Take My Breath Away. Christie Ridgway

quelling the sense of panic that was squeezing her lungs. “Sorry, we’re closed for the day.”

      Linus frowned at her. The expression didn’t mar the absolute even perfection of his features. So, her imagination hadn’t exaggerated how great-looking he was in those dreams she’d had the past six months. They were what she’d had to rely on, because she’d made herself delete from her phone every picture she’d snapped of him during their brief interlude as a couple.

      “I’m not here to buy stamps,” he said now, moving closer to curl his fingers over the metal rails separating them.

      She stared at his hands, remembering them stroking flesh that was heated by mountain sun—and her body’s fiery reaction to that touch, this man. Just a fingertip tracing the vein in her throat could make her mad with desire. Her lungs squeezed again and she dropped her gaze to her black Oxfords. They were unsexy but comfortable, all that she’d felt about her life since Linus had gone back to L.A.

      Missing him, wanting him once more by her side, hadn’t been an option since it was she who had laid out the rules of their short-lived affair. Coming from such different places, she’d known the magic between them couldn’t last.

      Her head came up and she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Why are you here?” she asked, trying to keep her tone civil. “Why have you come back?”

      He shrugged one shoulder in that elegant way of his. “You know my brother has the house at Blue Arrow Lake—”

      “Why are you here, Linus?” She lifted her arms to indicate the post office.

      “Let me tell you about that,” he began, leaning against the counter and beaming that sunny, seductive smile of his.

      “I don’t have time for the tale,” Charlie responded, her voice firm. “I have to lock the front door, finish my duties.”

      “Then dinner—”

      “Absolutely not.”

      He frowned. “Why?”

      “I can’t do this twice, Linus. Go away.” She kept her gaze steady on his face. “Please go away.”

      “Charlie—”

      “I can’t do this to...” She couldn’t catch her breath.

      Linus’s expression hardened and his brown eyes turned to polished stone. “To who?” he demanded.

      To myself. But instead of revealing any inner turmoil, Charlie forced her chin to lift. “Goodbye, Linus.”

      It wasn’t regret coursing through her, or anything close to it, she promised herself as Linus stomped out. The tears stinging the corners of her eyes were from mere relief.

      Right?

      * * *

      TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AFTER the first leak had sprung, the storm had at last subsided to a soft, intermittent drizzle and the pots and bowls set out to catch the dozen unexpected overflows needed emptying much less often. Ryan poured the contents of a coffee mug into a bucket and walked the half-full container into the kitchen.

      The contents gurgled down the drain’s sink as Poppy entered the room. She held up her cell phone when he glanced over. “Good news,” she said.

      Any minute I’ll go blind? Lose my sense of smell? Develop amnesia? Because twenty-four hours hadn’t been long enough for him to forget how she’d felt in his arms, hot and pliant and eager. And in twenty-four hours he hadn’t been able to escape her fresh face and her sweet, signature scent...or the way both tugged at his dick. It seemed as if he’d been hard for her since the moment he’d taken her hand and lied about his name.

      Her brows came together and she took a step back.

      God, he probably looked as if he was about to close in for a bite. Half-turning, he set the bucket on the counter. “Good news?” he prompted.

      He heard her swallow. “My buddy Bob says he’ll be out here tomorrow to take care of the tree across the road. We should be able to leave for town by late afternoon.”

      “One last night, then,” Ryan said, grateful that the torture had an end point. It had been hell, not knowing how long he was supposed to repress his urges. His fingers itched to sift through her silky hair as he held her still for his kiss. His palm clamored to cup the curve of her naked bottom. He wanted to be inside her, inside her wet, snug space, where he would move over and over and over, while she moaned and pleaded and clutched at him, begging for release.

      The image was so real he felt the sting of her fingernails in his bare shoulders.

      Jesus. Ryan cleared his throat, tried clearing the fantasy out of his head. “One last night. That’s good.”

      “Yes.” Poppy’s mouth turned up. “Though the couch in your living room is likely more comfortable than anything my brother has to offer.”

      He grimaced. She’d refused to take the bed, making do with a couple of blankets on the sofa. They’d both gotten up in the night to check on the leaks, and Poppy Walker in sweats and with a pillow crease on her rosy cheek was more turn-on than any porn star in her birthday suit. “You don’t have to stay there again tonight.”

      “I can’t,” she answered quickly. “I can’t be in your bed.” A flush crawled up her cheeks. “I mean, not that you were suggesting we would share...”

      They stared at each other and he saw her face take on that dazed look he figured might be on his if he looked in the mirror. It had never happened to him like this, an attraction so powerful that it made him stupid. Lust poured into his bloodstream and he curled his fingers into fists so he couldn’t reach for Poppy and bring her close.

      She jumped, breaking their shared gaze. “I’m going to make cookies,” she said.

      Ryan glanced at the plastic-wrapped plates already sitting on the counter. While he’d taken a shower that morning, Poppy had dashed back to her place—he wouldn’t have let her go if he’d known—and returned with a box of supplies from her kitchen: flour, sugar, various other baking ingredients.

      When she’d said, “Do you like chocolate chip?” his admonitions about going into a compromised dwelling had died on his lips.

      But the delectable butter, brown sugar and chocolate confections hadn’t eased his true hunger. He’d still been feeling a bit nauseous from overindulging when she’d flopped down on the opposite end of the couch in front of the fire. They’d tried the parallel-reading thing again.

      But then he’d caught her staring at his hands and she’d leaped from the cushions like she’d been scalded and headed back to the kitchen. Though he told himself that he didn’t need to eat another thing, and then he told himself that at least oatmeal cookies were a healthy option, once again he’d eaten too many with the end result being the same—he’d been left still dissatisfied.

      As he watched her set out more ingredients, he sighed. “Poppy,” he said, his voice gentle. “Poppy.”

      When she didn’t respond, he came up behind her and cupped her shoulders with his hands. Her body trembled beneath his touch, and she clutched the open bag of flour. “You need to stop,” he said.

      “You like my cookies,” she replied, not looking at him.

      He rolled his eyes. “I think we both know I like everything sweet about you.”

      “Well, then...”

      Such an innocent. “Poppy,” he bent his head toward hers so his mouth was against her temple. “You do understand, right? Nothing that you bake can assuage this particular appetite.” He punctuated the sentence with an almost-chaste kiss to her ear.

      Still, she jolted at the touch of his lips. Her fingers must have spasmed, too, because a little cloud of white powder poofed upward from the bag she held. At her choked sound he turned her, taking in the dusted features, the flour barely obscuring the blush