From USA TODAY bestselling author Christie Ridgway comes a sparkling new series set in the California mountains, where Hollywood glamour meets rustic charm, and the sparks fly among the unlikeliest of couples…

Poppy Walker has a plan to restore the family resort, and she’s sticking to it. So when a good-looking guy with plenty of cash rents one of her half-repaired vacation cabins, she figures he’s just what the handyman ordered. But when a storm blows through, it takes down some trees, her roof and then…her self-control. Even though she’s been burned before by a wealthy passer-through, she can’t stay away from the brooding but gorgeous stranger in the bungalow next door.

Former teen idol turned Hollywood exec Ryan Hamilton wants a private place in which to endure his very personal heartbreak. Finally, at this rustic mountain cabin, he has all the seclusion one man could want—until sparks begin to fly with his sexy, formerly chilly landlady. By the time the weather dies down, they’re both hot, bothered and certain they’re still wrong for each other. But there’s no telling how they’ll face the new storm brewing on the horizon.…

Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author

Christie Ridgway

“Emotional and powerful…

everything a romance reader could hope for.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Bungalow Nights

“Kick off your shoes and escape to endless summer.

This is romance at its best.”

—Emily March, New York Times bestselling author

of Nightingale Way, on Bungalow Nights

“Sexy and addictive—Ridgway will keep you up all night!”

—New York Times bestselling author Susan Andersen

on Beach House No. 9

“A great work of smart, escapist reading.”

—Booklist on Beach House No. 9

“Ridgway’s feel-good read, with its perfectly integrated, extremely hot, and well-crafted love scenes, is contemporary romance at its best.”

—Booklist on Can’t Hurry Love (starred review)

“Sexy, sassy, funny, and cool, this effervescent sizzler

nicely launches Ridgway’s new series and is a

perfect pick-me-up for a summer’s day.”

—Library Journal on Crush on You

“Pure romance, delightfully warm and funny.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Crusie

“Christie Ridgway writes with the perfect combination

of humor and heart. This funny, sexy story

is as fresh and breezy as its southern California setting.

An irresistible read!”

—New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs

on How to Knit a Wild Bikini

Take My Breath Away

Christie Ridgway

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Take a trip with me to the region known as the Alps of Southern California. Here, an hour from the glamour and glittering lights of Los Angeles, the wealthy retreat to “Hollywood on High,” where rocky peaks, tall pines and clean air surround their mansions flanking the shores of Blue Arrow Lake. At this more than mile-high elevation, California has four full seasons and two kinds of people: the moneyed who come for their alpine visits, and the more modest mountain locals, who are rooted to their rugged surroundings.

In Take My Breath Away, Los Angeleno Ryan Hamilton seeks solitude by retreating to the rustic cabins managed by lovely single mother Poppy Walker. But her beauty and her can-do attitude draw him out, and soon he finds himself leaning in for a kiss…and then another. Poppy’s been burned by love before and has no intention of falling for a guy who seems so out of her league, yet Ryan has a way of getting under her skin and reminding her that being a mom doesn’t mean she can’t have a man.

I love bringing together two people who think they are absolutely wrong for each other and then letting them wrestle with fate and with their growing feelings. Ready to enjoy it with me? Then come aboard. Destination…romance!

Christie

In grateful memory of Harlow

(aka Best-Dog-in-the-World) for his eleven-plus years

of loyal companionship that included escorting small boys into dreamland every night. And with thanks to Hank

(aka Sweetest-Dog-in-the-World), who makes us glad

we risked our hearts to love again.

Contents

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

—Percy Bysshe Shelley

CHAPTER ONE

POPPY WALKER JUST wanted something good to come from the next ten days. The next ten days, the first ten in March, when she had to do without the company of the only man she’d ever love. Earlier that morning, she’d worn her game face as she’d waved goodbye to her five-year-old son.

The tears she’d saved for the ride back from her cousin’s house to the family land, four miles off the mountain highway that served a popular Southern California resort area. One hundred and fifty years before, her ancestors had secured their place seven thousand feet above sea level, and what remained were steep slopes, several acres of pines, cedars and dogwoods, as well as a dozen dilapidated cabins, all currently covered in snow.

Over the Christmas holidays, when she’d learned that her current place of employment, Inn Klein, was about to invest in a big remodel, it had sparked Poppy’s own bright idea. Then and there, she’d decided to refurbish the family cabins as vacation rentals to generate a supplemental income to share between herself, her two sisters and her brother.

Unfortunately, her siblings weren’t of the same mind. Instead, they believed in the outlandish and archaic family curse: that nothing good could ever come of this piece of Walker property.

Ridiculous.

“C’mon, Grimm,” she called to her Lab-German shepherd mix. Dressed in a cotton turtleneck, thick sweatshirt, old jeans and scruffy work boots, she led him out of the cabin where she and her son, Mason, had moved just a couple of weeks before. It was the best of the dwellings and one of five that ringed a small clearing carpeted with snow. The remaining seven were nestled among the trees in the surrounding forest.

Her dog pranced beside her, unsure of the game but a willing participant all the same.

“First order of business is cabin four,” she told him. “We’re going to clean up the inside.” He responded with his doggy grin.

The initial step in the process was to get the water turned on so she could scrub. That involved opening the small door cut into the siding, pretending she didn’t see the creepy, ropy spiderwebs then twisting the handle that would let the liquid rush into the pipes.

That went off without a hitch. Inside the kitchen, she pushed a bucket under the spout and turned the faucet handle, expecting a gratifying gush. It didn’t come. “Uh-oh,” she said, feeling a twinge of dismay.

Grimm seemed much more cavalier than she, wagging his tail as he followed her back to the little door. When they got there, she knew instantly what had gone wrong, as water was spreading from beneath the raised foundation. “Broken pipe,” she informed Grimm, dismay turning to real alarm. Surely that would be a costly repair. Braving the cobwebs a second time, she twisted the handle in the opposite direction and started a mental review of her bank balances.

On the heels of that depressing thought process, she allowed herself a fifteen-second wallow in self-pity. Then she straightened her shoulders and once again addressed her dog. “Cabin three, it is, Grimm,” she said, reaching for the ring of keys in her pocket.

The one that fit the only entry to cabin three broke off in the knob.

That would probably be a much cheaper fix, but it was yet another to add to an already large pile, so this time she went with a thirty-second wallow during which she saw her brother and sisters in her mind’s eye, each of them saying, “I told you so, knucklehead,” in their own inimitable style.

Once that was over, she marched off to retrieve the wooden ladder leaning behind her own cottage. “Time to check out the roof of cabin two,” she told Grimm as she hefted the old contraption to the dwelling next door to her own. “I’m a little worried about its condition.” Not that she knew what to look for actually, but surely something obvious would stand out.

She didn’t get a chance to perform her inspection, however. Because even though she chose level ground on which to place the ladder, and even though she took great care to lock the metal spreader in place, when her boot met the third step, its wood tread cracked in two, and she tumbled down, her butt landing in cold, wet snow.

Poppy lay staring up at the peak of their mountain silhouetted against the deep blue sky, thinking dark thoughts about her siblings and their maybe not-so-ridiculous superstitions.

But Poppy Walker, cock-eyed optimist, refused to concede defeat.

“That’s it,” she said to Grimm, who stood looking down at her in some concern. “The real first order of business is lifting the stupid family curse.”

* * *

POPPY PUSHED OPEN the door of Johnson’s Grocery, her mind on the list of ingredients she needed per her brief stop at the Blue Arrow Lake branch library. Johnson’s Grocery was located on the same street, so she thought she’d start there.

Someone hailed her from the back of the store, where a butcher’s case held fancy cuts of grass-fed beef, stuffed breasts of duck and free-range chicken, as well as fillets of salmon prepared for grilling. The store was small—real estate in the mountain resort area went at princely rates—but the narrow aisles were packed with gourmet foods, expensive liquor and fancy wines. Everything and anything a filthy rich Los Angeleno couldn’t do without during a getaway to what was known as “Hollywood on High.”

Cheaper merchandise could be had if she’d driven to a larger community, but that would have cost her in time and gas money, so Johnson’s was her go-to market.

The endcap nearest the entrance displayed a selection of expensive children’s toys, everything from miniature fishing rods to expansive LEGO sets for snowbound weekends. Gazing on them, Poppy’s heart squeezed, sending a rush of tender longing through her veins. Mason, she thought, picturing her towheaded boy, who right now was on his way to a vacation filled with such delights as whirling in teacups and flying with Dumbo. Mason, I miss you so much.

“Poppy.”

At the sound of her name, she glanced over, smiled. “Hey, Bill.” Bill Anders was a scarecrow of a man, and wore a bibbed, crisp cotton apron with the store’s name stitched on the front, most likely by his wife. She had an embroidery business in addition to the daycare she ran. Like many people who lived in the mountains year-round, the Anderses cobbled together a living out of more than one line of work.

“Heard Mason went to Walt Disney World with your cousin James.”

“That’s right. James and Deanne wanted company for their own little guy on a visit to Deanne’s parents. When Mason heard the magic words Mickey Mouse, I could hardly say no.”

“Heard, too, that you got laid off from Inn Klein until the remodel’s complete. Sorry for it.”

“Thanks,” she said, hiding her grimace by stepping past the shopkeeper on her way to the fresh fruits and vegetables. Of course, news traveled fast when you lived in a tight community like this one. She knew how this worked, didn’t she? People had been in the Walkers’ business—and they in everyone else’s, she supposed—since the logging family’s arrival in the mountains.

But Poppy had felt her friends’ and neighbors’ interest in a more up-close and personal fashion. Collective eyebrows had lifted and noses had twitched when she’d found herself pregnant by a summer visitor who’d skedaddled back to his moneyed family in Beverly Hills the minute she’d informed him of the test results. Though the truth was, Poppy minded less people gossiping about her sex life than them knowing she’d been dumb enough to fall for a rich and careless man.

Her mother had made a similar mistake before Poppy. Though she couldn’t wish her half-sister, Shay, had never been born.

Nor did Poppy regret one moment with Mason.

Mason... She mouthed his name, her heart starting to hurt all over again.

Then she shook off the melancholy. Think of something else, she commanded herself, as she stepped up to the tiered rows of produce, glistening from a recent misting. Think of making something of the cabins. Think of getting rid of that stupid curse.

“Sage,” she murmured to herself, inspecting the selection of fresh herbs. Pulling a bunch of the gray-green leaves from the stack, she frowned at the price. There wouldn’t be a paycheck from the inn until it reopened July 4th, and the aromatic was expensive. As a rational woman, Poppy didn’t, of course, completely buy in to the idea she could eradicate any negative energy at the cabins. But...

She was determined. And desperate.

Wincing at the mental admission, she dumped the herb into her basket and started her hunt for rock salt. Despite the dire predictions of her older brother, Brett, her older sister, Mackenzie, and her younger sister, Shay, Poppy hoped that by summer the dwellings would be available as weekly vacation rentals. Cabin two—if you didn’t count the dubious state of the roof—was already in decent shape and with a fingers-crossed kind of optimism, she’d placed notices on the community bulletin boards around town, including the one here at Johnson’s.

Despite the point-of-view of her pessimistic sibs, Poppy would prove to them that the Walker albatross could be turned into an eagle, after all.

The cowbell tied to the store’s front door clattered, interrupting Poppy’s train of thought. She glanced toward the door.

