A Weaver Proposal. Allison Leigh
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to push a button, that was doing a lot. “I know it runs on gas and I already had that checked. Yesterday. The guy from the gas company said there weren’t any leaks.”
“Yesterday.” His eyebrows—several shades darker than his blondish-brown hair—shot up a little. “You haven’t had heat since then? You know it’s barely thirty degrees out there. Why didn’t you call before now?”
“I do know. And I did.” Her voice was bordering on withering and she tried not to cringe. “I found a listing for handyman services and called this morning,” she added, determined to sound friendlier. The guy was here. Finally. She needed him to fix the darn thing, not leave because she was acting like a witch.
He looked back at the furnace and shook his head. “Warned Jake that furnace was on its last legs.”
She frowned a little at his easy mention of her brother, but told herself that was all probably part and parcel of living in a small town.
Everyone knew everyone.
The repairman shifted and leaned down closer to the furnace. “At least you had the sense to check for a gas leak.”
It didn’t sound like praise to her. “I’m not an idiot.” Not about everything, at least.
He gave her a glance again with that amused glint in his eyes that put her teeth on edge. “Didn’t say otherwise. Ma’am,” he said mildly. Then he pulled off a panel and set it on the floor beside him, studying the inside of the furnace for a moment before reaching in and fiddling with something, then pushing to his feet. He turned to her. “I’ll be back.”
He walked past her and went out the door, closing it behind him.
She shivered again and stared at the guts of the furnace, visible behind the missing panel. It might as well have been a nuclear reactor for all of the sense it made to her.
Through the wide window next to the door she could see him stomping across the snowy ground to a big pickup truck. It was so filthy she couldn’t even tell what color it was, unless mud had a place now on the spectrum. He pulled open the door and climbed up inside.
Then he just sat there with the door open, despite how cold she knew it was outside, his sunglasses back in place while he looked at the cabin.
Even from her distance she could see him shake his head.
Her lips tightened again.
She deliberately turned away and picked up the large, square painting and fit it over the sturdy nail, nudging up one corner until she was satisfied. Then she stepped back to survey her work.
But even her satisfaction at having her favorite paintings hanging in her new home didn’t help her forget the man in his truck outside.
She could practically feel his gaze burning through the window.
She picked up her hammer again and set the next nail where she’d already measured off the spot and in just a few minutes, she had the third and last painting hanging in place.
She looked out the window again. Now the man—still sitting in his truck—was talking on a cell phone.
She exhaled noisily and went into the kitchen. It didn’t possess a microwave. Nor a dishwasher. And the pot filled with water that she put on the stove was hardly the latest in design when it came to making coffee.
But then coffee wasn’t on her list of allowable drinks any longer.
She turned on the flame beneath the pot and emptied a packet of hot chocolate mix into a thick, white mug. If her furnace wasn’t working by that evening, she might have to go stay at her brother’s new house.
It was what he’d wanted her to do in the first place. The cabin was barely habitable, he’d said. Sydney figured what he really meant was that it would be barely habitable for her, given her usual taste for luxury with a capital L. He and his wife had left for California the day after she’d arrived four days ago, taking their aunt and her new husband with them. They’d already planned to spend a month visiting Jake’s twin sons, who spent part of the year there with their mother. But no. Sydney had insisted that she was determined to do this on her own. That she loved the quaint little place where she could have all the privacy that she desired.
Jake had just shrugged and told her she’d always been stubborn about getting her own way. What he hadn’t added, but had probably thought was, even when it was a mistake.
Mistake or not, she’d set a course, and she was determined to stick to it. Her brother didn’t know the entire reason she’d sought refuge in Weaver. She’d tell him when she was ready. But right now, she couldn’t bear to admit failure already, and that’s how it felt if she had to give up and go stay at his place.
A failure.
She leaned against the knotty pine cupboards that formed the small L-shaped kitchen and waited for the water to heat. Small bubbles were just beginning to form in the base of the pot when she heard the door open again and she peered around the short wall into the main room of the cabin.
The sunglasses were gone. But the repairman still wasn’t carrying any tools.
“How long do you think this is going to take?”
“Not long.” He crossed to the closet and crouched down. “My tool.” He removed a long-nosed lighter from inside his coat, giving her that amused look again. “Pilot light is out. And you need the light to have heat.” He leaned down again toward the furnace, his broad body blocking her view.
She could feel her nerves tightening up all over again in the face of his exaggerated patience. “Wait,” she said sharply.
He hesitated and glanced back. “Thought you were in a hurry for some heat. Ma’am.”
She really detested his way of tacking that last bit on, as if by reluctant duty, and she gave him an icy look. “I want to see what you’re doing.”
He just shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other, and he waited until she turned off the stove and forced herself to crouch down beside him. The smell of him hit her just as strongly as she’d feared.
Just not in the way she’d feared.
Because he didn’t smell as dirty as he looked. He smelled fresh. Like the first scent of the wide outdoors that she’d gotten when she’d climbed out of her car after driving hours and hours and hours from Georgia to Weaver. Vaguely pine-like. Vaguely earthy. Fresh. Breathtaking.
She realized his gaze was slanting over her and blamed her crazy hormones when she felt her face actually start to warm. She’d stopped blushing when she was about ten years old. It had to be her hormones that were causing her to think this man smelled enticing. Same way her hormones had told her she absolutely had to have both sliced pickles and potato chips on the peanut butter sandwich she’d eaten for breakfast. “Well? Are you going to show me or not?”
His eyebrows lifted a little and his jaw canted slightly to one side as he gave his head the faintest of shakes. But regardless of his personal opinion—obviously lacking—where she was concerned, he tapped one long index finger against a knob. “This controls whether the pilot is on or off. I turned it off before I went outside.” He turned it, and a bit of dried blood on his scratched knuckle stood out. “Turn it to where it says Pilot.” He held up the long lighter with his other hand and clicked it on. A small flame burst from the end and he tucked it inside the furnace, angling his messy head a little in front of her so he could see.
He really did have thick hair.
She averted her eyes back to what he was doing.
“Set the flame there,” he continued, “and keep the knob pushed down.” He pulled out the lighter, letting the flame die.
But she could see the small blue flame burning inside the furnace and ferociously kept her gaze on it, even though she could feel him looking at her again. Then he abruptly leaned down and blew out the tiny