“Look, I gather that you weren’t completely on board with hiring me, but I’d love it if we could sort of work together on this. I want to be sure that any changes I make are ones that you’ll be happy with.”

“Got your work cut out for you then,” he snorts.

Don’t scowl. Don’t scowl.

“I can handle it,” I say with my sunniest smile. “I’m sure we can do some great things here. I don’t know if you’re on TikTok, but I’ve handled way bigger renos than this.”

He looks at me like I’m speaking French. “Not on…TikTok. Sorry.”

I almost laugh. That definitely tracks. I’m trying not to let my eyes settle on the tiny bit of dark hair that escapes the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. So it’s top to bottom then, eh? “I’m sure you’re the type that has a private Facebook with just family and friends, huh? Stranger danger and all that?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Don’t have one.”

“You don’t have Facebook?”

“Nope.”

My brow knits. “You don’t strike me as the X type.”

“Don’t know what that is,” he says matter-of-factly. “Don’t really use the internet, aside from the website for reservations.”

Now I’m probably looking at him like he’s started speaking French. “Everyone uses the internet.”

“Except me, I guess,” he says dryly.

I find myself staring at him again, but now it’s in a way as if he’s sprouted another head. He’s talking like a seventy-year-old man, but by my best guess, Hunter can’t be more than thirty. If that. Who in the hell doesn’t use the internet in this day and age?

In my disbelief, I can hear my voice coming out an octave higher than it should be.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Just have better things to do with my time.”

I have about a dozen other questions I could ask about my new acquaintance’s particular oddity, but even knowing as little as I do about Hunter, I still recognize that he’ll probably have little to offer on the subject other than some dodgy monosyllabic answer.

“Okay, Grandpa,” I snort, shoving my hands into my pockets. “What do you do with your free time? Whittle?”

His mouth does something I’ve yet to see it do, turning up at the corners until I’m blasted with straight white teeth that make my stomach flutter a little. I decide then and there that should I ever find myself miraculously given a seat in Congress, my first order of business would be rendering Hunter Barrett’s smile illegal.

“Something like that,” he laughs quietly.

He reaches down to gather up a few logs he’s finished splitting, beginning the process of piling them in his long arms, presumably so he can carry them inside.

I shuffle my feet, trying to calm the swooping that lingers inside my belly in the aftermath of a full-blown Hunter smile. “Do you need help with that?”

I’m rewarded with another low chuckle. “I’ve got it. Better save your strength for all the fixin’.”

I ignore his obvious joke at my expense. “Sure. How far away is town, by the way? I was hoping you guys had a pharmacy.”

“A pharmacy?”

I avert my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest. Definitely don’t want to get into that discussion with Hunter. Especially not after his weird comments about my designation, which I barely know anything about myself. The doctor only gave me a small supply of the meds, writing a prescription for more that I could fill. I’m sort of regretting not taking care of it in the city now.

“Just need to pick up a few things,” I mumble.

“Your car won’t make it down the mountain.”

My eyes snap up to meet his. “What?”

“Had a big snow last week. Your tires aren’t wrapped. Not even sure how you made it to the lodge without winding up in a ditch.”

“I’m perfectly capable of driving in snow,” I snipe.

His mouth quirks. “Well, you can capably find yourself on the side of the road in a snowbank if you try to make it down the mountain in that little car.”

“What am I supposed to do then?”

“If you need a ride”—he straightens with his arms full of wood, his dark eyes settling on my face—“I’d be happy to give you one. If I’m not busy.”

I feel my cheeks heat a little, and I remind myself that this is a perfectly innocent statement, regardless of what my stomach is doing in response. It takes me a moment to answer, because my initial urge is to argue, but there’s a slight hint of warm rain creeping into my nostrils now that he’s a little closer, and it’s making me sort of dizzy. I blink, trying to remember words as a twisting sensation ensues in my stomach.

“That’d be great,” I half squeak as he starts to move past me.

He’s at the top of the stairs and towering over me in a matter of seconds, the corners of his mouth tilting up as he gives me a glance from the side, one dark curl escaping his might-be-staple beanie and falling into his eyes. “You know, in between all my whittling.”

His eyes move over my face as my lips press together in a tight line, and he finally moves to carry the wood inside. It takes me at least three seconds to remember how to form words as I spin on my heel to call after him, pushing down the still-writhing feeling in my stomach that’s quickly progressing to something more and more uncomfortable with every second.

“Oh, hey, what’s the Wi-Fi password, by the way?”

His answering laugh doesn’t bode well.

I don’t see Tess for a few hours after running into her out back, and I can’t say that I’m not grateful for the reprieve. I thought I might have imagined it, how appealing she is—with her wide brown eyes and her pert nose that wrinkles when she’s irritated and her soft-looking mouth that seems to be developing a habit of pursing in my vicinity—but it’s clear now that she’s just as lovely as my brain remembers from last night. It makes my newfound resolve to ignore her as much as possible all the more difficult.

In the short time since meeting her, I’ve thought a lot about how doing so is in both our best interests; I know better than anyone that continued exposure will only lead to awkward situations, given how enticing I find her scent, and there’s nothing I want less than to find myself ruled by my hormones and then make an ass of myself all over again. I’ve had more than enough of that in my life already, thank you very much.

But my plans to steer clear are thwarted when I find her crouched in a corner of the great room sometime after I put the wood away, holding out her hand to a very bored-looking Reginald, who is eyeing her with utter disinterest as she tries to entice him out from the little table he’s hiding under. I watch for a few seconds as she baby-talks and coos and makes pspsps noises at him while he looks at her like she’s lost it.

“Here, kitty kitty,” she coos.

I cross my arms, leaning against a wall as amusement washes over me.

“Come here, you mean-ass furball,” she huffs. “Let me love you.”

After a beat, I decide to put her out of her misery. “You might as well give it up now,” I call to her, noticing the way she jolts slightly before her head whips around to look at me. “That cat hates everyone but Jeannie.”

As if to drive home my point, Reg chooses that moment to bound away, flicking his tail as he goes so that it whips Tess in the face.

“Damn it,” she mutters. “I’m dying to pet that cat.”

“Better men have tried.”

I catch a sudden whiff of her scent. It’s so potent, it seeps into my nostrils and seems to almost drip down my throat.

Is it somehow stronger than it was yesterday?

I clear my throat, looking anywhere but at her. I can’t help but notice the cobwebs collecting in one corner of the ceiling and frown. Not exactly helpful for my stance that we don’t need her here making changes.

“So,” I start. “What do you think of my dingy little lodge?”