Never Too Hot (4 page)

Two years after his accident everything should be back on track. Not unraveling more every day. So many times in Lake Tahoe he’d wanted to get in his car and just drive. Anywhere. Just to get away. To get out of his head. To leave what had happened on the mountain behind. Especially on those nights when sleep didn’t come, when all he could do was replay those sixty seconds in Desolation Wilderness when everything had changed.

But that was the wimp’s way out. So he’d held tight. Waited for the Forest Service to get it right and put him back with his crew. Waited until this morning, when he’d gotten on the plane to New York.

Was it too much to ask for a little peace and quiet? For some space to get his shit together and push his body until it finally gave up the fight and did what he goddamned wanted it to do? Was it too much to want to help his brother with his wedding and bring his great-grandparents’ cabin back to its former glory?

His lungs were burning, but it was the good kind of burn, the kind of pain that reminded him how lucky he was to be alive. Sprinting like this was what had gotten him off that trail in Lake Tahoe with nothing more than a couple of fucked-up hands and arms, some nasty scars on his shoulders and neck.

And that was why he was going to run past the pain, run until he was too exhausted to notice it anymore.

Two hours later, he limped upstairs in the near state of exhaustion he’d been shooting for and found a message on Stu’s fridge telling him to grab whatever he wanted. He downed one beer before his shower and was already halfway through the second as he made his way out to the end of the Inn’s long dock. Searching for a spot with cell service.

Ginger had been right about one thing. It was long past time to check in with his grandparents.

Standing out on the edge of the dock in the fading light, he watched a small sailboat drift by. He’d just spent a couple of hours running through cedar and poplar trees, but he hadn’t really taken in his surroundings yet.

His whole life he’d been a doer, a mover. But sometimes as a kid, late at night after the campfires were out and the moon was high in the sky, he’d learned to be still. To sit quietly and listen for the call of the loon. To watch the water lap softly at the shore.

Right here, in this moment of perfect silence on the lake, he should be feeling it in his solar plexus.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he dialed his grandparents in Florida. “MacKenzie residence.”

“It’s Connor.”

“Who? I used to have a grandson with that name. But I haven’t heard from him in so long I’ve forgotten all about him.”

He wasn’t in any mood to give his grandmother the apology she was fishing for. Not after she’d gone and rented Poplar Cove out from under him.

“I’m at the lake. At the Inn. Where I’m going to be sleeping on Stu Murphy’s couch.”

“Get over it, Connor. You and your brother haven’t used the cabin since you were kids. And is that any way to talk to your grandmother?”

He should have known she wouldn’t let him get away with being an ass. Hell, she’d single-handedly controlled two crazy-active kids every summer for eighteen years. A tiny woman, she was deceptively tough. She didn’t care if he was three or thirty. She wasn’t going to put up with his shit.

“The young woman we rented it to came highly recommended by the Miller girl. You know, the one who manages all of the summer places? In any case, it’s been a blessing knowing someone is there to make sure the place doesn’t fall down.”

Her admonishment was loud and clear. Given that his grandparents now lived full-time in Florida and had stopped making the drive back and forth to the Adirondacks every six months, it made sense to rent the place out. Not because his grandparents needed the money, but because the log cabin hadn’t been built to remain empty for years on end.

Poplar Cove was the kind of place kids should be running through, dripping on the porch in wet bathing suits, leaving a trail of sand from their feet all the way up the stairs to the bedrooms. And, on a more practical note, it certainly didn’t hurt to have someone in residence who could alert the owners if something broke and needed fixing.

“Have you met our tenant?” she asked. “Is she pretty?”

“Yes, I’ve met her,” he said, not bothering to answer the second question. His grandmother would get far too much satisfaction from knowing just how pretty Ginger was.

“What does she think of you?”

“Not much. Told me to get off her porch.”

“Good for her. Sounds like a girl with a good head on her shoulders.”

“The place needs work, Grandma. Lots of work. Far as I can tell, it’ll take me most of the next month to get it all taken care of.”

His grandmother made a sound of irritation. “Here’s the deal, kid. Ms. Sinclair has a lease with us through Labor Day and I intend to honor it.”

He rolled the woman’s last name around on his tongue. Sinclair. It sounded fancy. Posh. Even a little stuck-up. Funny how none of those tags seemed to fit the barely dressed, out-of-tune singer with the paintbrushes and wild curls.

