

“I did not do it twice.” My voice shows my outrage at such a suggestion. Who does he think I am? A stripper out to give him a cheap thrill?

His voice deepens. “I beg to differ.”

“When?” 

He holds up his hand and touches his long fingers as he makes a verbal list. “Last night when you refused to let me carry you and insisted on crawling back to the couch, and this morning when you were in the laundry room.”

“I was wearing my underwear last night.” My protest rings hollow, because I was most definitely
not
wearing underwear in the most recent incident. Nor am I at that moment.

“Touche.”

Somehow, him conceding that I'm right doesn’t make me feel any better. “Well, believe me, twice is all you get.”

He mock-frowns. “That’s a shame. I rather liked the view.”

My gaze sweeps over his chest, then lingers a bit on his biceps.
I like the view too.
When I look at him, he is staring at me, clearly aware that I’ve been checking him out.

His full mouth curves into a smile. “You should probably rest that ankle today, Ashley.”

“It’s not like there’s anything else to do around here.”

He looks at me from under lowered lashes. “I’m sure I could come up with some activities.”

What is it with him? Or are all men just the same? Just one thing on their mind?
Even so, as I imagine running my hands over those biceps, and those abs, I feel desire pulse through me.

Chapter Ten

Bored out of my mind, I lie on the couch with my foot propped up, courtesy of Mr. Colton Drake. He insisted that I keep it elevated—and I have to admit it’s probably a good idea as all the walking around I did that morning has made it feel a little sore again. But it’s so
boring
. I don’t even have a book to read, and I figure the only books he has are about sports or something equally dull, so I stare at the ceiling and think about where I should be at that moment. 

Somewhere in the Reno area, looking for an apartment and a job. I recently graduated with a degree in marketing, and I'm ready to be completely on my own. I plan on staying with a friend until I get things lined up, and I hope she isn’t wondering when I will arrive. I was a little vague on that count, so chances are that she doesn’t even realize I'm late.

Then my thoughts go to my parents. I hope they aren’t too worried about me. They’ve gotten used to me only checking in once a week or so, but still, they are apt to worry if they can’t get a hold of me. Well, there’s nothing I can do about it, so I try not to think about it.

My gaze goes to the fire, and I think about Drake, outside chopping wood, as he has been for a while. In fact, a couple of times I’ve climbed off the couch and watched him from the window, hurrying back to my spot when I saw him heading inside. Nothing sexier than seeing a man swing an ax. Too bad his coat covers his biceps, but I don’t have any trouble picturing the flexing of those particular muscles. I feel kind of sorry for him though, working out in the snow storm, but at least he’s in a covered area, so he’s out of the worst of it.

I shift on the couch, trying to get comfortable after sitting for so long, but the truth is, I'm just too bored to sit any longer. I lift my leg from the stack of pillows and cautiously stand, but my ankle isn’t feeling too bad and I find if I'm careful, I can get around pretty well.

I decide to do a little exploring while Mr. Firewood Chopper is busy outside. First I walk around the living room, but I’ve pretty much seen anything of interest from my perch on the couch. Then I remember that next to the laundry room is an office, and decide there must be a treasure trove of information in there.

Glancing outside to make sure he’s still occupied, I creep down the hallway to the door that leads to the office. With my hand on the door, I hesitate, wondering if I should go inside. After all, I'm just a guest here—a guest who Mr. Drake almost put out on the porch the night before like so much trash. What if he catches me in there? Will he decide I'm better off in the snowstorm?

Then I have the brilliant idea to tell him I'm just looking for a book to read—if he catches me, that is. Feeling confident, I open the door and walk in like I own the place. An L-shaped desk of dark wood sits in one corner, with a large flat-screen computer monitor sitting to one side, and I wonder if he has Internet access.

A laptop sits on the top of the desk to the right of the monitor, and I make myself comfortable in his leather chair before opening the laptop, bringing it to life. As curious as I am, I'm immediately stymied when it asks for a password. I shut the laptop and spin the chair to face the room.

Tall bookshelves line one wall, and I decide I actually
will
look for a book to read. When I'm done snooping. I turn back to face the desk, then pull open each drawer, looking for anything interesting. All of the good stuff must be on his laptop, because the drawers just have blank paper, pens, and uninteresting stuff like that.

Deciding it’s time to pick out a book, I push his chair in, then stand in front of the bookshelf. I run my fingers over the spines of the books, skimming over the titles, and am pleased to find a group of novels. Science fiction and fantasy aren’t my favorite genres, but I'm desperate enough that I'm willing to read nearly anything.

“Lord of the Rings,” I murmur. I liked the movies, but have never read the books, so I decide I’ll give them a try. Plus it’s really thick, so I know it will keep me occupied until I can get my car out of the snow.

A framed picture catches my eye, and I pick it up. Drake and a woman who looks like she’s in her twenties stand with their arms around each other.

Sister? Or maybe his girlfriend?
 

The idea that he has a girlfriend makes me unreasonably jealous, and the feeling takes me by surprise. After all, I only met the man the day before. I don’t even know him. For all I know, he really is a serial killer, and he’s just biding his time until he strikes.

I set the photo back on the shelf, and stand there a moment.

“Can I help you with something?” 

My head swivels toward the door, and I see Drake leaning against the doorframe. He’s wearing his jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, and looking mighty fine. Grateful that I already have a book in my hand, I smile and hold it up. “I'm just looking for something to read.”

He walks into the room and looks at the book I hold in my hand. “Lord of the Rings fan, huh?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You’ve never read Tolkien?”

I shake my head. “But I saw the movies.”

He laughs. “The books and the movies are very different.”

“Different how?”

