The Lucky in Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  “But I bet you’d be a tasty icicle for coyotes,” she says, and I’ll hang my hat on that one adjective—tasty—as I claw my way out of snowman zone.

  “I make a very good popsicle.”

  Her eyes dance with mischief, and I’m ready to pump a fist. From snowman to something you suck on in twenty seconds flat. Go me.

  “I’ll open the garage. Everything you’ll need is in there. Gramps said he had a chimney sweep come out at the end of the summer, so I don’t think you need to worry about the full works. But can you check and make sure there’s not a dead raccoon in there?”

  I give a tip of the cap. “Raccoon inspection, at your service.”

  “And while you’re inspecting the chimney, I’ll stock up on the items that shall not be named for Perri and Derek.” She drops her voice to an alluring whisper. “Seductive body wash. Tropical island-scented lotion. Sexy candles.”

  I shudder, slamming my hands over my ears. Vanessa laughs, her smile wide and bright.

  When I let go of my ears, she points to the house. “And after I do all the womanly stuff, how about I whip up a delicious hot chocolate? I picked up supplies at the market, and you’re definitely going to need warming up.”

  I’d like to warm her up, all night long.

  “Count me in.”

  7

  Shaw

  An hour and a half later, I’m finished with the roof detail, and the sun is dropping in the sky.

  Carefully, I climb down the ladder, set the tools neatly in the garage, and return to the porch. Beneath the fine dusting of flakes are pine needles and dried leaves, so I grab the broom I spotted in the garage and sweep those up, then I do the steps too.

  Nothing wrong with going above and beyond.

  Satisfied with my labors so far and hopeful about their ability to impress a woman—since that’s key in any manual labor—I stomp the snow off my work boots and rap on the door.

  A few seconds later, Vanessa opens it, the hinges squealing in misery. “One, you don’t have to knock. Two, I think the door needs a little oil.”

  I smile mischievously, unable to resist the low-hanging fruit. “Nothing wrong with a little lube now and then.”

  She snickers, shaking her head in amusement.

  Guess I can’t quite dial down the banter all the way. But who wants an off-switch on a dirty mind anyway?

  I find the WD-40, oil up the hinges, and return the can to the garage once more. Then I tug open the newly silent door, dusting snowflakes off my hair.

  Vanessa scurries over. “Wait. You still have some snowflakes on you.” Reaching up, she lightly swipes a hand over my head.

  Why, thank you, manual labor. Thank you very much.

  “I think you missed a spot.” I tap the back of my skull.

  With a smile, she brushes her hand against me once more. I nearly purr. I might even arch my back.

  I head inside, shed my coat, remove my boots, and issue a report. “The gutters are cleaned, the chimney is topped off with a quick brushing, and as a special bonus just for you, there are no raccoon bodies inside it.”

  She breathes a big sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. Not just for us, but for the wildlife.”

  “It’s best for everyone if the raccoons get to keep being bandits.” I lift my nose, catching a whiff of something. “What did you do in here? It smells like . . .” As I step into the spacious living room, I sniff a little more, trying to detect the scent. “Like juniper and sage maybe? Hey, are you secretly a Starbucks barista whipping up juniper lattes?”

  She shuts the door behind me, reaching for my coat and hanging it on a hook by the door. “As a matter of fact, in the last hour, I’ve converted this cabin into a clandestine Starbucks. Be prepared for an onslaught of lumberjacks and wood nymphs.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Word is there are plenty of both around here.”

  “I was aware of lumberjacks, but wood nymphs who like coffee drinks? That’s news to me.”

  “Have you had those juniper lattes? They’re incredible.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me.”

  She arches a brow. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who orders a juniper latte. How did you wind up with one?” Then her face darkens, and she shakes her head. “That was a stupid question. You probably had one on a date.”

  She spins around, heading for the kitchen, and I need to dispel that notion right now, even though I am savoring the hint of jealousy in the word date. “I didn’t have one on a date. Mrs. Jansen bought me one when I helped her fix a broken pipe in her yarn shop.”