“If you really think you need to get in there to fix anything,” she continued, “work it out with her. And FYI, if this phone call is any indication as to your approach, I’d think about putting on some of the charm you used to be famous for.” In the background he could hear his grandfather speaking. “It’s cocktail hour, honey, got to go. Love you!”

Connor hung up the phone, staring out at the sun slowly setting over the lake as he pondered the unexpected complication to his summer plans.

His grandmother was right. His best bet for getting Ginger to give him what he wanted would be to yank the old charming Connor out of the rubble. But it had been a long time since he’d been with a woman, since the days when all he had to do was grin and they’d fall into his arms.

That first time he’d gone back to one of the usual firefighter groupie haunts after his grafts had healed, he’d barely been in the bar ten minutes when he realized he didn’t belong there anymore. Not because the women looked repulsed, even though he knew that would come if they got too close and made the mistake of running their fingers over his scars.

He didn’t belong there, because he wasn’t fighting fire anymore. And he wouldn’t belong in that world again until he convinced the Forest Service to put him back on his crew.

The sun kept falling, the clouds turning a brilliant red-orange that he remembered so well from childhood. But then, suddenly they weren’t clouds anymore.

They were red-orange flames.

He was back in California, out on the mountain, in the deadly heat, running, running, running but not getting anywhere. Not getting away.

God, he’d never felt heat like this. Never run so hard. His lungs were running on fumes and then he was choking, gasping, his lungs shutting down as he tried to breathe in oxygen that wasn’t there anymore.

This was it.

He’d finally met the fire he couldn’t outrun.

He could practically hear the flames laughing at him as they blew him down, pulling him in, dragging him backward, dragging him under, taking him straight into hell.

Oh shit, his hands were melting. The pain took him over as every goddamned cell broke apart and all he could think was Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Death would be a sweet release from this torture, but he didn’t want it, was fighting with everything he had.

He wasn’t done yet, damn it!

And then, he realized he couldn’t feel his hands anymore, couldn’t hold on to his Pulaski. It dropped out of his hands, fell in a loud crash …

Connor abruptly found himself standing back on the dock. The empty beer bottle was lying on the dock between his feet. The breeze had picked up, cooling the sweat that was covering his face.

What had just happened? One moment he was looking out at the lake and the next …

Fucking PTSD. The episodes hadn’t started up right away, not until the pain from his skin grafts had become unbearable. His first Forest Service reinstatement denial had made them worse. With every appeal that had been denied, his episodes had grown bigger, more intense.

And he’d had to work harder and harder to deny their existence.

“HEY SWEETHEART, you brought me the wrong pie.”

Ginger looked down at the thick slice of lemon meringue she’d just set in front of Mr. Sherman. He was one of the diner’s regulars, an old-timer whose wife had passed away long before Ginger arrived at Blue Mountain Lake. Either he didn’t know how to cook or didn’t want to. Most nights, he arrived at six p.m. on the dot and sat down at the table in the back corner. Sometimes he was joined by a friend. Tonight, he’d dined alone on meat loaf and mashed potatoes. Cherry pie was his standing dessert order.

“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Sherman,” she said as she picked up the offending plate. “I don’t know where my mind is tonight.”

A blatant lie.

Ginger took the lemon pie back, switched it with a slice of cherry, gave it to Mr. Sherman, and was wiping down the counter with more force than necessary when the bells on the front door chimed. She put down her rag and she was reaching into the menu box when she looked up.

And saw him.

Connor.

The immediate instinct to smooth down her hair and check her shirt for stains was so strong her hands were halfway to her head by the time she realized what she was doing.

What was she doing? Why was she worrying about impressing Connor?

That part of her life, the one where she made sure to be primped and polished just in case she ran into an acquaintance in an overpriced chichi grocery store was over and done with. She was simply going to show Connor to a seat, take his order and then deliver his food as she would any other customer.

And no matter what, she wasn’t going to have any kind of hormonal reaction to his broad shoulders or chiseled jaw.

Cold as ice. That was her.

He sat down right in front of her, looking just as dangerous as he had on her porch.

“You’re here. Ginger Sinclair.”

She’d never heard anyone say her name like that, almost like it was a curse, but with a distinct sensual vibration beneath it.

Her heart jumped in response and she watched in horror as his eyes honed in on the pulse point at her neck. And then, as Elvis sang about how he couldn’t help falling in love, she swore she could hear Connor’s breathing speed up as he watched her body react to his close proximity.

She felt herself lean in toward him, saw him shift closer to her on the bar stool even as her fingers were itching to reach out, to touch him and see if he would feel as hot as he looked.