“Hmm. I guess you’ll have to read the books and figure that out for yourself.” He pauses. “In fact, that’s a good assignment for you.” He gazes at me. “How fast can you read?”

“Pretty fast, I guess.”

“Okay. After you’ve read The Fellowship, tell me what the movie is missing.”

I just graduated. I thought my days of reading assignments were over. I frown. “What if I don’t want to give you a book report?” When he doesn’t answer, I go on. “Besides, how long do you think I’m going to be stuck here?” I hold up the thick book. “I’ll be long gone before I get a quarter of the way through this.”

He moves closer and gazes down at me. Did I mention that he’s probably a foot taller than me? Yeah, well, when he stands right next to me, I become acutely aware of his superior size, and something about his overpowering maleness sends tremors of desire through me. Tremors that I immediately suppress, as I remind myself that my boyfriend just dumped me, and I have no desire to get involved with another man who will most likely dump me as soon as he gets what he wants.

“What makes you so sure you’ll be gone by then?” he asks.

I take a step back, his nearness making it hard for me to think clearly. I look at him and can see that he knows the effect he is having on me. Torn between not liking the way he makes me feel, and loving the way he makes me feel, I scowl. “How long do you expect this storm to last, anyway?”

“Hard to say, but I always prepare for at least a week.” 

“A week?” The idea scares the living daylights out of me.

He smiles. “Don’t worry, Ashley. I won’t let you starve.”

Starving is the least of my worries. My worries are more centered around how long I can hold out before I throw myself at him.

Chapter Eleven

Desperate to change my train of thought, I ask, “Are you done chopping the firewood?”

“Yep. We should be fine for a quite a while.”

“That looks like it’s a lot of work.”

He smiles. “It is. But I like physical labor. It clears my head.”

I nod like I agree—which I don’t, because I hate physical labor.

“Maybe you can fix us something for lunch,” he says.

“Me?”

His smile grows. “Yes, you. You’ve been sitting on your butt all morning while I’ve been out chopping wood.” He gives me a look that does not allow for an argument. “It’s the least you can do. Anyway, I need to shower.” He turns to go. “Tuna is fine for me. I like it with a slice of tomato on toasted sourdough.” He throws me one last grin before walking out of the office.

I stare after him, kind of stunned at the way he’s treating me like his personal maid. Or chef. Or whatever. I decide that I don’t like to be bossed around, so instead of making us lunch like he’s asked—no, demanded—I carry my book into the living room, stretch out on the couch, prop my foot up on the stack of pillows, and open to page one.

Twenty minutes later I find myself absorbed in the story, so I'm somewhat startled when Drake stomps over to me and stops next to the couch. Okay, maybe he doesn’t stomp, but he seems a wee bit unhappy.

As my eyes travel up his body, I notice that he’s wearing a pair of grey sweats, topped by a snug t-shirt. What is it with him and tight t-shirts? Doesn’t he have any that fit properly? Not that I mind. Every time I see those biceps, I feel a little flutter in my stomach.

“If I may interrupt your reading, princess,” he says, smiling sweetly.

I remember his request for lunch, and feel a tinge of guilt that I’ve done nothing to comply. But he isn’t the boss of me, and anyway, I'm a guest here, so my guilt quickly washes away. “Yes?”

He tilts his head, like
Uh, isn’t it obvious?

“Did you need something?” I ask, all wide-eyed innocence.

“I thought I asked you to make us lunch.”

“Oh, you did. But I decided not to.” At the look of frustration on his face, I bite my lip to hold back a smile.

“And why is that?”

I hold out the book. “I wanted to get started on my book.” As he stares at me, a slight tremor of panic begins to grow in my gut. I don’t know how he reacts to frustration, and wonder if maybe I’ve made a mistake.

He continues to stare at me, but after a moment a smile starts blooming on his mouth, and then he begins laughing. “You are something else, woman.”

I get the feeling that he isn’t used to having his demands ignored, but at least he laughed about it. The other option—tossing me out into the storm—sounds less pleasant.

His laughter slows to an occasional chuckle. “Now get off your sweet little ass and come help me make lunch.”

He thinks my ass is sweet? Hmm
. He’s seen enough of it to develop an opinion, so I feel flattered. I swing my feet to the floor and sit on the edge of the couch. He hasn’t moved, and I wonder if he’s waiting to make sure I actually go into the kitchen.

“How’s your ankle?” he asks.

“Not too bad.”

“Good. I want to make sure you can stand on it long enough to make our lunch.” His eyes kind of twinkle as he speaks.

When I start walking, I hardly feel any pain, but walk with a slight limp anyway. No reason for him to think I’m completely better. If he does, he’s apt to ask me to scrub the toilet and floors.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, concern clear on his face.

“I’ll survive,” I say, trying to keep the dramatic flair out of my voice as to avoid rousing his suspicion that I’m faking it.

“Hmm.”

I don’t know what that means, but I continue to hobble along after him. When we reach the kitchen, he points to various cupboards. 

“The tuna’s in there, the mayo’s in the fridge, the tomatoes are in that bowl, and the bread is on the counter.”

I blink a few times, wondering why he feels he can tell me what to do. “You’re not much of a host, are you?”

He actually has the nerve to look offended. “What, you think you’re just a guest here?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Why? I didn’t invite you to come for a visit.”

His sharp tone hurts my feelings, and annoying tears try to fill my eyes. Not wanting him to see the effect his words have on me, I walk to the cupboard where he said the tuna fish is stored, and open the door. The cupboard is well stocked with canned goods—I'm happy to see that with the way the storm keeps blowing. But the tuna is on the top shelf, and even on my tiptoes there is no way I will be able to reach it.