Can't Fight This Feeling (Cabin Fever)

by Christie Ridgway

  In the distance, she heard Glory greeting the customer. “Good morning,” she said, in her friendly, I-know-you voice. “How’s it going, Brett?”

  Angelica froze. Brett? Brett Walker? The deep-voiced response told her that it was indeed him. Why? Shouldn’t he be somewhere with his truck, working? She took a peek at the slice of front window she could see, and the sun was still shining. Perfect weather for him to be out on the job, away from here. Away from her.

  Because, darn it, she couldn’t seem to keep her feet rooted to the floor. Instead, they were creeping closer to him, her traitorous eyes wanting to get a glimpse of him. Shielding herself behind a rotating display of work gloves, she peered through the leather-and-fabric fingers.

  Did he have to be so ruggedly good-looking? In the height of summer, he’d worn long shorts and work boots. A T-shirt that he’d often take off as he pushed the mower, allowing her to see the muscles in his back flexing. His arms were roped with muscle and more than once she’d stood at a window, hidden behind a curtain kind of like how she was hiding now, just to watch his pumped biceps and flexing forearms.

  Those were covered now. Today a plaid shirt was buttoned over his torso and a worn pair of jeans encased his long legs. Hugged his most excellent butt. He ran a hand over his hair as he talked to Glory, a gesture she’d seen him make a dozen times. It always made her curious, that habitual movement, because his hair was shorn short enough that it never appeared disordered. The stuff was brown, but tipped in gold, highlights that a woman would pay a mint for in a salon, but that only needed his constant exposure to the sun.

  Then there were those intriguing scars that only served to make him more sexy. More male.

  Still ogling, Angelica tuned into what Glory was now saying. “That’s right. I know those clippers are in from the sharpener’s. They’re in the back room somewhere. Hold on a second and I’ll find them.”

  Angelica had to bite her lip to stop from volunteering for the task. Not only could she put her hands on them immediately—she’d designated a space in the storeroom for items delivered from the man who did the work—but Glory was hopeless when let loose in that area. She moved perfectly ordered items around, reshuffled organized paperwork and generally made a mess.

  As Brett waited, the bell sounded again, signifying another customer.

  Argh! Usually, with Glory occupied elsewhere, she’d be hurrying forward to help the person. But that would give her away to Brett, and she really wasn’t up to a second confrontation with him in two days.

  She was too busy to deal with her ridiculous response to him.

  He murmured something, greeting the newcomer, she supposed. A local, she guessed, since the hardware store was hardly the midweek hot spot for the town’s wealthy visitors. Drumming her fingers on the skirt of the sturdy, butcher-style apron she wore over her clothes, she wondered how long she could let the latest customer go without service.

  Already, her conscience was pinching at her. Then it got worse. “Where’s Angel?” an elderly man enquired.

  “Angel?” Brett repeated. “You mean Glory?”

  He’d make that assumption, Angelica thought, because he didn’t know the name that Mr. Bowman used for her. C’mon, Glory. She sent out vibes toward the back room. Get out here with Brett’s tool!

  With him safely on his way, she could help the customer asking for her.

  “No,” Mr. Bowman said. “Angel. That dark-haired girl who works here. She’s my color muse.”

  The dear, Angelica thought. One of her favorite parts of the job was keeping the display of paint chips organized. She loved playing with the colors and imagining them on walls, on furniture, covering the trim outside a house. Mr. Bowman had found her there one day and she’d helped him pick choices to freshen the interior of his home.

  “Bob...” Brett cleared his throat. “I really don’t think there’s any Angel—”

  “Of course there is. This is one of the days she works.” His voice rose. “Angel? Angel!”

  The jig’s up, girl, she told herself, squaring her shoulders. “I’m here, Mr. Bowman. Do you want to meet in the paint section?”

  “Certainly,” the old man called back.

  Angelica let out a breath. Maybe, while she was busy with Mr. Bowman, Brett would collect his tool and carry on his day. They’d never have to come face-to-face.