The menu she’d been holding smacked into the underside of the counter and snapped her out of the crazy spell just in time. Connor looked a little stunned too.

What had just happened to her? To both of them? Had they both become unwilling participants in some sort of mad scientist’s chemistry experiment to combine Man A with Woman B to see how quickly they’d combust?

Annoyed by her ridiculous lack of self-control, Ginger slapped the menu down on the gleaming Formica counter harder and louder than she’d planned.

“Tonight’s special is meat loaf and mashed potatoes. I’ll give you a few minutes to look at the menu and decide what you want.”

But instead of looking at the menu he said, “I know exactly what I want.”

She knew he had to be talking about food, and yet the way he said it felt like—

“I didn’t know you worked here. I’m glad you do. Now I don’t have to wait until morning to see you again.”

Oh. Oh my. A half dozen ceiling fans kept the diner cool. She shouldn’t be feeling so warm.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you that I was a complete jerk this afternoon.”

She could feel herself softening, melting down from her core outward. But then she looked at him and realized her reaction was probably exactly what he’d been expecting.

This afternoon she could have sworn he wanted to throw her bodily off the porch. He had to have an ulterior motive. A second later it hit her.

“I take it you spoke with your grandparents?”

“I did. But my grandmother isn’t the only one who thinks I misbehaved. Earlier today you asked if we could start over. Any chance that offer still stands?”

Her body screamed Yes! at the exact same time that her brain shouted Don’t you dare, he’s playing you!

Frankly, she had a hell of lot more faith in her brain to steer her right.

He thought he could come in here smelling like fresh soap and pine needles and blink those shockingly blue eyes at her and get her to dumbly agree to whatever he wanted.

Like hell.

He might be saying all the right things, but she very much doubted his heart was in it. He wanted Poplar Cove. Period.

She narrowed her eyes, widened her stance behind the counter. “Enough with the charm. Let’s get down to it. What exactly do you want from me?”

“Poplar Cove hasn’t been overhauled in two decades at least. Logs need to be replaced before they crumble. The roof is on the verge of blowing off. I need to get in there, do the work.”

She was glad that he’d finally dropped any pretense of trying to patch up their rough start. An honest discussion she could do. Not this smoldering, try-to-make-her-swoon stuff. Still, there was no way she was going to let him hang out in the cabin day in, day out, for weeks on end.

“The cabin has held this long,” she insisted. “I’m sure it’ll make it another few months.”

“Ever use the stove? The microwave? A blow dryer?”

Knowing his questions had to be a trick, that with every word he said her perfect summer was disappearing day by day, hour by hour, she reluctantly said, “Of course, all of them.”

“The wiring is ancient. Anyone of those appliances could start a fire. You wouldn’t know the house was burning at first. The sparks would start behind the walls. They wouldn’t kick into overdrive until you were asleep. That’s when smoke would start flooding into the room.”

He paused. Gave her plenty of time to color in the picture he’d just sketched.

“Odds are you’d never wake up.”

He was doing it again. Trying to scare her into giving up her home. To him.

She leaned in closer over the top of the counter, too angry now to remember to keep her distance from all those muscles, all that heat.

“You were sure I wouldn’t be able to say no to that, weren’t you?” Especially when he was practically a walking billboard for the necessity of fire safety. “Well, guess what? The answer is still no. I can hire an electrician to work on the cabin. I don’t need you to do it.”

“My grandparents aren’t going to pay to rewire the place from the ground up. Not when I’m here and able to do the work for free.”

Unfortunately, she didn’t have the money either. Not anymore, damn it. Not unless she wanted to ask her parents for a loan, which she definitely didn’t.

“Fine,” she snapped, loud enough that a couple of customers looked up from their plates to see what the problem was. “You can redo the wiring. And then I want you out.” She propped her pencil point hard enough against the paper to make a small hole. “Now what do you want to eat?”

But instead of looking at the menu, he said, “We’re not done yet. I’m not just here to fix the cabin’s safety issues.”

“There’s more?” she said, amazed by his nerve. Almost impressed by it, in fact.

“My brother’s fianceé is pregnant. It was a long road for them to get there.”

“Good for them. But since I don’t know your brother or his fianceé,” she said, knowing she was being harsh, but hating herself for giving in about letting him redo the wiring, “I’m missing the part where any of this matters to me.”

“They want to get married on the beach at Poplar Cove. End of July.”

How was it that he seemed to know right where to aim to hit her most vulnerable spots?

