The Best Of Blaze - Six Sexy Romances. Jo Leigh

Under the sink she found a recycling bin with the toaster box in it. It was that new.

      “I wonder if they’re fixing it up to sell it.”

      “House flipping?”

      “Maybe. Still, nice of them to spruce it up before I came to stay in it.”

      “Very nice.”

      “Probably their way of making up for the fact that my lovely brother scheduled his wedding on my birthday.”

      “Your fault for being born on Halloween. Perfect day for a Portland wedding.”

      “Dillon and Oscar do love dressing up. It’s an ’80s movie theme. I have to pick a costume. Maybe I’ll go as Carrie.”

      “Carrie?”

      “You know—the girl with the blood and the prom and all the murdering—that Carrie.”

      “You’re going as a mass murderer to your brother’s wedding?”

      “It fits my mood.”

      Except her mood was lifting a little. How could it not in this cabin, this beautiful cozy cabin in the woods? All the place was missing was a man to share it with. She and Ben would have had great sex in this cabin in the woods. They’d be in bed already. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not now or ever. Ben had committed an unforgivable sin. He’d lied to his wife. He’d lied to her. He’d betrayed her trust on the deepest level possible, and she would never take him back no matter how lonely she felt without him. And she did feel so terribly alone.

      “This is a sex cabin, Kira.”

      “Sounds like it.”

      “I’m in a sex cabin, and I can’t have sex. This is depressing.”

      “You can have sex. Go find someone to have sex with. Right now.”

      “I’m in the middle of the woods. The next cabin is half a mile west.”

      “Then start walking. Bigfoot’s probably out there. He’s probably well-hung.”

      “And hairy.”

      “I warned you about the beard rash thing.”

      The floor creaked with the sound of footsteps.

      But not hers. Joey hadn’t moved.

      “Shit,” she whispered into the phone.

      “What?” Kira whispered back, unnecessarily.

      Joey looked up at the ceiling.

      “Someone’s here. Stay on the line with me.”

      “Yeah, of course. Are you sure?”

      “I heard footsteps upstairs.”

      “Then get the fuck out of the house. This isn’t a horror movie. Do not investigate.”

      “Right. Going. Right now.”

      Joey started backing up toward the door, her heart racing. The footsteps continued across the floor above her head. They were fast and purposeful footsteps, not at all tentative but also not threatening. They were heavy, too, like whoever was walking wore either work boots or cowboy boots. She hadn’t heard that sound in a long time. Even the VPs at her Oahu Air office often came to work in sandals or flip-flops—one of the perks of working one hundred yards or so from the ocean.

      “Jo? You there?” Kira whispered again.

      “I’m here. Hello?”

      “Yes, I’m still here.”

      “Not you. I was talking to whoever’s up there. I think he’s working here.”

      “Hey there,” came a voice from the top of the stairs. A male voice. A deep yet friendly voice. “Joey Silvia?”

      “That’s me. And you are?”

      “It’s Chris. I’m almost done up here with the ceiling fan,” the man called down to her.

      “Has he murdered you yet?” Kira asked.

      “Not yet. He says his name is Chris, and he’s doing something with the ceiling fan.”

      “Is he hot?”

      “Am I supposed to run screaming from him or have sex with him?” Joey whispered.

      “Depends on if he’s hot or not. Go look.”

      “You just told me to leave,” Joey half whispered, half yelled.

      “You can leave, but find out if he’s hot first.”

      “Okay... I’m going up. If my phone dies and/or you hear the sound of me screaming, hang up and call the cops.”

      “What if he’s not murdering you, but you’re screaming because it’s such good sex? Do I still call the cops?”

      “I’m not a screamer.”

      “If he’s the right guy you will be.”

      “I’m going to go up and see what he’s doing.” She glanced out the kitchen window and saw a large green Ford pickup parked behind the house with the words Lost Lake Painting and Contracting on the side in black-and-gold letters. Okay, not an ax murderer, then. Just the guy she should probably thank for doing such a good job on the house.

      “I’ll stay on the line,” Kira said. “If you think he’s going to murder you, say, um, ‘I’m on the phone with my best friend, Kira. She’s a cop. And she’s sleeping with a cop. No, two cops. Cop threesome.’”

      “I’m just supposed to work that into a casual conversation with a possible murderer?”

      “And if he’s sexy and you want to bang him, just say, ‘Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?’”

      “It’s the Pacific Northwest. In October. It’s forty-eight degrees out and raining.”

      “Just say it!”

      “You are the worst friend ever.”

      “You’re welcome. Now go check him out. Try not to get murdered.”

      Joey crept up the stairs and found they no longer squeaked like they used to. The rotting middle board they had to step over was gone. Someone had replaced the old stairs with beautiful reclaimed pine from the looks of it.

      “You still there?” Joey said as she made it to the top of the stairs.

      “I’m still here,” Kira replied. “You’re not dead yet?”

      “Not dead. Yet.”

      The upstairs of the cabin consisted of two small bedrooms with a full bath between them. And whatever magic had been done on the downstairs had wended its way upstairs, too. New bathroom fixtures of brushed copper. The grimy tub had been replaced with a new and huge bathtub inlaid with stone tile. Somehow this Lost Lake contractor had managed to make the house look both old and authentic and yet brand-new at the same time.

      “Hello?” she called out.

      “I’m in the master,” the male voice answered.

      “I heard his voice,” Kira said over the line. “Good voice. Calm and manly. He’s probably comfortable hugging his guy friends and telling his dad he loves him.”

      “You got that much from four words?” Joey asked.

      “I’m very intuitive.”

      Joey shook her head and walked down the narrow hallway to a partly open door. This had to be the master bedroom, not that she’d ever thought of it like that. Master bedroom sounded imposing, impressive. The “master” bedroom she remembered had a tablecloth for a curtain and a mattress propped up on a sheet of plywood and cinder blocks where her parents slept.

      “I’m going in,” Joey