Carried Away - P. Dangelico Page 0,26

soon as possible.

A chill runs through me and I’m reminded to add wood to the fireplaces. This house was originally built in the 1800s and even with all the renovations Nan and Dad made over the years, it’s still drafty.

Grabbing my sister’s down coat and the leather carrier, I throw it on and walk out back to fetch some wood. Turner is still there––except now he’s shirtless. Give me a break. Even with the sun out, it’s in the 30s, which for April is completely normal. In contrast, I have so many layers on I look like the Michelin tire man.

He places a piece of wood on the stump, raises his arms above his head, muscles tensing and rippling, and comes down hard on it. Tossing the two pieces aside, he sets up another one.

“Put it away, Turner. No one here is interested.” Walking past him, I reach a neat pile siting against the side of the woodshed.

“You’ve been staring at me from the kitchen window for the past half hour”––he brings the ax down hard, grunting as it impacts the wood––“so I beg to differ.”

Heat blankets my face while I clutch my jacket like an uptight heroine from an 18th century novel. “It’s more gross fascination. Like being at the zoo. Or a freak show.”

I don’t know what it is about this man that brings out the worst in me. Or is it the best? Whatever it is, my practically nonexistent ability to defend myself rises like a phoenix from the ashes whenever he speaks.

Turner stops and leans on the handle of the ax, chest heaving as he takes deep breaths. I look away, out yonder, but as a suspicious length of silence grows curiosity gets the best of me and I’m forced to look at him again.

A slow sinister smile transforms the brute force of his face into something not at all unappealing. And this is where things take a turn for the worse because a creeping sensation of dread fills my chest. God help me, I can’t be attracted to him.

“Difference is…you can’t touch those animals.”

He’s got me so on edge I start to walk away. Then, realizing I came out here for a reason, I make a quick U-turn. Aaand come up short when I find him standing right behind me, holding two pieces of wood.

My gaze moves up his chest, covered in a light dusting of dark hair, nipples pointing from the bite in the air. It slowly move over his Adam’s apple and his tense jaw. By the time I reach his face, his expression is back to being as serious and intense as always.

Watching me intently, he places the wood in the leather carrier.

“Thank you,” I force myself to mutter, because it always pays to be kind.

The quiet chuckle I hear come out of him as I walk back inside sets my teeth on edge though.

After lighting the fireplace in Dad’s office, I get busy looking through the bookings for this calendar year. If you like winter sports, this is the place to be. Skiing, skating, ice hockey, hiking––we’ve got it all. And if sports aren’t for you, there’s always sightseeing and shopping. I can’t recall a single winter that we haven’t been packed, attracting guests from Boston, New York, even as far as Japan, and this year is no different. We’re sold out until the end of March.

Carrying two coffee cups, Dad walks in having returned from his trip to the hardware store. “Everything look good?” he asks, placing one on the desk.

He knows the answer to that; Maggie always ran a tight ship.

“We’re completely sold out for the winter.” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. The Austen should’ve been rented out.

Nodding, he sits in his favorite wing chair by the fireplace. It brings back memories––most of them not very pleasant.

I can still see his face when he sat me and Jackie down to tell us Zelda was not coming back. I can still remember my disbelief. How I accused him of being a liar. That it was his fault she’d left. How I defended her. Shame makes me hot under the collar.

“We are.”

“I don’t want you to lose the income from the Austen. I can move in here.”

Between the cat and Nan smoking I can’t say I’m thrilled, but the alternative seems wasteful. There are three empty bedrooms upstairs.

Taking a sip, Dad watches me over the rim of his cup. “We’re not losing anything. Jake rents it