He had to mention marriage, didn’t he? That elusive happily ever after they were all searching for. That she was searching for. Because even though her own marriage had crumbled to pieces, in her heart of hearts she still wanted to believe that lasting happiness was possible.

Worse, after living at Blue Mountain Lake for eight months she agreed that Poplar Cove would be the perfect place to host a wedding.

Beyond frustrated, the words, “Next thing I know you’re going to be telling me you couldn’t get a room at the Inn,” came pouring out.

“You’re right. A big wedding has taken over.”

Oh no, she’d completely forgotten that her friend Sue said a Bridezilla was in residence for the next few days.

“What about one of the B&Bs?” she tried, feeling the situation slip even further out of her hands.

“Nope. Nothing on the lake. But there’s a room open in Piseco.”

“Piseco? That’s an hour away.”

“At least,” he agreed, finally picking up the menu.

The movement drew her eyes down to his hands and she was stunned by how bad his scars were up close. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from them, couldn’t stop thinking about how much pain he must have endured from not only the burns, but the grafts as well. And then, he rubbed his left hand with his right, as if he were trying to work out the kinks in the muscles and tendons beneath the rough skin.

“When I was a little girl,” she found herself saying in a much softer voice, “I reached up to the stove and knocked over a pot of boiling water onto my shoulder. I still remember how much it hurt.”

It had been only a first degree burn, and the scar had almost completely disappeared by now, but it had been one of the most painful physical experiences in her life.

“For so long afterward,” she continued, “it hurt. So badly. Do your hands hurt anymore?”

When he didn’t reply, she looked back up into an expression so intense her skin prickled, her palms started to sweat. She couldn’t look away as his eyes dilated, the black pushing nearly all the blue away. She held her breath, waiting for his answer. And then she heard it, low and raw.

“Yes.”

From the tense lines of his shoulders, the tendon jumping in his forehead, she could see how much the admission had cost him. And that was when she realized, for the first time, that he wasn’t just some big, gorgeous guy intent on ruining her summer.

Connor was human.

He was a man who had obviously survived something horrific, who was just trying to deal with what life threw at him.

She had to ask herself why she’d decided she needed to act like such a bitch about letting him work on the cabin. Even staying there a couple of nights until the Inn opened up.

Was she being strong? Tough? Taking a stand, claiming what was hers because she wasn’t a pushover anymore?

Or—and this was the worst possible option—was it the exact opposite? Was she afraid of herself? Afraid that her new life wasn’t quite as settled and solid as she thought it was? That the addition of a stranger into her cocoon might break it apart completely?

No, she told herself. The life she was building at Blue Mountain Lake was a good one. And really, the more she thought about it, Connor had come all the way from California with no idea that his grandparents had rented out their house. Under the fluorescent lights she could see how tired he looked.

“You know what, this is stupid. You’re not going to drive all the way to Piseco tonight. There are plenty of empty bedrooms upstairs at Poplar Cove. Until the Inn empties out again.”

He was silent for a long moment and although she’d been expecting to see victory in his eyes, there wasn’t even a hint of it.

“I appreciate that, Ginger.”

Knowing she was repeating herself, but wanting to make sure she was being perfectly clear—not only for his sake, but for hers too—she said again, “But just until you find a new place to stay.”

“Sure.” He smiled, then, for the very first time, and even though it was only the smallest upturn of his lips her breath went. “Only until then. And I’ll have the special.”

Going back into the kitchen, she gave Isabel the order, then said “I need to get some air,” and walked out the back door into the parking lot.

The sun had set and in the darkness Ginger looked up at the thick clouds that were blanketing the sky while wind whipped her ponytail against her face.

A storm would be hitting soon.

Tonight.

Normally, Ginger loved the changing weather. She got such a thrill every time she watched the crashing thunder duel with the lightning while she sat safe and cozy beneath a thick blanket on the screened porch.

But she didn’t feel safe anymore.

All these months she’d thought she was so perfectly settled. That Blue Mountain Lake was an impenetrable retreat. She’d told herself nothing could rock her again, that she was steady now, that she was the one in control.

Had she been living a fantasy?

And yet, thinking of Connor sitting at the counter waiting for her to come back with his food sent a shiver of sudden anticipation running through her. Almost as if some secret part of her, deep inside, was hoping for trouble. For something to shake up her lakeside idyll.

Which was crazy. She was perfectly happy. Of course she wasn’t looking for anything—or anyone—to shake things up.

But if that was totally true, she had to wonder, then why was she buzzing head to toe at the thought of Connor sleeping under her roof?