  She gave all her attention to the older gentleman, who loved the shade they’d picked for his office and now wanted something to brighten the kitchen. They picked several tagboard swatches that he would bring home for his wife’s ultimate approval. Before he went on his way, she kissed his cheek and he beamed at her. Then he wandered toward the front door.

  Angelica, breathing easy, turned in the direction of the lightbulb shelves. Her face almost mashed into Brett’s plaid shirt as he came around a corner. She skittered back.

  His gaze ran over her, from her jeans and low-heeled boots, to the apron covering her long-sleeved tee. She’d written her name in block letters on the beige twill in blue permanent marker. It was situated in the vicinity of her collarbone, so there was no reason for her breasts to respond as if he was staring at them. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “You actually work here.”

  “I’m helping out.”

  “That’s your name on the apron, Angel. Some of it, anyway.”

  “Angelica wouldn’t fit.”

  “Huh.” He was still staring at her. “I guess I now have a new appreciation of having a short name.”

  “Even better for you, two of the five letters in yours are the same.”

  His brows rose. “Yeah. Made it so even a mountain yokel like me could learn to write it.”

  She glared at him. “I didn’t say that.”

  “No, you didn’t.” There was a speculative light in his gray eyes. Against his tanned face, they looked almost like clear water. “What are you doing working here, Angelica?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She loved the store and the hours she spent here gave her more job satisfaction, she suspected, than any career in high finance ever could.

  “It’s not your kind of place.” He glanced around, his gaze roaming over the bins of nails and the spools of chain in various gauges. “A woman like you...”

  The word spoiled went unspoken. So did good-for-nothing. One time she’d overheard him talking to his sister, and he’d referred to Angelica as a useless piece of fluff. Out loud.

  She should despise him.

  “Don’t you know...” she started sweetly. “Oh, but you wouldn’t, so let me explain. Some of us, you know, we elite, we have a program.”

  “Oh, yeah?” His eyes narrowed and now he crossed his arms over his chest. “What kind of program?”

  “Kind of like...like scouting.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Yeah, how’s that work exactly?”

  “We earn badges for doing things the common folk do.”

  “Badges.” He sneered the word. And though of course he couldn’t possibly believe her, she continued in a haughty tone.

  “Yes. Badges. For learning to boil water. Or helping out an elderly man. Or earning a paycheck for an honest day’s work.”

  And with that she swept off. It wasn’t a flounce. Only a rich, spoiled girl would do that, and the woman who was now Angelica Rodriguez was so far from that, it wasn’t even funny.

  * * *

  THE PROPRIETORS OF THE Bluebird Motel had decided to close for the season early. The small rooms weren’t properly winterized, so it had always been open for the fair-weather seasons only. Despite that, Angelica had thought she might have a few more weeks in room 4. Now they told her she could have her spot with the reasonable rates for just a few more days. The owners wanted to get to their second home in Phoenix as soon as possible.

  Which meant Angelica needed a new place to live and another job to pay for it. Other rentals in the mountains were more expensive.

  The village of Blue Arrow Lake was compo
sed of fancy boutiques and lovely restaurants, but she’d struck out finding work in any of them. It was an in-between time. Not the summer when people came up to play in the sunshine and not the winter when they came for the snow. Still, as she walked to her car parked on a side street, the buttery color of the fall sunshine was buoying. The air smelled clean with just a touch of nuttiness from the drying leaves and grasses. The cool nip to the air was bracing.

  As if to reward her rising mood, she saw a help-wanted sign posted in the window of a small building. Over the door was another that read Maids by Mac.

  While she didn’t have retail experience and had never worked in a restaurant, she’d gone ahead and asked about jobs anyway. It seemed she might have a better shot at a business that was actually advertising for workers. And perhaps cleaning wasn’t something that required a wealth of prior professional experience.

