Take My Breath Away. Christie Ridgway

responses went, it was a wet blanket. “Oh. Well.” Be affable, she told herself, wondering how to follow up. When nothing came to mind, she turned back and started on the windows again. To get the high corners she rose on tiptoes, then jumped a little to reach the final inches.

      She jumped a lot when he came up close behind her and grabbed the squeegee. “Here, let me get that.”

      His smell enveloped her, that clean, woody scent that she found delicious. When temptation compelled her to turn her face into his throat and breathe him in, she forced herself to duck from under his arm. Without comment, he finished the corners of that window and then moved to the final one.

      “I can handle it from there,” she said, when he’d cleared the highest reaches.

      He glanced over at her. “I don’t mind finishing. A little exercise will do me good. The push-ups I’m making myself do at night aren’t exactly wearing me out.”

      Poppy’s imagination wandered off again, conjuring up his powerful body. Naked. By a bed. Swallowing, she forced herself to think of something else. “My mom always said clean windows make the world look brighter.”

      “Your mom around?” he asked, dropping the washing tool into the bucket, and idly swishing it in the now-cloudy water.

      “No. My dad died twelve years ago. Mom six. But I’m still washing windows and hearing her voice when I do so. I’ll clean yours today if it won’t bother you.”

      “You bothering me?” Facing her now, he let his gaze settle on her face. “Well...”

      He was doing it again, Poppy thought, going breathless. His piercing blue eyes were stealing her will. Her intent was to be friendly but businesslike, all that a good cabins-keeper should be when they wanted to cement the possibility of return attendance and/or good word-of-mouth. Yet with those beautiful eyes focused on her she could only think of his overwhelming, masculine allure.

      His magnetism was undeniable.

      “I want to tell you...” That when he looked at her she wanted to confess to him all her secrets. Like that he made her liquid inside. Hot. And the outside of her was hot now, too, so sensitive that her shirt’s waffle-weave against her skin felt like a man’s finger pads dragging over her flesh. The small hairs on her body rose as if trying to get his attention.

      She tried reining in her wayward hormones. What had she wanted to talk to him about again? Oh, she remembered! “I saw you were up in the middle of the night.”

      She’d watched his lights through her window, wondering what kept him awake, feeling foolishly like a teenager mooning after the boy across the street. But it was a man’s kisses and a man’s hands on her body she’d thought of until she became so twitchy that she’d retreated to a cool shower. Afterward, she’d visited Mason’s room, touching his crayon drawings and his dinosaur collection as a way to remember who she was. A mother. A woman who stood strong, and on her own two feet. One who didn’t need a man, not for anything.

      He was still staring at her with those mesmerizing eyes. “It appears you’re having trouble sleeping,” she said, remembering, at last, why she’d called him over. “Is there anything I can do?”

      His gaze didn’t waver. “You, too, then.”

      “What?”

      “If you know I’m not sleeping, it must be because you aren’t, either.”

      “Well, that’s because I—” But he didn’t want to hear her single-mother money woes or her yearning for her son or her longing for other things she hadn’t realized she’d even been missing until he’d taken her hand in his the day they’d met. “Yes.”

      “While I’m out, I’ll see if I can pick us up some extra z’s,” he said lightly. “See you later, Poppy.”

      “See you later,” she echoed, shoving her hands in her pockets as she watched him step toward his car. Her fingers found her phone, and an idea she’d formed in the night bubbled to the surface. “Oh,” she said, pulling it out. “Hey.”

      He turned, an inquiring expression on his face.

      “Before you go...can I take your picture?”

      In one lightning move he was back, his body crowding hers, their noses inches apart. “What for?” he demanded. “What are you going to do with a photo of me?”

      Startled, she blinked up at him, aware of his bigness, the odd light in his eyes, the broad wall of his chest almost pressed to the tips of her breasts. Grimm, she thought, flicking her glance toward her cabin where her dog was surely snoring on the couch, Grimm, I need you.

      What a lie. She didn’t want rescue. And she wasn’t exactly afraid—or not just afraid, anyway. Even with the man’s mood so suddenly dark, his very proximity sent a thrill of adrenaline shooting through her veins. As his breath brushed her cheek, her nipples bunched and she felt a sweet spasm between her thighs.

      Ryan’s head drew even closer. “Why do you want my picture?”

      With his blue eyes filling her vision, her body clenched again. Oh, boy. She definitely was something more than scared. She was acutely aroused, which should be shameful, considering his face didn’t express a jot of reciprocal sexual interest.

      “Poppy?”

      She licked her dry lips. “For a website my sister doesn’t yet know she’ll be building for the cabins. Because you’re the first guest.”

      He moved back so abruptly she went dizzy, swaying like a drunk on her feet. “No photos, Poppy. I want my privacy.”

      She put her hand to her head. It felt as if she’d chugged something too intoxicating, too fast. “Okay.”

      “You—” He broke off, combed his fingers through his hair, then scrubbed his palm down his face. “You just keep your distance, all right?”

      She nodded, though he was already stalking toward his SUV. Without another word, he climbed in, started the engine, drove off.

      As he took the turn toward the highway, Poppy kept her gaze on the SUV and fanned her hot cheeks. She should have known they could never be friends. Not when her body had picked up this inconvenient and oh-so-uncomfortable interest in having a lover.

      CHAPTER THREE

      SIX DAYS AFTER taking up residence at the cabins, Ryan tramped through the surrounding woods, taking deliberate breaths of the crisp air. On each exhale, he tried pushing the thoughts from his churning mind. He wanted to clear every corner and rid its rafters of all the sticky webs and their clinging hairy spiders. Eleven months out of the year he somehow managed to blank out the memories and the pain. Sure, he walked around like an automaton, but that was better than the man he became in March, the one who staggered about, falling into sharp-toothed emotional depths, crawling free only to stumble and plunge once again.

      His footsteps were quiet on the patches of melting snow and wet leaves. The sound of soft crying didn’t register at first—it seemed a natural accompaniment to his March mood—but then he heard a dog whine. Grimm.

      Without thinking, Ryan moved toward the noise, and from behind a tree he observed his landlady, seated on a fallen log, her dog at her knee, her face in her hands. Concern propelled him forward. “Poppy?”

      Her body jerked. As her hands fell, her gaze caught on him. “Oh,” she said, and made hasty swipes at her wet cheeks. “You startled me.”

      “Sorry.” Grimm bounded over and Ryan palmed the soft fur on the dog’s head. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

      “I’m fine. Fine.” She made a little sweeping gesture with one hand. “Just out for a walk. You?”

      “Same.” He narrowed his eyes, noting one of her boots was off. Her heel, covered in a rainbow-striped sock, rested on the banged-up leather. “What’s wrong