  With a glance back at me, Vanessa’s eyes brighten again, like that was the best answer in the world. “You helped fix a pipe for her?”

  I nod. “Sure did. Got a pipe you need me to fix?” There’s a dirty connotation in there somewhere, but I’m not sure it needs to be jumped on.

  “I don’t think so. But you never know. Also, I used some juniper-and-sage room spray after I cleaned. I swept up and vacuumed while you were on the roof.”

  Granted, I didn’t get a great look at the place before, but it looks pretty damn good now. “You’re speedy. And the cabin both looks and smells good. I’m sure the newlyweds will appreciate it.”

  “I hope so. And I know I owe you that hot chocolate. But I ran into a tiny problem when I was starting to make it.” She wiggles her fingers so I will follow her to the kitchen.

  She taps the edge of the stove. “Burner won’t turn on.”

  “Dr. Handyman at your service.” I mime donning a stethoscope then check out the stove, giving it an inspection and listening to its heartbeat. She chuckles as I go. I pretend to snap off rubber gloves as I issue my pronouncement. “And the diagnosis is . . . you have a faulty igniter.”

  Her eyes widen in mock outrage. “Take that back. I do not have a faulty igniter.”

  And she’s being flirty right back.

  I make a note of that in the back of my libido. I mean, my brain. I tuck it away in my brain.

  But then a voice reminds me this isn’t a new style of interaction. Vanessa has always played on the teasing side of the fence.

  I step a little closer, my eyes locking on hers as I take my time, my voice going low, raspy. “I don’t know anything about your igniter, but I highly doubt it’s faulty.”

  “It’s definitely not faulty,” she whispers, a hint of desire floating on her words.

  “I’ll just make sure.” For a few seconds, the air seems to hum and crackle. Like we’re not going to fix stoves or check fireplaces. Like we’re going to rip off clothes. Then I’ll hoist her on the counter and wrap those legs around my hips. Kiss the breath out of her. Drive her wild with my lips and hands and body.

  Instead, I focus on helping her, since that seems to get this woman going. I fix the stove while she tells me what she worked on inside the cabin. She turned on the hot tub to make sure it heats up properly (Gramps cleaned it a few weeks ago), changed all the bedding, straightened all the rooms, hung fresh towels, and scrubbed the bathrooms. “I even checked to make sure the water runs and isn’t rusty. See? I have a handy side.”

  I shake a finger at her, chiding. “Don’t be taking my job away.”

  “I would never do that. Just trying to be helpful.”

  “You’re very helpful. And you’ve made this cabin quite lovely.”

  “Hey, are you hungry? I picked up sandwiches at the market.”

  I pat my stomach, shaking my head. “Nope. Had a late lunch with my dad. But thanks for offering. Maybe later.” And I leave it at that, because later would be good.

  “Yes, later,” she says, agreeing, and I like her answer very much.

  As I finish the stove, she tilts her head as if she’s deep in thought. “Should we chop wood for the fireplace? There’s a bit on the deck, but it won’t last long.”

  I lean my head back and laugh.

  “What’s so funny? Don’t you know how to chop firewood?”

  “Co
urse I do. I’m a fireman. I can handle an ax just fine. I just thought it was funny when you said we. Don’t worry—I’m not letting you handle an ax.”

  One eyebrow rises. “You think I can’t handle an ax?”

  “I think it’s dangerous for anyone who doesn’t know how to use one. Plus, I’d love to make sure you have enough firewood to be warm and toasty. So I’ll go outside and play Paul Bunyan for you,” I say with a wink.

  “Then I’ll make sure I have hot chocolate for you when you come back in.” She flicks a lock of chestnut hair off her shoulder. “Think you’d like a little treat?”

  Does she even know how sexy she sounds when she asks that question?

  “I do want a treat,” I tell her, but the treat is already here—us alone in this cabin as afternoon spills into evening.

  That’s the best treat I could have.

