With a roll of her eyes, Cyd nudged past him, grabbed the door handle and pushed it open. “Aunt Geri?” she called out.
He followed Cyd inside, blinking into the haze of light. A woodstove, the fire crackling behind its glass door, sat across the room. The scents of baked bread and coffee wove around him, lulling him out of his mood.
“Hi there, big girl,” Cyd cooed, scratching and patting a big, furry head.
He should’ve known that Cyd and wild beasts would be best pals.
“This is Jeffrey,” she said, pointing the furry beast’s face at Jeffrey.
“Hi,” he said, his eyes adjusting to the light. Babette’s yellow eyes took in Jeffrey. She barked, loudly. He put his hand down for her to sniff, hoping she’d eaten something recently. She rubbed her wet nose against his hand, her tail swinging wildly.
Cyd looked up at Jeffrey. “She likes you.”
“Good.” He’d outwitted death, again. “What kind of dog is she?”
“Mongrel. Part Shepherd, part Husky, and something else.”
“Moose?”
Cyd looked at Jeffrey. “City Slicker,” she teased, her chocolate brown eyes twinkling.
“Northern Rowdy,” he countered.
“Rowdy?” She looked surprised, then burst into laughter. He liked the sound. Loud, infectious. “Sounds about right,” she said, pulling the hood of her parka down.
Her face emerged all pink, touched with flakes of snow. Add those devilish brown eyes and wild mass of cropped raven hair, and she looked like sweetness and sin all rolled into one. She was still laughing to herself, repeating the word “rowdy” as she pulled off her parka. Jeffrey felt like leaning over and kissing those pretty lips that curved so deliciously when she smiled. He had the crazy thought that kissing Cyd would be like tasting life itself.
She hung her parka on one of the hooks mounted on the wall next to the front door. “What’re you staring at?”
“Your face—” He reached over and brushed some flakes of snow off her cheeks. His gloves were bulky, cold. He pulled them off, tossed them aside and continued brushing her flushed cheeks. Most women needed makeup to look pretty, but not Cyd. Her beauty was like this land. Wild, clean. As though she’d been forged from the sky, the earth.
“We need to get you closer to the fire, warm you up,” he said.
She flashed him a look that bordered on shy, which was almost more stunning that her usual tough, don’t-mess-with-me attitude. Was she unaccustomed to a man showing tenderness, offering concern for her well-being? A jolt of sadness shot through Jeffrey.
“First, off with our boots,” she said softly, looking away. She leaned over and began unlacing hers. “Just toss them here next to the front door.”
As Cyd worked on her boots, she called out again, “Aunt Geri?”
Babette barked.
“She’ll probably be back in a minute,” Cyd commented, pulling off her socks and laying them across her boots. After putting on one of several pairs of slippers piled in a heap on the floor, she walked to the woodstove.
Jeffrey pulled off a wet, heavy boot and looked around the cabin. His first thought was “cozy.” His second was “eclectic.” The cozy part was the old leather couch topped with a fur pelt, the high-back wooden chairs in front of the woodstove, the multicolored braided rug on the hardwood floor. The eclectic was the assortment of fishing gear and ski equipment in one corner, the pile of miscellaneous tools in another. It was as though someone could walk through the living room and grab whatever they needed on their way out to go fishing, skiing or fixing.
To the left, through a sliding glass door, he spied a glassed-in porch with a covered hot tub. At first he thought the walls were painted white until he realized the glass ceiling and walls were caked with snow.
Cyd stood in front of the woodstove, holding her hands to the heat. She wriggled her toes and moaned pleasurably.
Jeffrey, pulling off his parka, looked up. He hadn’t had a quiet minute with her since they’d met, and he took advantage of the moment to look at this little rowdy who had become his cohort. And his opponent, yet she didn’t seem so preoccupied with that aspect at the moment.
She looked to be five-four, maybe more, although she had the attitude of someone seven foot. She wore a bulky, white knit sweater with bright red, yellow and pink flowers embroidered along the neckline. Cyd wearing flowers? Not that the sweater wasn’t pretty, it’s just that flowers seemed so…un-Cyd. She seemed more the type to have wild animals crocheted into her clothes, not dainty blossoms.
Her jeans were faded. And tight. He settled on that compact behind, remembering how it undulated with great purpose as she marched in front of him. It had looked round and firm and…
She turned to warm her backside.
His gaze shot up to her face.
“What’re you thinking about?” Cyd asked.
“I, uh, was thinking about things with great purpose.”
She ran her hands through her damp hair. “You city types worry too much about the wrong things.”
“It’s all a matter of semantics.”
She stopped fussing with her hair and shot him a look. “Huh?”
“Semantics. How words go together.”
She rolled her eyes. “Like I said, you worry about the wrong things.”
He laughed, more than willing to let her win this battle. Besides, he liked looking at her taut body. Liked how her wet, black hair had a mind of its own. Unmanageable, wild. Just like Cyd. And those lips. Damn if they didn’t have the lush pink color of a rose, although she’d probably kill him if she knew he thought that. Hard to believe those rose-petal lips could devour a slab of moose.
She pulled off her bulky sweater.
A hot wave swept through his belly.
She wore a black long-sleeved T-shirt that outlined her breasts just oh so fine. Round, pert…and when she turned just right in the light, he could see the hardened tips of her nipples…
“Now what’re you thinking about?” She tossed her sweater over the back of a chair.
He didn’t answer. What words could sum up the cascade of feelings that rushed through him, firing his blood? His mind tried to step in and say it was her fault for kick-starting his libido with that rub-a-thon back in the sled basket, but he knew differently. Ever since he’d met Cyd—or more specifically, since he’d realized she wasn’t a he—his gut told him he’d met his match. She was sharp, tough and hot.
Sweetly, daringly hot.
The kind of woman you didn’t make love to, but with whom you embarked on a fiery sexual adventure.
Cyd held Jeffrey’s gaze. Her eyes darkened.
