“That’s not all I want,” she managed to croak. She cleared her throat. “But talking is a good start.”
Chapter Twelve
Connor lived in one of the first apartment complexes built when SkyCrest resort opened in the 1980s. Five years ago, when the developer was talking of tearing the buildings down, the resort had purchased the complex for employee housing. Connor, as a member of ski patrol, was one of the first to move in.
But as he led Stacy across the parking lot to his door, he was struck by the shabbiness of the building, with its plain brown wooden facade and lack of landscaping. “It’s not fancy, but it’s home,” he said as he unlocked the door.
Farley trotted into the apartment ahead of them and headed to the kitchen to check his food dish. It was always empty this time of day, but he always checked.
Connor moved ahead of Stacy into the small living room, clearing a towel, a shirt he had worn yesterday or the day before and an extra parka from the back of the sofa and adding them to a basket of clean clothes he had brought up from the laundry room that morning. He stuffed the basket into the hall closet, on top of a leaning pile of backpacks, a tent and a flattened inflatable kayak.
“Um, have a seat and make yourself comfortable,” he said, then darted down the short hallway to the bedroom.
He flipped on the light, gathered up all the clothes on the furniture and floor and shoved these into the closet, then straightened the sheets and pulled the comforter over everything. Not that Stacy was likely to see any of this, but if she did…
“Everything okay?” she called from the living room.
“Great.” He removed his parka and returned to the living room and hung the jacket on a hook by the door. Stacy had already hung up hers. She was seated on the sofa, Farley in his bed across from her.
“Come sit down,” she said and patted the seat beside her.
He sat, their thighs almost but not quite touching. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “I could heat some soup or something.”
“Maybe later.” She took his hand. “You have a lot of skis,” she said.
He followed her gaze to the wall across from them and the six pairs of skis leaning against the paneling. “Yeah, I guess I do.” There was a seventh pair in his locker at the resort. And maybe another in the back of the truck. “There are different pairs for different conditions.”
“That’s a lot of different conditions.”
“Some of them I just own because I like the way they look.”
“I’ve felt that way about shoes.”
They fell silent again. He shifted, moving closer. What was it about this woman that left him so off-kilter?
“Do you remember the night we met?” she asked.
“At the Trail’s End.”
“What did you think when you saw me?”
“That you looked like a woman who knew what you wanted.”
She laughed. “What did you think I wanted?”
“I was hoping it was me.”
She turned toward him and pulled his head down to hers. She had the softest lips, and soft breasts pressed against his chest. Such a fascinating contrast to the steely determination with which she faced almost everything else.
He slid the tips of his fingers beneath her fleece top, satiny skin cool to his touch. She pulled away and looked up at him, flushed and breathless. “Do I really frighten you?” she asked.
“Not you,” he said. “Only how I feel about you.”
She was going to ask him to explain. He didn’t like being a cliché—a man who couldn’t talk about feelings. But he had apparently missed class the day everyone else learned to be comfortable with emotions.
“I don’t know how to describe it,” he rushed to add. “Just…a little out of control.”
“Really?” She smiled. She slid her fingers beneath his sweater and along the waistband of his trousers. “Am I frightening you now?”