  Of course working as a maid might not be a coveted career choice, but Angelica was desperate enough to squelch any hesitation and hurry for the door. The knob turned and it swung soundlessly, allowing her to enter a small office space. Behind a counter was a desk with a computer and phone. A filing cabinet sat in one corner. A half-open closet door revealed shelves neatly stocked with cleaning supplies. No one was in the space, but another door was open at the rear that revealed a tiny courtyard. There she saw the back of a woman as well as a bistro table on which two coffees were set. The woman was talking to someone, but Angelica could only see a pair of long legs in jeans from where she stood.

  Unsure whether to call out or just wait to be noticed, Angelica hesitated. The slender woman had hair as dark as her own, though shoulder length. She was dressed in jeans, boots and a thin, slouchy sweater in pale blue.

  “You seem more grouchy than usual,” the woman was telling the other person in the courtyard. “What’s up?”

  The human attached to the legs—a man—grunted in reply.

  Maybe the woman sensed Angelica then because she suddenly looked around. “Oh!” She had eyes the same icy blue as her sweater. “There’s someone here. Just a minute,” she called out. Then to the grouchy man, “Don’t go anywhere, honey.”

  And it was a familiar voice that responded. “Not moving. I have to make some calls.” Brett Walker’s voice.

  Brett Walker here! Several days had passed since their contact in the hardware store and she wasn’t thrilled to run into him again. But Angelica couldn’t exactly retreat, now that the woman was coming toward her, wearing a welcoming expression.

  Wait, Angelica thought, her stomach starting to jitter. The brunette had called Brett “honey,” and he wasn’t the kind of man to whom you threw out casual endearments. Could it be...was it possible... Might this woman be Brett’s wife?

  She felt a flush climb up her throat. What if all this time she’d been mooning over a married man? Maybe every night he’d gone home to this pretty woman with her warm smile and arresting eyes and laughed about Angelica’s obvious crush.

  “Can I help you?”

  Her gaze shifted to the woman’s left ring finger. No wedding band. She knew Brett didn’t wear one either, but if these two worked with their hands it was conceivable they left their rings at home. She should have pumped Glory for information on the landscaper. Oh, why hadn’t she pumped Glory?

  “Miss?” the woman prompted again, her smile fading to a puzzled expression.

  Embarrassment coursed through Angelica once more. She had to think up some excuse! With Brett—unmarried or not—nearby, she didn’t want to beg for a job application. It would be mortifying for him to find out she was nearly broke. He didn’t have a high opinion of her as it was, so she didn’t want to add the term wastrel to the list of labels he applied to her.

  Her gaze jumped around the room and landed on a plaque hanging on the wall. She gestured toward it. “I’m visiting the local businesses that are part of the Mountain Historical Society,” she said, improvising like mad. Though she actually was a volunteer for the group, so it wasn’t such a stretch, she decided. “I wanted to thank you in person for your past support and give you a report on the overwhelming success of our recent auction.”

  The woman came closer. “Say it again?”

  Angelica realized she’d been almost whispering. Hoping like heck that Brett was preoccupied with his phone calls, she cleared her throat and drifted nearer the counter. “The Mountain Historical Society auction we held at the end of the summer. I was part of the committee that put it on.”

  “Oh.” The other woman blinked. “Are you from around here? I thought I knew just about everyone.”

  “I’m a relative newcomer.” She stuck out her hand—what else could she do? “Angelica Rodriguez.”

  “Mackenzie Walker.” Her grasp was firm. “But everybody calls me Mac.”

  Mac Walker. “Nice to meet you.”

  “So how’d you get involved with the historical society?” Her assessing gaze took in Angelica’s black jeans, black boots and the black-and-white sweater she was wearing that had white chiffon cuffs and a matching chiffon underlay that peeked out below the hemline. “It’s not something I’d guess a newcomer would join.”

  Glancing toward the courtyard, Angelica saw the legs hadn’t moved and she could hear Brett murmuring, presumably into his phone. “It was my friend Glory Hallett,” she said. “She knew I had some experience putting together fund-raisers and she invited me to serve on the committee with her.”

  “Now Glory I know,” Mac said. “And I remember hearing about the big party that accompanied the auction—at one of the fancy mountain lodges, right? I think my sister and her fiancé attended.”

