would have guaranteed even less sleep than she usually managed. Even with a reasonably comfortable place to rest, she’d spent most of both nights trying not to disturb Tyler and listening to the building’s unfamiliar creaks and groans while hoping to heaven she could make this store work.
“They’ll come back to finish sometime next week,” she continued, “so I’ve been taking in what I can by myself. Tyler’s helping.” Boxes too heavy to carry she’d emptied one armload at a time. The method wasn’t the most efficient, but she now had one bathroom in order and the kitchen organized, except for the table and chairs. The old refectory table weighed a ton. She knew—she’d tried to move it last night.
She chafed her arms along her sleeves, winced a little when she rubbed a spot above the elbow that now sported the bruise she’d earned in the attempt. She had a matching one on the back of her shoulder. No longer hearing Erik’s footfalls, she glanced around to see that he had stopped.
Across ten feet of worn plank flooring, she saw his dark eyebrows merge. “Isn’t the furnace working?”
“It’s working just fine.”
“Then why is it so cold in here?”
“Because I’m not heating this big space until I have to. Fuel’s expensive. By the way,” she added, gratitude slipping into her voice, “thank you for having the tank filled. You saved me from running out of oil.” She’d always had electric heat before. Not accustomed to an oil furnace, she hadn’t realized the need for fuel until the man who’d performed the building inspection Sunday had showed her the tank and pointed out the gauge.
“The driver of the truck wouldn’t leave an invoice,” she told him. “So if you’ll tell me what I owe you, I’ll give you a check.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No,” he insisted, “you don’t. Just think of it as a move-in present.”
He obviously considered the matter settled. There seemed no doubt of that as he turned away to ponder the height and breadth of the obstacles blocking his view of the back of the store.
As appreciative as she was for his thoughtfulness, she couldn’t accept his gift.
“Look.” Hugging her arms a little tighter, she stepped in front of him. “I’m already not sure how I’ll repay you for helping me get to know the store. I know you agreed to do it to help your grandparents sell this place,” she conceded, which meant his benevolence definitely wasn’t personal, “but I’d rather not be any more obligated to you than I already am. Or will be,” she qualified, because other than make her acutely aware of his reluctant and very male presence, he hadn’t done anything yet. “Okay?”
For a moment, he said nothing. He just let his deceptively easy glance slip over the quiet determination in her eyes before he headed to the checkout counter.
“Then don’t accept it as a gift. Accept it because I’d rather work out here with heat.”
Confusion preempted further defense. “I thought we were going to go over the inventory.”
“That’s the plan.”
He carried a briefcase. A rather hefty one of scarred butterscotch leather and straps with buckles that had far more character than the sleek, unscuffed ones carried by other men she knew. As he set it on the scratched counter, she could see his burnished initials, worn shiny in places, above the equally worn lock. A section of stitching on the side looked new, as if it had recently been repaired. The case was old, she thought. It had history. And part of that history seemed to say that he’d rather keep and care for what he had than replace it.
Not appreciating how he’d dismissed her attempt to establish an understanding, she didn’t bother to wonder why she found that so appealing.
“I thought we’d work where it’s already warm. Inside,” she pointed out, ever so reasonably. “We can sit at the island and go over the books in there.”
“I meant the physical inventory. The stuff that’s on the shelves and in the bins back there.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “I have a printout of what came with the sale, but those items have been sitting around for a year. You’ll want to discount some of what you have and replace it with new merchandise. Things like sinkers, bobbers and leaders are fine, but creels and some of the stock that isn’t packaged looks shopworn.”
Rory hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
“Fishing gear,” he explained, apparently sensing that.
Undaunted, she picked up a couple of the boxes from the cracked surface. She’d already decided the old laminate needed to go. “Then we’ll work here at the counter.”
The boxes had been emptied, Erik realized when she easily lifted two marked Dishes from where his grandfather had once kept displays of bug repellent and sunglasses. She removed two more, adding them to the only space available without blocking either doorway: the tops of three tall stacks of red-and-green bins marked Christmas.
She had to stretch to get them there. Jerking his glance from the enticing curve of her backside, he reached past her.
“Let me get that.”
“Already have it,” she insisted, and having placed the boxes, turned right into him.
Rock had more give to it.
The thought occurred vaguely as she bumped into his chest. Promptly bouncing back, she gasped a breath when his quick grip tightened on her upper arms. Her heart had barely slammed against her ribs when he pulled her forward to keep her from hitting the bins behind her and bringing the empty boxes down on their heads.
The freshness of soap and sea air clung to him. With her pulse scrambling, his grip tight on her bruise, she had no idea why the scents even registered. Her hand shot up, covering the back of his where it curved over the tender spot on her arm.
The pressure of his fingers eased.
With their bodies inches apart, she went as still as stone. Or maybe he froze first. She just knew that one moment she’d been intent on doing whatever she needed to do to make it clear that she wouldn’t waste his time, and the next, the tension in his body and the warmth of his hands had seeped through to her skin, making her conscious of little more than...him.
Erik’s eyes narrowed on hers an instant before she ducked her head. Slacking his grip, he dropped his hands. There’d been no mistaking the way she’d winced when he’d grabbed her.
Without thinking, he reached toward her again, touched the back of her hand where it now covered where his had been.
He hadn’t thought he’d grabbed her that hard.
“Are you okay?”
At the concern in his voice, the caution in his touch, her head came back up. “I’m fine.” Wanting to convince them both, she smiled. “Really.”
His brow pinched as he drew his hand away once more.
Rory’s breath slithered out. That small contact had been far too brief to elicit the loss