Her guard instantly jerked up. From twenty paces she recognized the man standing on the mat. She didn’t know his identity—that was well-hidden by a watch cap pulled low on his forehead, the fancy Wayfarers that covered his eyes and the dark scarf wrapped around his neck that almost completely obscured his mouth—but she knew his type.

Rich guy.

She’d bet the scarf was cashmere and that those sun specs retailed for five hundred bucks or more. The waterproof jacket and boots came from a high-end store that catered to “outdoorsmen” who spent their summer days sipping martinis on the terraces of their lakeside mansions while watching their fancy boats bob up and down at private docks. They whiled away winter nights beside fires built by other hands, eating meals prepared by personal chefs brought up from L.A. The wine in their glasses would cost more than Poppy’s monthly paycheck from running the front desk at Inn Klein.

“Can I help you sir?” A round-faced teen, all perky ponytail and freckled nose, appeared at his elbow.

“Just stopping in for a few things,” the man said. His voice was low, but carried easily.

Maybe one of the new moguls that had taken up residence at what was now known as “Silicon Beach,” L.A.’s own hotbed of tech industry that was rivaling the famed valley in northern California. While she stared, his head turned her way. His hand lifted, tipping up his sunglasses.

Their gazes met. Poppy’s heart jolted. His eyes were a scorching shade of blue, the color that edged the blades of magical swords in fantasy novels or that you could find at the innermost core of fire. Her temperature climbed, heat radiating from the center of her chest and reaching upward to warm her face. It was embarrassing, she thought, still unable to look away. Because it probably appeared to him she was ogling instead of...instead of passing judgment.

Sue her, she didn’t trust men like this. Didn’t want to be around them more than she could help in a region that catered to the over-the-top affluent.

That thought got her feet moving again. She gave her back to the stranger, only half listening as the teenage clerk chattered to him about the store specials—veal cutlets and cheesecake baked by the kid’s own talented mother—and the big March storm the weather service was predicting.

Poppy smirked at that as she added the rock salt and a small bunch of daisies to her basket. The only thing predictable about spring weather in the mountains was its changeability. Her brother said it was like a cranky woman deprived of chocolate, but since he’d been short-tempered himself since returning from his service with the 10th Mountain Infantry Division, she and her sisters just rolled their eyes at him.

Behind his back.

Looking for candles, she turned a corner, almost plowing into the stranger. She drew back to avoid contact, swaying on her feet. He reached to steady her, but she took a staggering step to the rear, instantly sure to her bones she shouldn’t be touched by him.

His hand dropped and he muttered something under his breath. Ducking her head, Poppy scooted past him, then glanced over her shoulder. She couldn’t help it.

He was a big man, six-two, maybe, to her five foot four inches. When she’d whipped by, she’d caught his scent. That was expensive, too, but not cologne, no. This was a clean, not cloying smell. Handmade soap, she guessed, triple-milled, and with a mild but lingering note of sandalwood. As she continued to watch him peruse the contents of the shelves, a knot gathered in her belly. Her nerve endings seemed to lift to the surface of her skin, tickling the nape of her neck and sending prickling goose bumps cascading down her spine and racing across her ribs.

Startled by her visceral response, she stood another moment, rooted to the floor. Then she saw him stiffen and knew, just knew, he could feel her regard and was an eyelash away from catching her staring again.

Don’t let him catch you at anything! her instincts warned.

And Poppy, suddenly a tiny bit spooked, broke free of her paralysis. She hurried away from the stranger, finished her shopping and rushed to the checkout stand.

With her selections paid for and bagged, she paused outside the store, breathing in the cold, piney air. She lifted her gaze to the snow-covered peaks and felt her pulse settle. Inhaling more calming breaths, she picked her way toward her beat-up four-wheel drive, avoiding potholes and patches of icy-looking pavement.

As she neared her car, something made her glance around.

And there he was, the stranger, emerging from the grocery. Now, even from behind those dark glasses, she knew he was staring at her.

That primal alarm inside of her went off again. Her nerves leaped, her feet tangled on themselves, her arms windmilled and her goods scattered as she fell on her butt—for the second time that day—into a deep, cold puddle.

Damn! Mortified, and aware that color was rising from her neck to her face, she scrambled for her fallen purchases and crammed them into their plastic bag. Then she gathered her feet underneath her, preparing to rise with as much grace as possible.

“Here,” that deep voice said.

She allowed her gaze to lift. It snagged on his hand, its wide palm and long fingers outstretched to help her up.

Eyeing it like a dangerous viper, Poppy shook her head and placed a palm on the cold, gritty pavement, pushing off to a stand in one quick move. She relied on herself.

And the only hand she intended to ever reach for, to ever hold, belonged to the little man who also had sole claim to her heart. Mason, who was at this moment probably daydreaming about riding the carousel or chasing down Goofy.

Without a word to the stranger she jumped into her car and drove off, sighing with relief when the grocery store was no longer in her rearview mirror.

Thank God, Poppy thought on another sigh. Though she might still feel the smothering weight of that family curse, right now she had the distinct sense she’d just dodged a bullet.

* * *

NINETY MINUTES LATER, Poppy was in an even better mood as she stood in the clearing outside her home. With Grimm once again at her side, she’d accomplished nearly every step of the energy-cleansing exercise. Rock salt had been scattered near each cabin entrance—these five as well as the seven located deeper in the trees. At each door, she’d clapped loudly, startling Grimm and hopefully any negative energy that resided there.

Now she bent over the makeshift altar she’d established. Earlier, she’d carried a flat-topped rock to the center of the open area. Upon it she’d strewn petals from the daisies she’d bought. A white pillar candle was already flickering and beside it lay the bunch of sage she’d selected at Johnson’s. She’d turned it into a smudge stick by wrapping the leaves around a brittle handful of slender pine twigs and tying them in place with twine. The whole thing was supposed to be dried for a week, but she figured if she waited that long she’d feel too silly to go through with the ritual. Though she was considered the whimsical Walker by her siblings, as a single mother she had developed a decidedly sensible side.

She picked up the aromatic bundle. Her final cleansing act was to light the stick and wave the smoke around while thinking positive thoughts. The dry pieces of pine caught easily on the candle’s flame and she held it away from her body as the fire licked toward the first of the sage leaves. Smoke curled into the cool air and she moved her arm slowly. “I now release old stuck energy,” she said out loud. “I now attract new beginnings and new opportunity to this place.”

Grimm stayed close to her side as she turned, leaving her back to the steep drive that led up to the cabins from the road below. “I now release old stuck energy,” she said again. “I now attract new beginnings and new opportunity to my life.”

The scent of pine and sage rose and a sense of peace settled over her. Poppy closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. Wow, she thought. It works. For good measure, she repeated her last words, even louder this time. “I now attract new beginnings and new opportunity to my life.”

Grimm’s sudden bark scared the smudge stick out of her hand and shot her heart to her throat. It was his “stranger’s coming” bark, and Poppy whirled to see a monster SUV with tinted windows climbing the drive, crunching over the slushy snow.

Her dog barked again, the hair on his neck bristling. He was a very effective, although faux, bodyguard. The fact was, Grimm wouldn’t hurt a fly, but he had a deep voice and a brawny chest that gave him a belligerent demeanor. So, curious rather than alarmed, Poppy curled her fingers around his collar and watched the vehicle come to a stop.

Her jaw dropped when the door opened and a long leg in a familiar expensive boot emerged, followed by the rest of the rich stranger from Johnson’s Grocery.

Once again, her skin rippled in apprehension and her stomach knotted. Grimm let out another bark, the harsh sound more welcoming than Poppy felt. To disguise her trepidation, she shoved her hands in the pockets of the jacket she was wearing—her brother’s castoff—and leaned back on her heels. “What do you want?”

She couldn’t see his expression, as he was swathed in that scarf, sunglasses and brow-skimming cap. Shutting the driver’s door, he waved a flyer in his other hand. “A cabin to rent.”

Her mouth fell open again. Narrowing her eyes, she recognized one of the half sheets of paper she’d pinned around town in hopes of enticing summer visitors. Summer being the operative word, she realized now...and the exact one she’d neglected to include on the advertising. Knucklehead!

“Sorry,” Poppy said, commanding herself to stand her ground as the stranger moved from his vehicle and across the snow-covered clearing. “We’re not accepting guests right now.”

“Is that right?” He glanced around. “The coven using all the cabins?”

“The cov—” She broke off as he nodded toward the small altar and the smudge stick at her feet. Though it had extinguished upon landing in the snow, the pungent scent still lingered in the air. She inhaled a deep breath of it, trying to regain her earlier peaceful feeling.

For whatever reason, this man rattled her.

Deciding to ignore the coven remark, she took her hands from her pockets and crossed her arms over her chest as she tried pasting on a pleasant expression. “As I said, I’m sorry. We’re simply not ready.”

He glanced around again. Smoke rose from her cabin’s chimney, but three of the others ringing the clearing were obviously vacant, not to mention inhospitable-looking with their peeling doors and dirty windows. The one nearest hers she’d decided to work on first, and it looked much better with its new paint and sparkling glass. From here, the iffy state of the roof was not readily apparent, though she’d have to come up with the money to replace it sooner than later.

“I’ll pay you twice the going rate,” the man said, as if he’d read her mind. His gaze shifted to the flyer grasped in his left hand. “I’ll take the two-bedroom ‘nestled in the woods.’”

“Sorry again, not available.” Squirrels had made a home in the chimney and it smelled like something had died in the second bedroom. It was the farthest from the clearing and the last on her list to refurbish, though she’d foolishly—she realized now—advertised it, anyway. As her father’s daughter, she should have realized that unchecked optimism could come back to bite her on the butt.

Speaking of bites, she glanced down at Grimm, who stood relaxed at her side. Usually he took cues about strangers from her reaction and body language. Odd that he wasn’t picking up on that now...in which case he would be showing a lot of teeth and emitting one of his best back-off growls.

The long-legged man followed her gaze. “Nice dog.”

“If you like death-by-canine,” she said. “We call him Grimm, as in the Grim Reaper.” A little white lie. Her brother had chosen the name after some famous NFL player he admired.

The stranger patted his thigh. “Hey, Grimm.”

Her dog raced forward, his jaw stretched in a toothy smile.

The man ran his hand over her pet’s head. “Like I said, nice dog. And I’ll pay you triple for whatever place you have available.”

Triple? Triple? Poppy thought of her recent layoff, the cost of Mason’s plane tickets to Florida and back, the extra dollars she’d given James to dole out on her son’s behalf.

“Quadruple, then.”

A fool and his money...Poppy mused, tempted despite her jittery nerves and knotted stomach. Mountain people were wary of everything about the rich flatlanders who came up the hill for alpine delights—everything except the money they flung about so freely. It was hard for average Joes and Joannas to make do in a place where real estate and gasoline and foodstuffs were sold at luxury resort prices. But people like the Walkers and the other descendants of early settlers were stubborn about staying among their beloved peaks and pines. Maybe Poppy had once dreamed of oceans and palms and big city streets, but then Mason had come along and sticking to what was familiar had made more sense.

The stranger crossed his arms over the chest of his posh squall jacket, mimicking Poppy’s own pose. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses of his glasses, but she felt them narrow. “Quintuple,” he said. “Final offer.”

And greed overrode caution. “Done,” she answered.