  “It was a wonderful event at the Aspen & Oak Lodge. Dinner, dancing and then the silent auction. We had many beautiful and valuable things to offer, thanks to Walter Elliott. When he passed away, he left the historical society the contents of his mountain home.”

  At the mention of the name, Mac stiffened. “That’s right. Walter Elliott,” she repeated.

  “It was quite the success,” Angelica said brightly. “We hope to have an annual fund-raiser from now on. Maybe next summer you and your husband—”

  “What are you doing here?” Brett said, strolling into the office. His gaze was trained on Angelica’s face. He didn’t look pleased to see her.

  Mac glanced over at him. “This is An—”

  “I know who she is.”

  The other woman’s brows rose. She looked from Brett to Angelica and back again. “You two are acquainted,” she said, in a speculative tone.

  Angelica felt herself flushing again. “Uh, hardly. Not even a little bit, really. I’ve seen him around once or twice.”

  “Not even a little bit?” Mac repeated.

  Maybe the other woman was the jealous type who would scratch her eyes out for merely looking at her husband. If Brett was married to her, Angelica was sure she’d probably find herself very possessive. “I should be going,” she said, taking a step back.

  “Not so soon,” Mac replied, a smile tipping up the corners of her mouth. “We’re just getting friendly.”

  Angelica fanned herself. “Is it a little warm in here or is it just me?”

  “I think it’s just you,” Mac said, with a light in her eyes that Angelica didn’t trust. “I’m perfectly comfortable. How about you, Brett?”

  He was still staring at Angelica as if she was something he’d brought in on the bottom of his shoe. “I’m always comfortable.”

  “Well. Um.” Angelica wished the floor would open up and swallow her. “I was just popping by to give you that update.”

  “What update?” he asked.

  Mac’s expression looked way too innocent. “On the historical society fund-raiser. Angelica had a hand in it. Remember the one that Poppy and Ryan attended about a month ago?”

  “I don’t listen to half the things she prattles on about,” he said.

  Mac rolled her eyes in Angelica’s direction. “Men! And then they wonder why they have so much trou
ble with us. If only they’d pay attention every once in a while.”

  Rather than speaking, Angelica responded with a tentative smile. With that pair of crystalline eyes on her, it was hard to think.

  “I rarely have trouble with women,” Brett said.

  “Because they’re often much too accommodating,” Mac retorted. She directed her attention back to Angelica. “Are you married? Have a boyfriend?”

  “No. I’m, um, on my own right now.”

  “Isn’t that fascinating? Brett’s on his own right now, too.” She shot the man a look. “Or has that changed?”

  When he didn’t answer, Angelica gestured between the two on the other side of the counter. “Oh. I thought maybe you two might be married.”

  Mac let out a loud hoot. “No, thank you. He’s my brother.”

  It wasn’t relief or anything like it that sluiced through her, Angelica told herself. Or if it was, it was only because it would have been humiliating to have spent so much time fantasizing about a guy who was already spoken for. “I met your sister once, then. Shay?”

  “Sure.” Mac glanced over at Brett. “So our brother introduced you?”

  “Angelica introduced herself,” Brett said. “And if I recall correctly, she thought Shay might be my girlfriend.”

  “Hmm.” Mac tucked her thumbs in the front pockets of her jeans. “You seem very interested in my brother’s relationship status,” she murmured.

  Angelica barely registered the other woman’s remark, as the memory of that particular meeting ran through her mind again. “You told her I was a useless piece of fluff,” she said to Brett. It had hurt then. It still hurt.

  He winced. “You heard that?”

  “Never mind,” Angelica muttered. “I’ve got to go.” The universe, clearly, had its back still turned to her. “It was nice to meet you,” she said, nodding to Mac. Then she headed for the door.

  “Wait,” Brett began, but she was already out the door.

  When it shut behind her, she began jogging, even though the heels of her boots wobbled on the uneven sidewalk. No matter, she needed to put distance between herself and the man who always made her feel awkward and uncertain—not to mention hot and hyperaware of every inch of skin.