  As she grabs milk, a bag of gourmet chocolates, and some spices, I head outside to chop some wood. As I work, the snow falls softly and quietly, with no sign of stopping as nighttime tiptoes into Tahoe. Doesn’t take a genius to realize we aren’t leaving this cabin anytime soon, or likely even tonight.

  I stack the wood, return the ax, and head back inside, where I find Vanessa whipping up what smells like a delicious drink.

  I whistle in appreciation as she wields whisks, spoons, and chocolate with deftness. “Damn, woman, you are a gourmand.”

  “I’m of the belief that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who like chocolate made with water”—her gagging face says exactly what she thinks about that—“and those who like it made with milk.” She smiles devilishly.

  “And what kind do you think I am?”

  As she stirs the pot, she studies my face. “I think you’re the kind who’s going to enjoy what I give you.”

  A groan rumbles up my chest. “That is exactly the kind of man I am.”

  A few minutes later, my mouth is watering as she pours the chocolate mixture into two mugs. I reach for mine, but she swats my hand away. “What the hell? You’re toying with me. It’s sitting here, tempting me, and you won’t let me have it?”

  “It needs to cool off, Shaw. And while it does, I’m going to tease you even more,” she says, and yanks open the fridge. She comes back brandishing a canister of whipped cream.

  I like her style of teasing. “When did you become such a taunter?”

  “When we got snowed in,” she tosses back as she dispenses some whipped cream on top of the steaming mug of chocolate then on my nose.

  Yup. She’s dropped a delicious and provocative substance on my body.

  Maybe not the first body part I had in mind for whipped-cream kink, but I’ll take what I can get. I move a little closer to her. “And now how do you propose I get that off my nose, snow bunny?”

  Her smile is magnetic. It’s sweet and dirty at the same time. “I don’t know, snow devil. How do you want to get it off?”

  Dear Lord. Did she take extra foxy pills today? I reach for her hand and slide my fingers along her palm, noting the hitch in her breath. Correction: noting it and loving it.

  I drag her finger along the whipped cream on my nose, watching her eyes go bigger, wider. And because there’s no time like the present, I bring her finger to my mouth.

  And lick off the whipped cream.

  She gasps.

  “My turn,” I murmur. Grabbing the whipped cream, I drop a dot on her cute nose.

  She stares at me inquisitively. “And am I licking it off now? Or are you?” Her tone is purely coy, thoroughly playful.

  This time, I swipe off the cream, and before either of us can say a word, she grabs my finger and licks it off me, humming around the tip.

  Holy fuck.

  Vanessa swirls her tongue, licking and, dare I say, simulating, and also stimulating, as she gives me one snug, tight suck and a flick of her tongue, as if she’s letting me know what she’d like to do.

  I’m starting to get some answers to my questions.

  More than starting.

  I want more of this woman. Pretty sure I want all of her. The question remains, what does she want from me?

  8

  Vanessa

  Well, that escalated quickly.

  It’s not as if I asked Shaw to the cabin to seduce him with whipped cream, and I definitely didn’t buy it for that purpose. I’m not even into food play.

  And yet I completely wanted his finger in my mouth. When I get near him, I want him madly.

  Most of the time, there’s a built-in barrier between us. A sex blockade in the presence of other people. I haven’t been alone with him in ages, and that’s made it easy, relatively speaking, to ignore the ache inside me.

  Now that it’s only the two of us, my want is like a parrot on my shoulder, squawking, demanding crackers. Yes, Polly, I want a Shaw cracker too.

  I grab my mug like it’s a shield so I can sort out my thoughts. “It’s snowing harder.” Grasping that excuse to snag a little space, I head to the living room, set the mug on the coffee table, and march to the window. Outside, the snow falls faster, heavier. I point to the white carpet blanketing the ground. “Look! I think we’re here for a little while.” The thought of being stuck with him tonight is both nerve-wracking and thrilling.

  Will it last all night?

  I grab my phone from the coffee table to check the weather app.