Second thoughts popped up the instant the word left her mouth. “Wait—you realize we’re pretty far from civilization. The entrance to the highway is four miles from here.”

“I realize. I got lost looking for the turnoff.”

Poppy had the sense he was pleased by the fact.

Taking a step back, he tilted his head toward the steep slopes to the north of the cabins and woods. Snow covered the surface that was dotted with few of the pines that grew densely on the other surrounding hillsides. “What is this place? Can you ski up there?”

“If you want to hike up carrying your equipment. The elevation of the nearest town—Blue Arrow Lake—is a little over five thousand feet but here we’re at seventy-two hundred, which means plenty of snow in a good winter. My family had a nice ski business on the mountain, but a wildfire took down the lodge, the rope tow and the chair lifts thirteen years ago.”

“You didn’t rebuild?”

Poppy shrugged. “Not enough insurance money. And a bad financial deal with a certain arch-villain.”

He looked back at her then. “Arch-villain? Like Lex Luthor or Two-Face?”

“Like Victor Fremont.” Without thinking, she spat in the snow, ground the spot with the toe of her boot then crossed her heart with the tip of her forefinger.

Only when she felt his stare did she realize what she’d done. “Uh, sorry. Walker family habit.” The physical manifestation of their vow to never forget or forgive how the old man had ruined their father’s livelihood and health was something Brett had come up with long ago. “But, uh, let me show you the cabin.”

Maybe he wouldn’t like it, she thought, almost hoping that would be true, despite quintuple the going rate. Something was off about him. Or her. Or her around him.

As she dug the keys from her coat pocket, she walked toward the one-bedroom. There were three wooden steps leading to the narrow porch. Inside, it was cold, but warmer than the outside temperature. He walked past her through the small living area to peer into the room that held a queen-size bed and a Shaker-style dresser.

“The bathroom only has a shower,” she warned, “and the kitchen...”

With his back to her, he scraped off his hat. His hair was glossy, nearly black, and when he rubbed his palm over it, the strands settled into lines that screamed “This cut cost a mint!” She saw him finger off the sunglasses. As he stuck them into his coat pocket, she wondered if she’d imagined the surreal shade of his irises back at the grocery store. Perhaps they’d be ordinary on second take. Duller, like the color of a faded cotton patio umbrella. Or with gray overtones, like shadows cast on snow.

He turned.

Poppy nearly staggered back. Her mind hadn’t oversold them. His eyes were a hot, electric-blue that seemed lit from within. They were compelling. Mesmerizing. The eyes of a magician or a mystic or some supernatural being. Again, an acute wariness shot through her.

Grimm whined and she quickly shifted her attention to the dog, needing to look away before she confessed her sins or offered up her life savings. God. Her pulse was racing and there was a queasy feeling in her stomach.

“And the kitchen...?” he prompted, in that deep voice that carried to the corners of the cabin and maybe to the corners of her heart.

God.

“The kitchen.” She focused on the velvety golden hair between Grimm’s floppy ears and made a vague gesture. “It’s over there.”

His footsteps sounded against the hardwood floor before finding the living room’s braided area rug. From the corner of her eye, she saw his big hand and those lean fingers curled around the scarf he’d had at his neck. If you look now, you’ll see his whole face, Poppy thought. Then she heard a rustle of sound that indicated he was removing his coat. If you look now, you’ll see his whole body, too.

It shocked her how much she wanted to check out both, despite how anxious the man made her.

She was a mother, for God’s sake! A Walker, focused on creating something of the family legacy.

A woman who had proven herself an idiot when it came to romance, so had sworn off it altogether.

None of which meant it would hurt to take a peek.

That was the inner optimist in her, always trying to find sunshine on a cloudy day.

It might even be good for you!

Ignoring her little voice, she worked the cabin’s key off the ring. “If you’re still interested—”

“I want the cabin. Until the end of the month.”

Quintuple the rate until the end of the month! Poppy focused on that, and only that, as she slid the key onto the small table next to the sofa. “You’ll need to plug in the fridge. The heater should keep you warm enough, but there’s wood for the fireplace. I’ll make sure to keep some piled on the porch. Oh—and I should warn you. There’s no internet and there’s no TV.”

“No TV?” he asked.

“Don’t plan to put ’em in the cabins. We Walkers grew up without television—our mom’s idea—and I’ve never picked up the habit.”

“So what do you do for entertainment?”

“I read, and I—” She almost said she played with her little boy, but for some reason she didn’t want Mason’s name in this room, where she was responding so strongly and strangely to this man’s masculine charisma. Those blue eyes had done something to her internal wiring, heating her blood and making it buzz as it raced through her system. “I have a good imagination.”

Oh, jeez. Why had she said that? Yet another time, embarrassed heat crawled up her neck.

“We have something in common, then. I have an active fantasy life, too.” The sudden note of humor in his voice made her chin jerk up.

Their gazes met.

But there wasn’t a sign of laughter on his face. There were just planes and angles—strong cheekbones, a clean jawline—that made her instantly think of elegant European men stepping into lowslung sports coupes and spectacular parties where people in evening clothes ended up jumping into swimming pools while a band dressed in white dinner jackets plays Cole Porter tunes. He was classically, memorably handsome and his features, coupled with those spectacular eyes, put him at the absolute top of her list of the most beautiful—yet still so male—men she’d ever seen.

Her skin was tingling, her stomach was pitching and her palms were probably sweating, but she couldn’t tell because her fingers were curled into tight fists. Everything inside her was reacting to him, but in confusing ways. While some of her was going soft and languid, a sense of melting low in her belly, at the same time her defenses were rushing into place and she felt hyperalert and poised to fight her way out of...out of...

Danger.

Silly, she told herself. Stop being so silly.

Still, she backed up, keeping her gaze on him as she retreated toward the door. He remained where he was, though she thought she detected tension in the lean muscles revealed by the thermal Henley clinging to his powerful torso.

Those magnetic eyes swept over her. “I don’t know your name,” he said, his voice soft now, the near-whisper of that seductive snake in the Garden of Eden.

She shook her head to dispel the image. “Poppy,” she replied, trying to sound businesslike and brisk. “Poppy Walker.”

He was strolling toward her now and she retreated farther, until her shoulder blades met the wood of the door. Before she could find her way through it, the man had her hand in his. Heat ran like fire ants up her arm. “Ryan Harris,” he said, his gaze fixed on her face.

The words barely registered as the burning touch overwhelmed all her other senses. His palm was warm and strong, its size enveloping hers—making her feel small and feminine. That’s when she understood. That’s when she could finally put a name to what he’d been able to do to her from that first glimpse.

After more than five years, Ryan Harris reminded her of what it was to be a woman.

“I have to go,” she said, ordering herself to step away.

“You do,” he agreed, nodding. Then he replaced the warmth of his skin with a bundle of bills. “Rent.”

Squeezing her fingers around it, she hustled out the door and into the cold sunlight.

The scent of sage lingered in the air. She thought perhaps her ritual had worked. Maybe the negative energy was gone. That would be good.

And bad. Because it had apparently left a vacuum in its place, allowing in an entirely different sort of energy—one that Poppy was much too uneasy to name.

CHAPTER TWO

RYAN HAMILTON WONDERED if he’d make it to the end of March, as surviving the month had been iffy the past three years. Each turn of those particular thirty-one days had exacted a price: he’d wrapped his Maserati around an elm tree the first year; blown up a meat smoker and almost himself while passed out on a lounge chair ten feet from it two years ago; and last year he’d lost most of his good reputation. Now, if it hadn’t been for the stunt-driving course he’d taken before shooting his final movie a decade ago, he might not have managed the escape from his own lakefront villa.

But he’d successfully evaded the celebrity photographer who’d been camped outside the gated drive. Had he even known it was Ryan he followed in that roller skate of a car? Ryan had been forced to take a few hairpin turns at speeds that had set his heart slamming in his chest.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about the reminder that blood still pumped through his veins and that he retained enough emotional IQ to experience even a small drop of fear. Most of the time he didn’t feel much of anything—except, of course, this was March. Fucking March.

He found his way back to the road that led him through Blue Arrow Lake. While the body of water it was named after was private, and the boat docks only available to those with a deed to one of the pricey surrounding estates, the village itself welcomed tourists as well as the owners of the lakefront properties. Both were out in force, Ryan noted, as the traffic slowed passing the vaguely Swiss-styled buildings that held small specialty stores offering items like fancy cheeses, fancier chocolates and beers from around the world. Despite the snow left in piles here and there by the plows, warmly dressed people were seated under the clear blue skies amid patio heaters at small bistro tables, enjoying their designer coffees and flaky pastries.

The cars in front of him continued at a crawl, but Ryan didn’t worry he might be spied by the photographer again. The road was a sea of SUVs in both directions, so his didn’t stand out.

A ring sounded through the car speakers, and the touch screen in the dash signaled a familiar number. Ryan considered rejecting the call, but the person on the other end didn’t take hints well.

He gave the voice command to answer and at the click of connection said, “What do you want, Linus?”

His younger brother got right to the point. “I want to know where you are.”

“How much is People willing to pay for that tidbit?”

“Ha ha. Spill.”

“It’s none—”

“I worry, damn it.” Though Ryan couldn’t see the other man, he could imagine him forking a hand through his mop of dirty blond hair in a familiar gesture of frustration. Linus was a lankier version of himself, but with their mother’s light hair and their father’s brown eyes. “Ry, just tell me where you’ve gone to ground. Your assistant says you’re not planning on being back in the Studio City offices until April.”

“I decided, spur-of-the-moment, to take a break.” Might as well try a new coping mechanism since he’d failed so miserably the past few years.

“Okay. That’s good,” Linus said. “But where?”

“I don’t want company.” A car pulled in front of Ryan’s, causing him to brake sharply. The vehicle at his rear honked in bad-tempered complaint. “Not my fault,” he muttered.

“You’re in So-Cal,” Linus said, relief in his voice. “I would recognize the sounds of our happy traffic anywhere.”

Ryan debated a moment, then decided giving Linus a little more info would do no harm. “I was actually at the lake house.”

“Yeah? You think you can stay out of trouble there?”

No, he thought, thinking of that photographer. “I handed over the keys to Anabelle and Grant for the weekend.” He didn’t need to add last names. They were one of Hollywood royalty’s brightest and most watched romances—“Granabelle.” Grant had been Ryan’s stalwart friend for the past four years, sticking by him when his mood was low, being the designated driver when he was looking for refuge in an alcoholic high. “Can you keep a secret?”

“I’ve never told anyone you grew up afraid of the purple-haired troll under the bed that only you could see, have I?”

“Its hair was green and you were too much of a pussy to lift the bedspread and take a look.”

Linus snorted. “I can keep a secret.”

“They’re getting married at the house over the weekend. Spur-of-the-moment and strictly family. To keep things as quiet as possible, I’m not even attending.”

“Good for them,” Linus said, then paused a moment. “How long do you suppose before one of their publicists spills the beans? Doesn’t Anabelle have a new movie coming out soon?”

Having reached the end of town, Ryan took the turn that would bring him to the highway and ultimately his rental. “There was already a paparazzo hanging out at the gates.”

“Shit,” Linus said. “Not that I’m surprised. But you’re going to stay clear of it now, right?”

“Right. But once I offered the house to Grant, I found the idea of the mountains appealed. So I’ve found another place to stay.”

