Room...but Not Bored!

Now, she’d unpack, then write up business and personal to-do lists. Lists would put a fence around her whirlwind of worries. She had to make progress before she went to bed for the night or she’d never fall asleep.

She glanced around the jam-packed room. She’d have to pry Jake away from the Playmate of the Day and get him to clear out his junk before she could even unpack. Then she’d pin him down on the time frame on the cottage renovation.

That meant looking decent enough to appear in the living room. Ariel ran a brush through her hair, changed into a linen short set and slipped into the bathroom to repair her makeup. She wasn’t primping exactly. She just didn’t want to look as bedraggled as she felt. At the last minute, she dabbed perfume on her wrists and neck.

Peeking around the hall corner, she saw that Jake and his friend, who wore a bikini that consisted of three bandage-sized triangles held together by dental floss, were dancing swing style to some nouveau jitterbug. The dog jumped up now and then as if to cut in—to dance with Jake, not the woman, who laughed in that lush way that meant business, sexually.

Jake smiled, but there was distance in his expression. Don’t get too close. She wondered fleetingly what it would take to get past Jake Renner’s affable sexuality to what made him tick.

Not that that was any of her concern. The dancing made her smile, though, and set her thoughts wandering. She’d needed an aerobic exercise in college and selected ballroom dance since she’d be learning a skill and getting exercise at the same time. The grace and freedom of it had enchanted her. She’d met Grayson in that class and they’d begun their affair. She missed dancing. How long had it been since she’d moved to music, alone or with a partner? Once the business was stable she would have fun, too, she told herself. All in good time. And according to plan. Planning gave you freedom.

Jake caught sight of Ariel and stopped dancing. “Sleeping Beauty awakes,” he said. “Heather, meet my landlord, Ariel Adams. Ariel, this is Heather.”

“Hi,” Heather said. Her expression was direct—are you after him?

No, thanks, she tried to communicate with her eyes. “Nice to meet you, Heather.”

“You get some rest?” Jake asked her.

“Some.” Except for the blender and the visiting kid and the giggling girl and the music and the snorting dog. But there was no point getting technical. “Sorry to interrupt,” she continued, “but I was hoping you would clear your things out of my room…?”

“I guess I should go,” Heather said to Jake. “See you later tonight?” she asked, establishing ownership, presumably for Ariel’s benefit. “For the volleyball game at Ollie’s?”

“If I’m up for it,” he said, his tone clearly saying Don’t push.

Poor Heather. She probably hadn’t figured out this guy was as elusive as he was handsome.

“We’ll have fun. I promise.”

“You don’t need me to have fun,” he said.

A tiny frown appeared between the woman’s sharply plucked brows, and she looked from Ariel to Jake, assessing the danger of them getting together. In the end, she sighed, picked up a sarong and a beach bag from a drop-cloth–draped chair, said, “Ciao,” and left. Jake watched her go, admiring her casually—like someone appreciating a work of art, knowing there was a museum’s worth beyond it.

The dog watched Heather leave, then honed in on Jake, ready for action. When Jake made no move to follow the girl, the dog plopped onto its substantial belly, spread-legged, scattering sand.

“Is this your dog?” Ariel asked, praying it wasn’t. The last thing she wanted was to be snuffled awake again by a sandy-pawed canine. Even one with eyes as big and brown as a bear’s.

“Lucky? Nah, his owners live down the beach, but he hangs with me a lot. We’re buds, aren’t we, Luck Man?”

The dog looked up at him with pure worship on his doggie mug. Sure are, boss.

“Time to head home, pal,” Jake said, “before your owners start worrying.” He held the door for Lucky, who seemed to droop, like a kid called home for supper, and slowly walked out the door, his back end swaying regretfully.

Ariel couldn’t help smiling at the sight.

Jake caught the look. “Great dog, huh?”

“He sheds a lot of sand.”

“Be glad he didn’t bring in another starfish. Hid one under the bed once. Talk about stink.”

Great.

“So, I bet you’re hungry,” Jake said.

“Starving,” she blurted. Her stomach rumbled in agreement. The last thing she’d had was a sad Salisbury steak on the plane.

“Good. I was just about to fix some huevos whateveros.”

“Huevos what?”

“Eggs with whatever I find in the refrigerator. Topped with salsa—I make my own.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” she said. She should get unpacked first, but eating would give her the boost she’d need to look over Trudy’s contact tracking software and gear up for making calls tomorrow.

“So I throw in a couple extra eggs. Easy.” He started for the kitchen. “We’re roommates, right?” he said over his shoulder.

Not for long, she wanted to say, but she’d give it a rest until they’d eaten. She could hardly expect Jake to drag that weight bench out of her room on an empty stomach.

She headed into the kitchen to help.

3

“WHAT CAN I DO?” Ariel said when she reached the kitchen.

“Just keep me company,” Jake said. He opened the refrigerator and reached inside, demonstrating what a marvel of biological engineering his body was. Smoothly swelling muscles fanned out, tightened and released in delightful synchronicity as he shifted things around. And his skin was a golden brown….

Stop. What was she doing? Her travel-fogged brain kept honing in on Jake’s anatomy. She should be worrying about the “whatever was in the refrigerator.” If Jake was like most guys, it would be leftover Chinese, ketchup and maybe wilted lettuce.

She was relieved when he stood with an armload of fresh items—an avocado, some mushrooms, Muenster cheese and a plastic-wrapped container of what looked like fresh spinach.

“Are you sure I can’t do anything?” she asked. To keep from ogling you?

“Not a thing,” he said. The way he snapped on the gas stove, deftly whacked off a hunk of butter and flipped it onto a serious omelet pan seemed to indicate he knew his way around a kitchen—or at least an egg dish.

The kitchen was small—no, cozy, she corrected, thinking like a real estate agent. The counter space was modest, but charming—tiny blue-and-white tiles with decent grout. The sink, however, was battered and rust-stained and the faucet appeared corroded. She’d have to replace it. Kitchens and bathrooms were big selling features, she knew, and a good place to spend renovation dollars. The stove was an older model, but clean and it seemed to work.

The wallpaper was outdated, but high shelves held decorative plates with ocean themes, attractive driftwood pieces, and several plants—curly bamboo and an orchid—that gave the room character and life.

“I can at least set the table,” she said, going to the cupboard beside him, where she assumed the plates were. She found flower vases, mixing bowls and sports bottles instead.

“Up there,” Jake raised his chin at the cupboard directly above him, his hands busy cutting mushrooms.

“Excuse me,” she said, reaching past him.

“Take your time,” he said, not moving an inch. She felt his eyes on her, sensed his lazy grin, and prickled from the abrupt intimacy of it all. Snatching two plates, even though they didn’t match, she decided to wait until Jake left the counter to get the water glasses from the higher shelf.

The silverware was in the first drawer she opened, thank goodness. Unwilling to hunt for napkins, probably in the drawer at Jake’s groin, she ripped two paper towels from the under-cupboard hanging roll, then moved to the table, which held more Jake accoutrements—a bike repair manual, a set of wrenches and a stack of magazines named for S sports: Sail, Scuba, Surf.