Alaskan Fire (71 page)

Deep breath. 
Back on track.

“Zero.  None.  That fire could
have spread and taken both our cabins.  Hell, it would have probably killed me
in my sleep if I hadn’t woken up when I did.  I would have been
burned
alive
.” 
I glared up at him, panting with wrath.

“It’s the Fourth of July,” he
said.  “We had fireworks.  That’s what
normal
people do,” he said,
running a judging gaze from my wild, knotted hair down my stained, shapeless
T-shirt to my ridiculous night pants and my scarred, muddy boots, “on the
Fourth of July.”

I bet he’d just be
shocked
if I showed him my granny panties.  Not.  Stupid man.

“‘Normal people’ aren’t the most
annoying bastards I’ve ever met,” I said.  “‘Normal people’ don’t buzz a
person’s cabin two dozen times in one day, or play music loud enough to be
heard miles away in the middle of the fucking night, or let their drunk, stupid
friends try to steal someone else’s canoe, and then leave broken glass all over
the beach.  I wonder—when you leave in a couple days, how many beer cans will I
find on the bottom of the lake?”

He hooked his thumbs in his belt
loops and rocked back on his heels, looking way too unfazed by my yelling. 
“Actually,” he said, “I’ll be here all summer.”  He said it with a lazy grin
that made me want to slap him all over again.  I could practically feel that
dark stubble burning my palm.  And why did that thought bring a stab of lust
along with it?

But pure, unadulterated horror
quickly followed, and I groaned.  All summer?  I had a couple
months
of
this to look forward to?  I had a half-dozen more deadlines, which had seemed
barely manageable with full-time fish guiding and then my brothers’ visit here
in a couple weeks.  But with a human noisemaker right next door, constantly
interrupting my train of thought? 

Impossible.
  I started to
hyperventilate.

“Your name’s Helly, right?” he
said.  “The previous owners told me about you.  I was wondering how someone got
a name like Helly, but,” he looked me up and down, “I think I’ve figured it
out.”

Aaand, the fucker had just called
me an angry hoyden.

My anger was red-lining.  I knew
my limits.  Another minute of this, and I’d either have a stroke, or I’d hurt
somebody.

I took the third option, and
stomped back to my cabin.

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