“Yeah? Where—”

“I’m using the name Ryan Harris.” It was his go-to alias when he was attempting to stay under the radar.

“That’s all fine and good, but your face is as recognizable as your name.”

“She never watched TV growing up. Her favorite form of entertainment is reading.”

The silence on the other end went heavy, then ominous. “She?”

Ryan gave a little shrug. “I’m telling you, the woman doesn’t recognize me—has no idea I’m somebody anyone would recognize. She’s got a handful of cabins for rent and I’m the first and only guest.”

“She?”

“In her sixties, with a little pot belly and her hair in some sort of turban thing,” Ryan said smoothly. “She’s a chain-smoker.”

“For a famous actor, you lie for shit.”

“I haven’t been a famous actor for a decade.”

“You’re right. Now you’re just the famous part.”

Or, after what went down last year, infamous, Ryan thought, which was degrees more uncomfortable. “Anyway, I should probably go—”

“Like I’d let you get away with that. What’s she really like?”

Her face is as fresh as the mountain air. At the grocer’s he’d thought her no older than the teen clerk, and when he’d caught her staring thought he’d been made. But at the cabins he’d immediately deduced she was well past jailbait. Yet still so...natural. Her cheeks and the tip of her cute nose had been pink with cold, and hanging over the shoulder of her oversize and clearly secondhand army jacket had been a messy braid of hair the mixed colors of honey, sunlight and brandy. Wide gray eyes and a soft pink mouth made him think young again. Her wary expression suggested life had disappointed her once or twice.

“She’s not interested in me, if that’s your concern,” Ryan said to Linus. “I’ve barely glimpsed the woman in the three days since I had to bribe her with five times the going rental rate to take me in. Oh, and she has a dog she hints might kill me on demand. I’m pretty sure if the dog balks, she’ll be willing to do the job herself.”

“I think I’m in love.”

“Why am I not surprised.” At twenty-nine, Linus was always ready to play with the opposite sex...though when Ryan thought of it, he’d been remarkably woman-free for months.

“Maybe I should come see her—develop my own impression.”

“No.” His brother was fishing for a reason to check on Ryan. “I told you, I don’t want visitors.”

“What are you going to do, then?”

“Read books, hike around.” And if the past couple of days were anything to go by, stare out the window in case the wood nymph that lived next door made a rare appearance. “Nothing crazy this year.”

Linus sighed. “That’s great, Ry. Really great.”

But his brother didn’t sound convinced as he signed off, and Ryan had to admit he, too, had doubts about keeping the crazy at bay. Fucking March.

Back at the cabins there was something to distract him from his morose thoughts, he discovered. His landlady was outside, dressed in a pair of skintight jeans, sheepskin boots and a nubby sweater that rode up and down her hips as she gathered lengths of wood from a pile then tossed them into a wheelbarrow. As distractions went, it was pretty effective.

Nothing wrong with admiring a pretty sight, he told himself. Shutting off the SUV’s engine, he relaxed against the leather seat, taking in the whole scene: the backdrop of mountain, woods, snow. The foreground of the lovely lady. When her dog raced up to drop a clearly well-drooled-upon tennis ball at her feet, her obvious response—yuck—made him nearly smile. He couldn’t help but like that she scooped up the slimy ball and threw it, anyway.

When she began trundling the wheelbarrow toward his cabin, Ryan jumped from the SUV and hurried toward her. “Let me do that.”

She ignored him, continuing to push the contraption until it was right beside his porch. Then she set to stacking the wood against the cabin’s siding. As he bent to assist her, she slanted him a look. “I’ve got this.”

“I can help—”

“Part of the service.” The smallest of smiles poked a dimple in her left cheek. “You’re paying enough for it.”

Though he supposed he should go into the house and leave her to it, he stood another moment, watching her efficient movements. When Grimm came bounding up—no ball this time, but a stick—he rubbed the dog’s sides then threw the piece of wood into the trees. “Go get it, boy. Go get it.”

Still transferring logs, Poppy spared him another glance. “So...what is it you do?”

Oh, hell. He should have concocted a cover story. Writer of the Great American Novel? No way could he pull that off. A trial period as a Trappist monk? Not that, either, because he thought that would mean a vow of silence, which he’d obviously already broken. “Uh...”

“Forget I asked,” she said, her focus returned to the wheelbarrow. “None of my business, anyway.”

See, it was that indifference that made her the perfect landlady. As he’d told Linus, she wasn’t the least bit interested in him.

And it was stupid, how that rankled.

Just another reason he should go inside to his books and his resolution not to let his emotions rule him this month. Still, he hesitated. Inside, alone, the tearing pain might find him as it had last night, when it dug its talons in him during a dark and flame-filled dream, leaving him to wake in a cold sweat and overcome by grinding grief.

Poppy tossed another piece of wood on the stack. “Are you settling in okay? Our amenities are pretty stripped-down, I admit. Is there something else you need?”

He didn’t know what made him say it, and say it in such a low, seductive voice. “Are you offering turn-down service?”

A clear pink color rushed over her face and Ryan realized that was the response he’d wanted. Bastard that he was, this studied indifference of hers was annoying. When he’d arrived at the cabins, and especially when she’d shown him into his rental, he’d felt the thrum of awareness that had pulsed like electrified wire between them. She’d practically run from the place, run from him, and...

And he didn’t know why that continued to bother him so and what he thought he was doing, teasing her like this.

Remember? No crazy this year.

It’s why he’d decided to go hermit.

Ryan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sorry. It was a stupid thing to say.”

“I won’t sic Grimm on you this time.” Clearly avoiding his gaze, she grabbed the last of the logs and placed them at the top of the stack. Then she seized the wheelbarrow handles and walked away without a backward glance, her color still high.

Leaving his interest in her still as keen as the moment he’d taken her hand in his and felt a strong, sizzling, decidedly sexual jolt.

* * *

POPPY SHOVED HER cell phone in her jeans pocket, her son’s excited voice still echoing in her head. And then we saw Mickey at breakfast and Donald, too, and it was the best pancakes in my whole life.

How could hearing such happiness make her heart ache so much? Trying to shake off the melancholy, she bent to yank the squeegee from the bucket of water at her feet and returned to the task of cleaning the outside windows of cabin three. She’d managed to extract the broken key from the knob with needle-nose pliers and was intent on getting it clean inside and out.

Thanks to good weather, much of the snow in the clearing had melted, leaving slushy, continent-shaped patches. It was still dazzling white on the ski slopes’ mountaintop, but from her vantage point the sun was warm enough that she’d discarded her jacket and was working in a thermal T-shirt covered by a plaid flannel shirt. It was another hand-me-down of Brett’s, oversize and with a bleach stain on the front. She’d done nothing more with her hair than a loose side braid.

The mascara and the pink lip gloss were her only concessions to vanity...and to the renter she hoped to engage in conversation if he emerged from his cabin sometime soon.

It had been five days since he moved in, two since they’d had their last verbal exchange over the woodpile. She thought it was time she put on her friendly face and made nice. There was good reason for it. As the manager of the cabins, it was part of her job description to provide a pleasant environment. She knew this from her years running Inn Klein’s front desk. Every guest was a possible return guest, not to mention a point of referral. If Ryan Harris enjoyed his stay, he might spread the word about the cabins to family and friends. And if she was going to convince her siblings that she was right to do something more than ignore the abandoned ski resort property, she needed to show them it could be a moneymaker.

At the moment she was a little concerned that Ryan Harris wasn’t enjoying his stay. Not that she’d been spying—she’d just been casually glancing out her windows—but she’d noticed the man had her same nocturnal habit. As in, not sleeping. She’d get up and go to the kitchen for water only to see that his interior lights were on, as well. Most relaxed and stress-free people weren’t up and about at 2:00 a.m. and 3:00 a.m. and 4:30 a.m.

He’d looked tired when she’d seen him heading to his car the day before. Maybe he needed an extra blanket at night. Or perhaps the house’s furnace was working improperly. Wasn’t it up to her to address those needs?

Are you offering turn-down service?

Her belly flipped at the memory of those words and for the millionth time she wondered why that harmless sexual innuendo had flustered her so. Her flushed reaction was mortifying to recall, and recall it she did, about once an hour. Each time she wished she could erase it from her memory, but since that wasn’t possible, she’d decided another interaction, one normal and congenial, would be the way to stop the other from establishing an endless replay loop in her head.

It was damn silly to get so unnerved around him, she knew that. Sure, he was incredibly good-looking, but at twenty-seven, Poppy had encountered plenty of handsome men, including the one who had fathered Mason. But even Denny Howell hadn’t made the hair on her head tingle at the roots.

Are you offering turn-down service?

Her imagination ignited and her mind started off in a dangerous direction as her arm moved the squeegee down the dirty glass. But before any clothes were shed, she heard the click of her guest’s cabin door being opened. Showtime, she told herself, pushing other thoughts away. Pasting a smile on her face, she turned.

“Mr. Harris!” she called, waggling her tool to get his attention. “Ryan!”

Even from across the clearing his blue gaze knocked her back a little. Hot prickles rose on her skin and she considered scrubbing her face with a handful of snow.

It would only make her mascara run.

So she kept the smile pinned in place as he made his way to her side. Today, his jeans were as battered as hers, but he wore them with a navy wool sweater that had carved bone buttons riding along one shoulder. His jacket was thrown over his arm. He’d nicked his chin shaving, and a dab of toilet paper was stuck on the cut, drawing her attention to his perfectly formed lips.

She swallowed her sigh and pointed with her forefinger to her own chin. “Um...”

He cocked an eyebrow, clearly puzzled.

She tapped her face. “Looks like your razor’s new.”

With a stifled curse, he felt for the bit of tissue. For some reason that small sign of imperfection relaxed her. She could do this. They could have a simple conversation. Maybe she’d even invite him over for dinner...?

No. That was taking hospitality much too far. But friendly she could manage. “How’s your morning going?” she asked in a bright voice.

His eyebrow winged up for a second time. “Uh, good?”

Apparently her new game face was something of a surprise. “Terrific!” she enthused. “I’m glad to know my first guest is comfortable. You are comfortable, right?”

“March is not a comfortable month.”

As 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 with your foot?”

“Nothing, really. I twisted my ankle on a stupid pinecone.”

He drew closer. “Hurts pretty bad?”

She shook her head.

“You were crying.”

“No—”

“I saw the tears on your face, Poppy.” Even the dumb bastard that March made of him couldn’t miss that. The lashes circling her big gray eyes were still spiky from the dampness. He hunkered down beside her log. “Let me see,” he said, reaching toward her foot.

“No.” She drew back sharply, as if his touch might be toxic. “Just go on. I don’t need any help.”

Ryan sat back on his heels, frustrated by her stubbornness. But what did he expect, he thought, pissed at himself. He’d been a capital-A asshole to her the day before, when presuming her request for his photo was something less than innocent. He’d been stewing about that, too, wondering if he should apologize for his harsh tone.

Her eyes had been wide and fixed on his face, the sweet scent of her hair invading him with every breath. Despite his agitation, he’d still cataloged both those details. And more: the heat of her slender body, the nearness of her breasts to his chest wall, the sweet curves of her lips that he’d followed with his gaze as her tongue came out to moisten them.

As angry as he’d been, he’d still gone hard.

Jesus.