  “What's the report?” he asks as he walks over from the kitchen.

  I shrug. “No service, but I’m not surprised. It tends to be pretty spotty at the best of times. I managed to get a signal at the end of the driveway when I called you earlier.”

  After putting his cup on the table too, he joins me at the window, his shoulder nearly touching mine. “Then the Shaw Keating Amateur Meteorologist Report says . . . it sure looks like it’s going to snow all night.”

  But does he want it this way? Does his parrot want a cracker too? Does he even have a parrot for me?

  I try to keep the mood light, easy, and bird-free. “That’s Tahoe for you. One minute it’s sunshine and smiles, the next it’s snowstorms.”

  He stares through the glass at the sky. “Bet it’s going to last the whole day.”

  My eyes stray to the clock above the mantel. It’s nearly eight. “The whole night is more like it.”

  He turns his face, his gaze catching mine. His eyes darken, his voice deepens. “Looks like we’ll have to figure out how to pass the time.”

  My throat goes dry. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Or is he flirting like the gold medalist flirt he’s been my whole life? “We have board games,” I blurt out. “That’s what you do in a cabin to pass the time, right?”

  A grin seems to tug at his lips. “Absolutely. Break out Monopoly. Bring on Chutes and Ladders. Let’s go crazy with Candy Land.”

  I tilt my head, giving him a sharp stare. “Do you think I don’t know you’re teasing?”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “I love Candy Land. I swear. Let’s play it after we finish the most amazing hot chocolate ever.”

  “Fine. Hot chocolate and Candy Land it is.”

  I wish it were hot chocolate and kisses . . . kisses and stripping . . . stripping and hot, sweaty fireplace sex . . . hot, sweaty fireplace sex and promises.

  But Candy Land it’ll be for now.

  We move to the couch. He’s quiet at first as he reaches for his mug. “It’s a damn good thing we have hot chocolate as well. To pass the time.”

  “Try it first. But if you don’t like my special hot chocolate, we can never be friends again,” I say, feeling the need to emphasize our friendship, perhaps so I can figure out if that’s where he still is. Just because I sucked on his finger like it was his dick doesn’t mean anything more will come of it. After all, we’re whiling away the hours drinking cocoa, not licking whipped cream from each other’s navels.

  But when I say “friends,” he looks like he’s chewing on the word and it tastes like kale to him.

  When I
chew on the word, it tastes a little like guilt.

  Like dark secrets I should bury forever.

  I’m here in this cabin for Perri, as a wedding gift to my amazing friend. I didn’t drive up from Lucky Falls to seduce her brother. Her handsome, funny, sexy brother who I’ve been longing for over the years.

  He taps the side of the mug. “Since we’re friends, why don’t you tell me what makes this hot chocolate so special?”

  “Cinnamon.”

  “Ah, so it has a little spice,” he says, his hazel eyes dancing playfully.

  Briefly, I wonder if Jamie’s eyes will lure me the same way. Whether any other man can possibly have this effect on me. No one has before, and perhaps that’s why I haven’t found the one. Maybe that’s the reason I want the real deal but haven’t had it yet. Have I compared all my boyfriends to him? To a man I’ve never had?

  All I want is to learn if the comparison is valid. And to do so by tasting the chocolate on his lips.

  “Yes, it gives it a little kick,” I answer, fighting to focus on the hot chocolate. Fighting like my sanity depends on it.

  “I like a little kick,” he says, and he makes it so hard not to flirt, especially as his eyes drift to my sweater, and to what’s underneath the material.

  I happen to have nice boobs. They’re round, firm C-cups, which is kind of awesome. I like my breasts. I like my body, for all its curves, dips, and blips.

  He lifts his chin. “By the way, what’s up with the striped sweater?”

  I pluck at the knitting. “You don’t like my sweater?”

  “No, I think it’s fantastic. I mean, is it part of your whole retro-girl look?”

  “It is. I snagged it from a vintage shop on Etsy. I think I’m incapable of wearing clothes that were made in this century.”