Shaking his head, he tried to dispel the memory. But in March, the damn things had sharp claws that dug in, held on. Ryan blew out a stream of air then softened his voice. “Poppy, you need to let me do something for you. I’m not the nicest guy in the world, but I can’t leave you here, obviously in pain.” Doing her a good deed would make up for his rudeness and settle the score between them, he thought, cheering a little.

Then he could put at least one of the things plaguing him—her—out of his mind for the rest of his stay.

“There’s really no pain—” she began.

“Tears. I saw them, remember?”

Her gaze shifted away, shifted back. “Look. What do you know about women?”

The question almost made him laugh. If she followed entertainment gossip, she’d know he’d been linked with the most beautiful women in the world since he was thirteen years old. Suppressing a smile, he said, “They come with parts that are different than mine.”

She rolled her pretty eyes. “Let me try a different question. Have you ever allowed yourself a good cry?”

“No.” His belly cramped, hard, at the thought.

“I didn’t think so. Men can be so repressed.”

Ryan snorted. “I assure you I’m not repressed.”

Shaking her head, Poppy bent to slip her foot back into her shoe. “I walked into that one, I suppose. What I’m trying to say is that I twisted my ankle, which brought a couple of tears to my eyes. Then I let the floodgates open for a minute to release some tension.”

What was she tense about? He considered asking the follow-up, then shut his mouth and stood when she did. Just do the good deed, Hamilton. Make sure she gets safely back to her place and then you can forget all about her.

“I was a Boy Scout once.” At least he’d played one on TV. “So indulge me and let me see you home,” he said, crooking his elbow in her direction.

Her glance flicked from his arm to his face. “Only if you understand I’ll snatch you bald if you ever tell you caught me in a moment of weakness.”

He blinked. “Harsh.”

“Believe it,” she said, then placed her fingertips on his forearm and started limping in the direction of the cabins.

Ryan paced slowly beside her as the clearing came into view. “You know, you can lean on me a little.”

She shook her head. “Never.” Then her body stiffened. “Oh, hell. Oh, no.”

“What?” He glanced around, looking for trouble.

“Pick me up, Ryan,” she ordered in urgent tones. “Pick me up and then make a run for your cabin.”

His pulse’s speed shot from normal to NASCAR. Without taking time to identify the threat, he scooped her into his arms and sprinted forward. Grimm scampered beside them, as if happy to be part of a new game, oblivious to the danger.

It had to be a bear, Ryan thought, adrenaline giving him an extra burst of velocity. Though he didn’t dare look for it, he could imagine the hulking, stinking presence with the slavering jaws, mouth open wide in order to take a bite of them.

At his back door he set Poppy down to fumble for his keys. “Shit,” he said, then finally yanked them out. She grabbed the ring from his hand and did the unlocking herself. With the door open, he hustled the three of them inside, daring a look over his shoulder as he slammed it shut.

There was nothing there.

His heartbeat evening out, he stared at Poppy as she twisted the dead bolt, her focus still telegraphing emergency. Then she hurry-hobbled to the window, where she drew the curtains. The cabin’s rear door led directly into the bedroom and now she slid to the floor so her back was against the mattress. “Get down over here,” she directed. “You, too, Grimm.”

The dog complied and Ryan did, too, though he couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on. Maybe the landlady had been hiding her tinfoil hat. “Uh, Poppy?”

“Shh.” She glanced around.

Ryan did, too. There wasn’t much to see, the bed he’d made that morning, the stack of books on the dresser, through the open door a slice of the short hall that led to the living area. “Who are we hiding from?” he whispered, since that point was now obvious. “The U.S. marshal? Escaped convicts?”

“A combination of the two,” she murmured. “My sisters.”

Now Ryan could hear a car pulling up—a sound she must have detected as they neared the clearing. Doors opened, shut. In the distance, knuckles rapped on Poppy’s cabin door. Then silence. When the car didn’t start up again, he assumed the visitors were awaiting her return. “Will they go away soon?”

She shrugged. “Hard to say.”

Bemused, Ryan settled himself more comfortably on the braided rug, his legs crossed at the ankle. A dozen questions presented themselves, but he reminded himself he was intent on booting her out of his head. No point in learning any more about her.

Time ticked by. Grimm flopped onto his side with a groan and promptly fell asleep. Ryan considered doing the same, but he found himself too attuned to Poppy to find such relaxation. From a foot away, he could feel her nerves humming like plucked guitar strings.

He saw his hand reach out to apply a soothing stroke to her shoulder, then he commanded it to drop. When it landed on the floor with a muffled thunk, she looked over at him.

God. There was just something so damn...sweet about her looks. The wide forehead, the big fringed eyes, that valentine of a mouth. It was a rosy pink that matched the sweater that clung to her small, high breasts. His gaze ran down her slender, jean-encased legs, then back to her lips. She’d taste like cotton candy, he decided, and...

And he shouldn’t be contemplating her taste.

“You must think I’m crazy,” Poppy said.

“No.” That would be him, getting hung up on his landlady when he was here to be a hermit.

“Go ahead, admit it.” Her little smile revealed the fascinating dimple in her left cheek.

Looking away from her, he shrugged. “I’ve got a brother who is often annoying. I’ve been known to duck him when I can.”

“Yes, well...” She sighed. “Here’s the deal. They’re not entirely on board with renting out the cabins. I don’t want to get into yet another discussion with them about it.”

“They’re against making money?”

She laughed a little. “Walkers are never against making money. We’re just not too good at keeping hold of it. This land... The family legend is it’s cursed. Can you believe such a thing?”

March was cursed. In his darker moments Ryan thought he might be, as well. He shrugged again. “Is there a good reason?”

“Any number. Because it was Native-American land stolen for the timber it provided. Because in the early years one Walker logger killed another logger over a woman—who then promised retribution through the ages. Simpler version—my father was a piss-poor financial manager.”

She said it with a wry affection.

“Was he?” Ryan asked.

“My siblings, everybody around consider him a foolish ne’er-do-well who should have sold out long ago...but then he made a deal with the devil that essentially means we can’t.” A little sigh caused a strand of golden-brown hair curved against her cheek to tremble. “I’d like to prove that there’s still something good here at our mountain.” She paused, her gaze dropping to her lap. “Not to mention that I could really use the cash.”

“Well—”

Her fingers gripped his forearm as her head shot up. “Shh! I think they’re coming over here.”

Ryan’s eyebrows rose. Was her sibling radar that fine-tuned? But sure enough, now he could detect footsteps on the wooden porch and the bam-bam-bam of a fist knocking.

“Insistent, aren’t they?” he asked, his voice hushed.

Her mouth moved, the words soundless, and he had to focus carefully to read her lips. “You’ve got that right.” When the rap on the door sounded again, her fingers curled tighter around his arm.

His gaze stayed glued to her face, taking in her glowing skin, small scoop of a nose, the slightly square chin. She didn’t have a loud kind of beauty, but the loveliness of her was arresting, anyway. He wanted to rub his thumb along her bottom lip; he could imagine her tongue darting out to taste his skin.

He could see himself bending his head and kissing the thin, tender flesh of her throat.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Poppy’s eyes flared wide and there was a new kind of alarm to her expression. But she still gripped his arm and now he shifted toward her, running his free hand from her wrist to her shoulder to calm her uneasiness.

But she quivered under his touch, and her big eyes went even more round. Her pupils dilated and he heard her breath catch as her cheeks turned pink.

To hell with hermit, Ryan thought. He was going to kiss her. And she had to know it was coming, because she had gone as still as a winter bunny with a hawk on the hunt. Yet she didn’t attempt escape.

As he bent closer, another annoying rat-a-tat-tat sounded. He flicked a glance toward the front door. “Maybe you should talk to them,” he whispered. “Make them go away.”

And leave the two of us alone.

A deeper flush broke across her creamy skin. Still reading his mind, Ryan decided.

Her tongue peeked out to moisten that adorable, kissable bottom lip. “They’ll insist on meeting you first,” she whispered.

“Sure,” he murmured, cupping her hot cheek in his palm. “Whatever—”

They’ll insist on meeting you.

The words sank in. Shit, he thought, dropping his hand and scooting out of Poppy’s range. Shit! He couldn’t meet them. What were the odds that all three Walker sisters would never have glanced at a gossip rag or never watched an entertainment show?

He’d have to make some sort of excuse. “Poppy...”

She was already rising to her feet, the flush now only two flags of bright red high on her cheekbones. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“What?” He read the embarrassment on her face. “No, wait, it isn’t like that—”

“It’s exactly how I want it,” Poppy replied, her stubborn chin leading toward the front entry as he jumped to his feet and trailed after her.

“Poppy...”

Standing beside one of the narrow front windows, she dared a peek. “Anyway, they’re making tracks, so I can, too.”

He realized she was right. That humming he heard wasn’t a leftover sexual buzz but a vehicle as it drove away from the cabins. “Come on, Grimm,” Poppy called, and the dog knocked into Ryan, making him stumble, and letting the woman and her pet get away before he could...

Do what? he demanded of himself.

It was fucking March and everything he touched during that month turned to disaster. So he had to keep his hands off the landlady. Stay hermit.

Even if that meant he now had even more on his mind—like a kiss that hadn’t happened.

* * *

MISERABLE AND MISERABLY wet, Poppy climbed the steps to Ryan’s cabin, a suitcase in each hand and a drenched Grimm pressed close to her knees. The short walk through the icy hail of the predicted March storm—which had arrived, predictably, days later than the meteorologists originally indicated—had frozen her blood in her veins. The low temperature had also petrified her fingers around the bag handles, so she merely lifted her foot to bang on his door with the toe of her boot.

There was no immediate response.

Shivering, she glanced at the adjacent driveway, ensuring that his SUV was, indeed, parked there. Though the weather had rendered the late afternoon twilight-dark, she could still see the vehicle’s hulking shape. She didn’t bother looking back at her own vehicle, because the memory of it was depressing enough. The heavy oak limb that had crushed a portion of her mudroom roof had also crumpled its front end.

Using her toe, Poppy knocked again with insistent thumps.

Ryan was her only hope for transportation back to town.

Grimm whined, looked up at her, then at her renter’s front door. “I know, boy,” she said, “I’m going to get us out of this abysmal weather.”

Maybe. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that the man was ignoring her summons. Two days ago, they’d almost kissed. She’d tried convincing herself otherwise, but there was no getting around it. The intent had been on his face and the expectation had been running riot through her body.

Then he’d backed away, which was terribly embarrassing...since she should have been the one to retreat first. Hadn’t she learned anything? Didn’t she know better than to get mixed up with a wealthy flatlander?

He probably thought it prudent to avoid the sex-starved single woman next door. Not that she was sex-starved in the least, she reassured herself, with another kick at the wooden surface. She was a mother, with other priorities besides—

The door swung open, revealing Ryan, backlit by the cheerful light coming from the living room lamps and the crackling fire. Poppy squeezed the suitcase handles and sucked in her bottom lip to keep her jaw from dropping to her knees.

He was naked except for a skimpy towel wrapped around his hips.

Number one note to self: purchase better quality linens for the cabins.

Number two note to self: maybe she was a little hungry, after all.

The heat from inside his place reached outward to the porch and Grimm, apparently taking it as an invitation, rushed inside. Poppy hesitated, trying to keep her gaze on anything but Ryan’s damp hair, his newly shaven handsome features, the oh-God-how-amazing chiseled pecs, rippling abs and that pair of etched lines that angled from the man’s lean waistline toward the bulge that was barely hidden by thin terry cloth.

The wall clock over his left shoulder—which was heavy with muscle and still dotted with water—was fascinating.

“Poppy?” He reached for her and she couldn’t help but step back. “Jesus, what are you doing out there? You’re all wet.”

“Uh-huh,” she said faintly.

“Come in.”

Because she was warmer now, just from looking at him, she still hesitated. “Could I beg a ride to town?”

“Get inside.” Taking hold of the sleeve of her soaked jacket, he pulled her over the threshold then shut the door. “Before we do anything, we need to get you dried off.” He glanced down at the towel wrapped around him.

“For goodness sake, don’t take that off!” she ordered, the shrill note to her voice not disguised by the raucous drumming of the continuing hail on the roof.

Ryan smiled.

It was the first of his she’d ever seen. Poppy almost gaped again, but she sucked in her bottom lip once more as her blood jacked up another ten degrees. He should smile all the time, she thought, dazzled by its whiteness and the way it drew up the outer corners of his piercing eyes. He had a face made for happy.

His smile could almost make her happy, even under these gloomy circumstances.

“Just a second,” he said, then hustled toward the bedroom, only to return a few moments later wearing a pair of jeans and an unbuttoned flannel shirt, and carrying a couple of dry towels in his hand. He draped one on Grimm, who then trotted, wearing it like a horse blanket, toward the fire. Ryan started rubbing the other towel over Poppy’s saturated hair.

Still gripping the suitcases, she stood dumbly under the brisk attention. Not only did it feel dangerously good to have someone tend to her, but there was also his naked, great-smelling chest a mere few inches from her nose. It had been a long time since she’d been around a man’s unclothed muscles and she found the experience...bemusing.

Yeah, that was it.

And, oh, she really, really needed to get out of here.

Dropping the bags to the floor, she sidestepped from Ryan and snatched the towel away to blot her hair herself. “I have this,” she said.

He stepped up to her again, his fingers going to the zipper of her coat. At the fumbling near her breasts, her voice went shrill again. “What are you doing?” She batted at his hands.

“Poppy, you’re dripping all over the floor,” he said, his tone patient and reasonable. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Try to help by collecting your car keys, okay?” she grumbled, unfastening the jacket herself, though they should make their move to town right away. “It would be best to get on the road before it’s full dark.”

Instead of doing her bidding, he stood his ground. “What’s the reason behind the great escape?”

She crossed to the kitchen, where she folded the towel and placed it on the counter. Then she drew off her outer garment and looked around for a place to set the sodden fabric. Ryan snatched it from her hand and draped it over the back of a chair he drew near the fire.

“We don’t have time for it to dry,” Poppy said, a little panic rising again as Ryan turned to face her, crossing his arms over his chest. Really, it was important she get away from the distraction of his male flesh as soon as possible, especially when she was in this vulnerable state.

“Poppy.”

Wrenching her gaze away from him, she focused on her pet, who was settled by the hearth, his head now on the towel he was using as a pillow. “Don’t get too comfy, Grimm. We’ve got to go back into the storm.” Then she risked a glance at Ryan. “You probably couldn’t hear it over the hail, but a branch came down at my place.”

Once again, bearing out the Walker curse. Because she doubted her pocketbook could handle another hit, panic rose again. And not due to Ryan this time, but because she might have just witnessed the end of her dream. “It took out part of the roof,” she continued, her voice as miserable as she felt, “and the front end of my car.”

In a blink he was before her, his hands gripping her shoulders. “Are you all right?” His gaze ran over her body, causing a shiver. Apparently taking that as a sign of chill, he pulled her nearer the fire, then held her there, her back to his front.

“I’m fine,” she said, wiggling out of his grip and away from the heat. Her jeans were clammy against her shins, but that only served to remind her she needed to get someplace safe to change. “I can’t stay at my cabin, though. Hence the need for the ride to Blue Arrow Lake. Will you take me?”

“All right,” he said, his gaze seeming to assess her condition again. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I will be.” The optimist inside her declared... With some dry clothes and time to think, perhaps she could find her way through this latest obstacle. “Can we go now?”

It took only a few moments for him to collect his coat and hat while she struggled back into her wet outerwear. Grimm looked reluctant to brave the storm again, and got up from his place by the fire with a great sigh. By the time Ryan was in his protective gear, she had the bags and was standing by the front door.

He grabbed the cases from her, and shoved one under his arm so he had a free hand to grasp the knob. Without turning it, he slanted her a glance. “You have everything you need?”

She needed to get away from his attractive presence, she knew. Even with all that was on her mind, his half-naked image was burned into her brain. What if she’d leaned forward while he was drying her hair and placed a kiss on the center of his chest? If her tongue had slipped out for a small lick, who could blame her?

“Poppy?” Ryan’s brows drew together. “Do you have everything?”

“Sure, sure,” she said, giving herself a sharp mental pinch. “Everything.” One bag held some of her clothes and belongings. The other was filled with her son’s things, including his favorite pillow, just in case she still found herself in other quarters by the time Mason was due back in a couple of days.

Ryan’s hand lifted, and he touched her chin with the back of two fingers, angling her face toward his. Her breath caught at the touch, then caught again at the intensity of his gaze. “Why the sad face?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “My residence and my mode of transportation are trashed,” she said, worry bubbling again. “Not to mention my brother has a brutal ‘I told you so.’”

“Is that where I’m taking you?”

On a sigh, Poppy nodded, then she reached for the door herself, and pulled it open. At the blast of hail-laden wind, she staggered back, only to be bolstered by Ryan’s bigger body. Whatever he said was inaudible over the sounds of the storm, but she plowed forward, his steadying hand on her shoulder.

Pebbles of frozen rain peppered her head and face as they fought their way toward his SUV. An unholy howl made her start as a new gust of wind wound its way through the trees. Both she and Ryan glanced upward, and then he pulled her into his embrace, her face pressed against his wet coat, protecting her as a flurry of small branches and leaves whipped around them.

“We’d better run!” Ryan said against her ear, then he gripped her hand in his and they raced toward the passenger side of his SUV. He tucked her inside and threw the suitcases on the backseat. As soon as Grimm had jumped aboard, Ryan made his way around the front.

Once behind the wheel, he drew off his stocking cap and scraped his hand down his wet face. “Are you sure you want to go out in this?”

“The other cabins are uninhabitable as yet and it’s not as if I can strike a tent on the ground in this weather,” she said, as the wind rocked the vehicle. “What else can I do?”

He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of what he was about to say and pressed a button to start the SUV’s engine. The dashboard came to life, with switches and dials and a touch screen the size of a paperback lighting up. She goggled, wondering if the vehicle could fly through the air or move underwater like a submarine. But now it was on wheels like a regular automobile and soon they were traversing the four miles to the highway, going slowly as they both tried peering through the windshield. The wipers worked madly against the onslaught of the hail and the headlights illuminated the blacktop littered with leaves, pinecones and fallen branches.

The heater blasted warmth, but Poppy still shivered, taking in the ominous conditions. “Are you going to be all right in your cabin?” she said to Ryan.

He didn’t spare her a glance. “I don’t think your brother would welcome me, too, would he?”

Brett didn’t have a kind word for anyone, not since he’d returned home, scarred in places you could and couldn’t see. Poppy rummaged through her purse, peering into the dark cavern of it for paper and pen so she could give Ryan her cell phone number. “I’ll return tomorrow to assess the damage—and I hope with somebody who can fix the worst of it.” Yes, she very much hoped her small cushion of cash was going to cover what needed to be covered.

“Uh-oh.” Ryan slowed the SUV. “I don’t think you’ll be returning tomorrow.”

“What?” Poppy frowned, still hunched over her purse as she focused on finding something to write on.

“I don’t think you’ll be returning tomorrow,” he repeated, bringing the SUV to a full stop. “Because you’re not going anywhere today, except back to my cabin.”

At that, Poppy’s head shot up, and in the beam of the headlights she saw the tree that had fallen across the private road that led to the resort, a good two miles short of the turnoff onto the highway.

CHAPTER FOUR

FUCKING MARCH, RYAN thought, as they did the reverse dash from his vehicle to the cabin’s front door. By the time they were inside, all three of them were dripping, though Poppy had to be worse off than he since fifteen minutes before she’d arrived wet already. The dog returned to the towel he’d taken to the fire on his first visit. Ryan made his way toward the bedroom with the suitcases, Poppy at his heels.

“Time to get into some dry clothes,” he said over his shoulder. “You can have the bedroom.”

“I certainly will not.” She yanked one of the bags from his hand. “I’ll change in the bathroom.”

“It’s too small for you and your suitcase.”

She ignored his warning and strode into the shoebox-size tiled room, then slammed the door. A few minutes later, a thump followed by a yelp told him her elbow had connected with the wall.

By the time he heard a couple more less-than-mysterious bumps, he’d changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt. A pair of thick socks were on his feet.

Standing in front of the fire, he saw her exit the bathroom, a scowl on her face. She stowed her suitcase inside the bedroom, then shot him a fulminating look. “But I’m not sleeping in there, you got that?”

He gazed back at her. She was dressed in a similar style to himself: sweats and T-shirt, with a pair of fuzzy slippers on her feet. “You’re pretty bad-tempered for a woman at my mercy.”

“At your mercy?” she repeated, waving a hand. “Don’t forget I have Grimm.”

At the sound of his name, the dog lifted his big head, assessed the situation through half-closed eyes then returned his skull to the floor with an audible thunk.

Ryan looked at the pet, looked back at Poppy. “Oh, I’m very afraid.”

“Well, I’m not afraid of you, either,” Poppy said. She glanced around the room, then her gaze settled on the window, as the storm continued to rage outside. “It’s not letting up.” She sighed.

“It’s not, no.”

“Still, I’m going to call a guy from town. He’ll get out here with a chain saw and clear the tree....” Her words trailed off.

“Once the storm lets up,” he finished for her.

She sighed again, then rummaged in her purse for her cell phone.

The hail continued to rattle the roof as she murmured into her phone and he went into the kitchen to rustle up some dinner. It was early, but what else was there for them to do? He thought it wiser to keep busy. So he heated soup, sliced cheese, threw some crackers onto a plate. Grimm shambled into the room and when Poppy finished her call she arrived as well with a plastic container of dog kibble.

They all began to eat.

Ryan pretended he couldn’t smell the sweet fragrance from her still-damp hair over the aroma of the tomato soup. When they cleaned up at the sink, he acted as if he wasn’t aware of her small female body under those layers of thick cotton. He was successful enough to relax his guard when they returned to the living room fire. As he bent to stoke it with a new log, he didn’t even think about the basket that he’d discovered in the corner of the room the day he’d moved in.

So he was startled when he turned to find her poking among the pile of DVDs of movies and sitcoms that went back ten years and more. “What are you doing?” he asked, hoping like hell it hadn’t come out like a squawk.

She glanced up at him. “I found this bunch at a yard sale and brought them back for potential guests. I saw you have a laptop. We could watch one on your computer. It would give me a chance to bone up on pop culture.”

“Outdated pop culture.” Hadn’t he seen the first season of Heaven Come Early there? If they watched, maybe she wouldn’t recognize his just-turned-teen self as one of the stars of the popular dramedy, its title based on the George Bernard Shaw quote “A happy family is but an earlier heaven.” Still, there was no reason to chance it. If she discovered who he was, word might get out and then his privacy would go poof! He saw her fingers brush over a DVD of Main Line, the last movie he’d made before he’d retired from on-camera work. “I thought you said you liked to read.”

Her quizzical look signaled he must sound a little desperate. Ryan tempered his voice. “The only good light is in here and I want to get back to my George R.R. Martin.”

“So then I’ll take the laptop to the bedroom—”

“I thought you had an aversion to the bedroom.”

Yes, desperate. But she didn’t push any more, instead crossing to her purse to pull out a paperback. Without another word, she settled at one end of the sofa. Realizing he’d boxed himself into a corner, Ryan retrieved his own book and took the opposite place.

Even the dramatic events of the seven kingdoms couldn’t keep his eyes off that basket of DVDs. He should have buried them somewhere when he’d first spotted them. Not that he regretted that part of his life. He’d been a child of Hollywood—well, Malibu, really—with his father a well-known and well-respected stunt director, his mother a successful makeup artist. He and Linus and their pals had started making movies at an early age and during a dinner party his folks threw, a casting agent had seen their latest and wondered aloud if Ryan wanted to try for the part in an upcoming show.

It had seemed like a great way to get out of school, which was damn boring in seventh grade.

A teen star had been born.

He’d gotten a kick out of it, to tell the truth. He’d enjoyed pretending he was someone else and it had taken a while for fame to catch up with him...years before it smacked him hard in the face. But by the time he was twenty-one, twenty-two, he didn’t like the long hours wearing heavy makeup, the bullshit from the suits, the celebrity press that wrote ridiculous stories probably planted by studio publicists. The women who came for his face and stayed for his fame.

And he’d garnered enough money to stop making films in order to actually make films. And cable series and TV movies.

Maybe people would have forgotten him and he could have gone on to live a nonnotorious life. But then came that March. Fucking March.

“You could scare small children with that expression you’re wearing,” Poppy suddenly said.

He never wanted to be around small children again. So he grunted, and turned a page he hadn’t read.

But her comment returned Poppy smack-dab to the center of his consciousness. He cast a sidelong look at her, watching the firelight play over her innocent angel face, noting her curly lashes and the tail of hair she idly played with as she pretended to enjoy her book.

Because she wasn’t turning any pages.

Time passed.

More time passed.

The hail changed to a torrential rain that was a dull roar against the roof. The walls seemed to close in, creating an intimacy that was unwelcome. Risky. Still, Ryan adjusted his position on the cushions, pushing his back deeper into the sofa’s angle so he could pretend to read and watch her at the same time. She continued to stare straight ahead, thinking...what?

Then she turned her head quickly, too quickly for him to redirect his gaze. She’d caught him. Their eyes caught, too.

The walls drew closer.

He tightened his hold on his book, though he wanted to throw it aside, then grab her to him and escape March and all its terrible cruelties in her fragrant female body. He knew what lust was, knew its power, and it was gathering in his loins, in his chest, and he wanted to give in to it. The landlady wasn’t afraid of him or immune to him, he could see that by the flush on her face, the quick flutter of the pulse in her neck.

Why the hell couldn’t they indulge?

Because after the deed was done he would still be himself, he knew. It would still be this particular month, and if he wasn’t able to get away from her in the morning—unlikely, as it appeared she’d remain stuck in his cabin—then he chanced dragging her down into hell with him.

Nothing good ever came of March.

Her gaze still not leaving his, she wet her lips with her tongue.

Ryan’s body tightened all over. He was more than half-hard, and he forced himself to look away so that he wouldn’t go full-ready. But shit, that mouth— Don’t think about her mouth.

Clearing his throat, Ryan shot up from his seat. “You want a drink? Coffee? Beer? Wine?”

“Caffeine keeps me up,” she said.

Since he was already uncomfortably up himself, he took that as a sign to go for beer or wine. God knew he needed something to take off the edge. In the kitchen, he found the opener and a bottle of red. Since she had stocked the cabinets, he didn’t suppose she’d object to drinking out of the large glass tumblers.

He placed one in her hand, careful not to touch her, not to look at her. Careful not to think about her mouth. Kissing her mouth.

Knowing he couldn’t go back to pretend-reading, and because thoughts of bed just made him jumpy, he looked about for an activity to occupy them. A box of jigsaw puzzle pieces sat on a nearby shelf. He grabbed it up.

“You like to do this sort of thing?” he asked, dumping the pieces onto the coffee table in front of the sofa.

Poppy set her book aside. “What’s it a picture of? It’s something else I found at a garage sale, but I didn’t look at it too closely.”

He sat beside her and sifted through the cardboard snippets, turning some faceup. They all seemed pinkish in color. “This isn’t the original box. Maybe it’s one of those really difficult ones that are just the puzzle, no helpful photo.”

“Those take a lot of time,” she said, starting to move pieces around, as she sipped at her wine.

“And concentration,” he added. We won’t be able to think of anything perilous.

“Look for the corners first,” Poppy advised, apparently getting into the spirit of the thing. With a triumphant sound, she held one up.

“Good for you.” Ryan found a couple of pieces already joined and set them in the center.

They both continued to work, each of them seeming to find a part of the whole that they claimed as their own. The fire crackled. The very generous pour of wine in each glass was consumed. After some minutes went by, Poppy murmured, “Oh, there is a picture. I think it’s a woman. I have some of her face.”

He glanced over, noting she’d constructed a nose, and part of one eye. “I’m still getting nothing but pink,” he said, trying to work a little faster. As diversions went, the activity was a success, and he congratulated himself on his brilliant idea.

Until...

It stopped being brilliant.

He stared down at the section of the puzzle he’d completed. “Uh...”

“Hmm?” His companion-in-puzzles fit one piece to another, tossed back the last swallow in her glass, then set it aside.

“Maybe we should quit,” Ryan suggested.

“What? No.” With a frown, she turned her head, then jerked it back when she saw what he’d wrought.

Naked tits. Overinflated, pearly pink and topped with tight, upstanding nipples.

A squeak of horror escaped Poppy’s lips, followed by a moment of stunned silence. Then she started to laugh. As she laughed harder, she put one palm over her belly, and the other over her mouth.

Need—rash, blazing and no longer deniable—overtook Ryan. That mouth, he thought again. He was going to have that mouth. It was imperative he taste the laughter bubbling from it, inhale the sound into his shrunken soul. He had to kiss her.

* * *

POPPY’S GUARD WAS down, thanks to an outrageous pair of puzzle breasts. Maybe because of the wine she’d drunk or maybe because she’d been walking a tightrope of tension all evening, hyperaware of Ryan’s very-male presence in a room that had kept getting smaller by the second, but for whatever reason the sight of those naked boobs had tickled her sense of the ridiculous. Aware she might sound the tiniest bit hysterical, she pressed her hand harder to her lips, still giggling like mad when Ryan reached over and drew it away.

The gesture didn’t immediately alert her to a threat. She still couldn’t believe that she’d been so anxious to smother the sexual vibrations humming in the room that she’d gladly dived into working a puzzle...of an X-rated image. Even with the knowledge that her car and her cabin were half-ruined lurking at the back of her mind—or because that knowledge was lurking at the back of her mind—it struck her as hilariously funny. Even now another laugh rose in her throat.

“Poppy,” Ryan said, his voice soft.

Her gaze shifted to his face, and the glow in his blue eyes sent her to serious in a hurry.

But it didn’t send her body anywhere safe. Instead, she sat frozen on the couch, her hand cradled in his much larger one. The contrast made her feel feminine and breathless and...oh, boy, curious. Because she knew what that tone in his voice signaled. She knew what was coming.

And she hadn’t been kissed in over five years.

So sue her, she had a curiosity about kissing. Strike that. She had a curiosity about how Ryan would kiss.

And then...and then he was showing her. His mouth brushed over hers, the touch as light as a snowflake, though the brief caress sent heat racing like a flash fire over her skin. When his lips came back a second time, she parted her mouth, hoping to entice him to make it firmer. Hoping he’d brush his tongue with hers.

It had been aeons since she’d been French-kissed.

On the third gentle pass, she speared her hand in Ryan’s hair to keep their lips locked. He made a sound, low in his throat. Gratified? Smug? She didn’t care. Her muscles tensed, her body quivering as she anticipated his next move.

His tongue, all right, but now it brushed like damp butterfly wings against her bottom lip. Her thighs clenched and he rubbed his thumb over the knuckles of the hand he held. Soothing, every stroke of his soothing, as if he knew she was all of a sudden so keyed up that a stronger touch might shatter her. Who would blame her for that?

Five-plus years without a proper kiss.

Ryan’s free arm came around her shoulders to draw her closer. She breathed in his scent as tears stung the corners of her eyes, and she squeezed them tight, mortified that she might have to explain—again—a crying jag. It had just been so long since she’d snuggled up to something this big, this warm, this human.

“You smell better than Grimm,” she said against Ryan’s mouth.

He drew back a little. “What?”

She discovered her tears had dried up and she was on the verge of more giggles. How much wine did she have floating around in her system? “You smell good,” she said, nuzzling beneath his chin.

“You’re suddenly friendly,” he murmured as she pressed tiny kisses along the edge of his elegant jaw.

“I’m curious,” she corrected, drawing her lips over his chin.

“Me, too,” he whispered, then tilted his head to take another kiss.

Oh. Oh, God.

His tongue plunged into the cavern of her mouth. It was no longer a subtle exploration, but a sexual onslaught, masculine, deliberate, hot.

Delicious.

Poppy clutched at the hand that held hers and pressed close to his hard chest as her head fell back and he took what he wanted from her. This wasn’t a French kiss, this wasn’t anything cosmopolitan or civilized in the least. This was a Neanderthal kind of kiss, one that might involve caves and the pulling of hair and the ripping of fur robes—if only she had the guts to beg for such things.

Just as she ran out of air, he lifted his head and they both sucked in ragged breaths, staring at each other. Poppy’s head swam a little, from lack of oxygen or perhaps from a surplus of libido. She wondered about trying to work up some regret or concern about the kisses, but her heart was pounding too hard for clear thinking. A little muddy logic was good, she decided. It kept her mind off unpleasant things, such as why she was at Ryan’s cabin in the first place.

For that alone, she owed him. “Definitely better than Grimm,” she said.

Still holding her close, Ryan’s expression turned bemused. Then he glanced toward the snoozing dog. “I’m starting to worry, Poppy. Do you mean to tell me you let your dog kiss you? Am I going to catch something with you being the conduit between me and getting a sloppy from your pooch?”

Such a silly conversation, she thought. She didn’t get kisses from Grimm. But the silliness made it perfect for the giddy, dizzy mood Ryan’s thorough kisses had left her in. “Absolutely not,” she said, stroking the placket of his flannel shirt with her fingers. Poppy Walker, touching beautiful Ryan Harris’s flannel!

“You’re not going to make me believe a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s,” he said. “That’s an urban myth.”

“But you’re in the mountains now,” she pointed out, smiling a little as she teased him.

He shook his head. “God, you’re cute,” he said, then pressed a kiss to her nose. “But let’s be real. Out in the woods I’ve seen your dog sniffing some extremely suspicious substances.”

Thank goodness he appeared to want to avoid serious or second thoughts as much as she. Poppy wiggled on the cushions and found a comfortable place against Ryan’s side. His hand stroked idly over her hair, and the atmosphere turned almost companionable, though the smoke from those powerful kisses lingered like a haze in the air. She stretched her legs, displacing some puzzle pieces as she propped her heels on the coffee table. “The bacteria in a dog’s mouth is species-specific,” she informed him. “Which means you’re much less likely to catch something serious from a dog than another human.”

He glanced down at her, the amused light in his eyes making her heart jerk, once. “Where did you come across this bit of knowledge?”

It was the kind of thing the mother of a young son knew, especially the mother of a young son who adored his furry pet. But she didn’t want to tell Ryan about Mason. Her little boy and her status as a mother were secured in another compartment for the moment. Mason’s mommy didn’t cozy up to handsome men by crackling fires. Mason’s mommy didn’t want to share some more of those potent kisses.

But Poppy did.

Because she was tipsy, or tipsy on Ryan’s taste or maybe because she needed further diversion from recalling the damage the storm had wrought on her life. Her mind began to flash on the crack of sound as that heavy limb—

No.

She twisted toward Ryan, grabbed the front of his shirt in a fist and yanked his mouth down to hers. He lurched toward her, catching himself with one hand on the back of the couch before they bashed noses. Their lips met instead and she reveled in this next kiss: the sure thrust of his tongue, the heat of his body, the flame that set fire to her blood. Her fingers curled into his shirt just as she thought about taking off hers, because she was hot, so hot, and—

An icy trail of moisture hit the back of her head, ran down her neck.

Startled, Poppy jolted, then jerked her head upward, only to receive an eyeful of freezing water. “Wha—?”

More trickled into her mouth and both she and Ryan came off the couch in a rush. He shoved the furniture away from the narrow stream that now seeped steadily from the seam between an exposed beam and the ceiling plaster. She ran to the kitchen for a pot to catch the leak.

Another sprang before she returned.

Poppy’s mood plummeted as she watched Ryan bend to slide one of the glasses they’d been drinking from beneath the new drip. He looked disheveled and aggravated and absolutely gorgeous.

And completely the wrong man with whom to be satisfying her curiosity after five-plus years of celibacy.

“What is wrong with me?” she said aloud. Her dwelling was damaged, her vehicle was damaged and she’d been playing kissy face with some rich, great-looking stranger who from the beginning had put up her back. Yet she’d almost been on her back! “How did this happen?” she demanded.

Ryan spared her a glance and she could see he was as displeased by the situation as she. “It’s March,” he said with a grimace. “Fucking March.”

CHAPTER FIVE

FROM YOU SEND ME, a screenplay by Linus Hamilton:

FADE IN:

EXT. STREET—DAY

A luxury convertible pulls into a parking space in front of the log cabin-style post office in a tiny, isolated Southern California mountain town. Twenty-nine-year-old LINUS HAMILTON’s head turns from side to side, taking in the flanking businesses: a minuscule grocery and an even smaller real estate office. A summer breeze plays with LINUS’s wealth of dirty-blond hair.

A woman in shorts and hiking boots exits the post office, catching his attention. She shades her eyes with her hand, as LINUS, in slacks and T-shirt, steps from the vehicle.

WOMAN

Are you lost?

LINUS

Nope.

He grins, an easy smile that is boyish and charming.

LINUS

Just exploring the area. Do you happen to know how many post offices there are in these mountains?

Bemused, the woman shakes her head.

LINUS

Only slightly fewer than the number of rodent-size dogs you can spy on a stroll down Rodeo Drive. In other words, a lot. I’ve made it my goal to mail my brother a postcard from each and every one.

He ambles past the woman, who turns to watch him as he reaches for the door handle.

INT. POST OFFICE—DAY

Inside the narrow space, a short wooden counter is directly ahead. The left and right walls are covered with old-fashioned post office boxes, their glass faces painted with gold numbers edged in black that look Western in design. Behind the counter is twenty-four-year-old CHARLOTTE “CHARLIE” WALKER, her head with its pixie-cut of flaxen hair lowered as she organizes something on the shelf below. When the door opens, she looks up with a smile. It fades as LINUS crosses the threshold.

CHARLIE

Are you lost?

Staring at CHARLIE, LINUS’s hand creeps up to his chest. Then he shakes himself a little, pulls in a breath and beams out another trademark grin.

LINUS

I think I just found exactly what this summer’s been lacking.

* * *

THE COLD BROOK, California, post office provided counter service for its small community from 3:00 p.m. until 5:00 p.m. in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. Charlotte Walker passed a book of stamps over the scarred wooden surface and flashed a farewell smile for her friend Janelle, who clerked in the deli/grocery next door. It was Monday, which meant Charlie hoped to be seeing the other woman again a couple of evenings from now in Blue Arrow Lake. The two of them and some other girlfriends had a standing date in the bigger town twelve winding miles down the highway—weather permitting. A fierce March storm had been raging on and off but if it let up, then Charlie was going to have a relaxing couple of glasses of wine with her friends later this week.

A girl, even a born-and-bred mountain girl, had to get out and see a little more of the world sometimes.

Charlie took a peek at the wall clock. Fifteen more minutes then she’d slide and lock the metal grille that secured the counter area and back room. She expected one or two of Cold Brook’s eight hundred residents would rush through at 4:58 p.m. with the urgent need to get a package weighed or a letter sent off, so she occupied herself by tidying the carousel of postcards that sat next to her station. Hardly anyone ever gave them a glance, so it was a bit anal of her to double-check they were properly organized, but she was studying online for a degree in accounting and details mattered to Charlie.

The customary squeak of the front door came at 4:57 p.m. A bit early, she thought, glancing up to see Walt Eustace bustle through, a box of pamphlets in his arms. Brochure-mailing day, she guessed. It was the time of year when he sent out reminders to previous renters of Cold Brook properties in anticipation of the summer season. We wish you were here!

Walt’s big belly had yet to make it halfway to her when the door swung open again and twelve-year-old Erin Frye walked through, a letter clutched in her hand. She had a pen pal across the country, someone she’d linked up with through Scouting, and Erin enjoyed perusing the binder of stamp choices to pick just the right one to paste in the right-hand corner of the envelope intended for her buddy in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Charlie stifled a little sigh. Stamp-shopping could take the middle-schooler past closing time.

Oh, well. Given that Erin’s pen pal was a Boy Scout, Charlie got a little kick out of imagining an innocent romance was blooming in the mailbags that crossed the country. It spiced up the mundane routine of her days as the winter doldrums had yet to be replaced by spring fancies.

She was reaching for Walt’s carton of glossy leaflets when the door squeaked a third time, bringing with it another cool draft of moist air. The small hairs on Charlie’s exposed nape stood up, an instant before her gaze lifted to take in the newcomer.

Her palms went damp.

Charlie’s rite of passage had returned.

In haste, she refocused on the pamphlets and pasted on a smile for Walt. “Hey, you just made it in under the wire,” she said, raising her voice. “Don’t know that I’ll be able to take care of all the customers before closing time.”

Behind Walt, Erin let out a little bleat of distress. Feeling guilty, Charlie looked around Walt’s rotund form to meet the girl’s eyes. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “Your letter will go out today.”

The man still loitering by the entrance didn’t get any of her attention. Why, oh, why, was Linus here? She’d never expected to see him again; had made it clear that theirs had been a short-term summer romance. No way was she onboard with a replay.

Walt was his usual jovial self. She would have chatted him up longer, hoping that Linus might get bored and leave, but Erin was shuffling her feet and appearing anxious. So Charlie finished business with her current customer, then dragged out the fat binder of loose stamps as Erin stepped up to the counter. From the periphery of her vision, she saw Linus hold open the door and say “Good day” to Walt.

Why couldn’t he follow the other man out?

Her gaze returned to the plastic sleeves that displayed the available offerings. The young girl studied them with deep concentration. “Can I choose more than one—as many as I like as long as it adds up to first class postage?”

“No problem,” Charlie assured the girl. “I’ll hand-cancel them myself.”

Erin turned the page to inspect the next sleeve’s contents. Her fingernails were painted a glittery purple and she had a unicorn-embossed elastic bandage wound around one knuckle—both accessories seemed at odds with her almost-grown-up demeanor.

Had she been so serious at twelve? Charlie wondered. Maybe it took a love interest from far away to turn a girl solemn. Though Charlie’s out-of-towner hadn’t shown up for over a decade, the instant the tall, charming flatlander had strolled into her post office last August she’d recognized the momentous occasion.

Many young mountain women went through the ritual event of a summer fling with one of the area’s wealthy visitors. Opposite attraction was clearly a potent force. By the age of nineteen or twenty, females who grew up in the small, insular communities surrounded by peaks and pines had usually dated all the local guys they found attractive. Working as waitresses or shop clerks, in the high tourist season they often came in contact with So-Cal men who came from a higher social strata. Dates were made, fun was had.

Sometimes hearts were irrevocably lost.

But she’d been clear with him, with herself, that hers wouldn’t be one of them.

“These,” Erin said, stabbing at two different stamps. Her coins clacked on the countertop.

Aware of Linus leaning against a row of post office boxes six feet away, Charlie slowly completed the transaction. With Erin just turning from the counter, Charlie reached high and grabbed the grilled security screen. As Linus stepped up, she slammed it into place.

His head jerked back at the loud clang. Through the metal bars he peered at her. “Uh, Charlie?”

Last summer, he’d often called her “Sal,” in a tone of casual affection. Sure, the Peanuts characters Linus and Charlie Brown had been buds, he’d told her early on, but it was Charlie’s little sister, Sally, who’d carried a torch for her brother’s striped-shirted best friend. When she’d inquired where was his blanket and why wasn’t he sucking a thumb, Linus had grabbed her hand and—

“Charlie?”

His voice broke through her reverie. Stepping back, she crossed her arms over her crisp blue uniform shirt and tried 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 that he found so damn appealing. He smiled at the sight—smiled! in March!—as she raised now-white eyebrows in a rueful grimace.

His dark, withered heart shifted in his chest, inching higher. Lifting his hands from her shoulders, he brushed her face with his thumbs, tracing the arch of those brows, the straight line of her nose, the softness of her cheeks. She stood still under his ministrations, once more in her wild-bunny, don’t-hurt-me pose.

Quivering, quivering while hoping, hoping, the predator wouldn’t dive for the kill.

Taking the bag of flour from her unresisting hold, he placed it on the counter behind her. Then he ducked his head to catch her gaze. “I’m not going to bite.”

She was silent a long moment. Then she heaved in a breath. “What if I wished you would?”

* * *

ONE LAST NIGHT, Poppy thought.

One last opportunity to surrender to this overwhelming...thing that Ryan brought out in her. He called it an “appetite” and maybe he was right because she’d never felt so greedy, even when she’d been in the thick of whatever she’d had with Mason’s father.

Mason.

Her boy would be back with her, back in her arms again the next day. She’d be “Mommy” once more, with all its attendant joys and obligations. She loved her little boy and couldn’t wait to see him, but there was still tonight to get through...as Poppy.

Poppy Walker, who hadn’t been touched like a woman in five-plus years.

Ryan was staring at her, the light from his blue eyes burning, mesmerizing her, making her not responsible for what she did—but that wasn’t true. In this moment in time she didn’t want to be responsible. Just for a while she wanted to leave behind all that she’d have to tackle tomorrow: where she was going to live, how she was going to fix the damaged cabins, what she was going to do about her car. How any of that might be paid for.

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