I grab the toolbox and force myself out of the truck. The walk to the cottage is too short. I press the electronic doorbell, its chime too loud in my ears.
Footsteps sound inside. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and… Fuck.
If I thought Faye was hot two nights ago, it’s nothing compared to her now. She’s in an oversized fuzzy sweater so feathery I want to bury my face in it and leggings that hug every curve and lean muscle. Her hair is down again. Her feet are bare, toenails painted a dark plum. And she doesn’t have any makeup on, with faint circles under her eyes and a sleep-crease on her cheek, but she still ruins my ability to think straight. I swallow.
She looks so soft. So huggable.
Her eyes go wide when she sees me, lips parting in surprise.
“H-hello.” The greeting comes out stammered, breathless.
I feel that stumble in my gut. A kick of satisfaction that I’m not the only one off-balance here.
“Morning.” I keep my voice cheerful and lift the toolbox. “Maintenance. Becky made the appointment a while ago.”
Understanding dawns over her face. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” She chuckles, uneasy, a little self-deprecating. “I’ve always dealt with her for the lease.”
“She sorts the rents, but I do the maintenance.”
“Makes sense. I just… mmm… hadn’t realized it’d be you coming… I haven’t needed anything done since I moved in.” She’s fidgeting with the edge of her sweater, nervous energy radiating off her.
I hope she’s jittery around me for the same reasons I’m edgy when I’m with her. Because I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since the day we met.
“I hope not.” I clear my throat. “We renovated all six cottages last year. I’m crossing my fingers we’ve got a few more years before any serious maintenance is needed.” Look how great I am at small talk.
Faye steps back, holding the door open wider. “Well, come on in.”
I cross the threshold, hyperaware of how close we are in the narrow entryway.
“What was it you had to do again?” Her gaze skips around, never landing on me.
“AC filters cleanup.”
“Ah, right. Well, go ahead. You want a coffee or something?”
“That’d be nice. I’ll start in the living room. Won’t take long.”
She disappears into the kitchen while I study what she’s done with the space. I’m familiar with the layout; I helped design it, chose the furniture, and painted these walls myself. But seeing her things mixed in with what I built feels intimate. Books overflow from the custom shelves, spines cracked from reading. A fuzzy pink blanket is draped over the couch. The coffee table is buried under a stack of lesson plans. And plugged into the TV—a massive flat-screen you’d expect in a sports bar—are a VR headset and a Nintendo Switch. The second built-in shelf is loaded with dozens of video game cases. As many as the books. Okay, that’s unexpected.
I start to work, taking the AC grate off the split and the filter out. Faye is still moving around in the kitchen. The familiar gurgle of brewing drifts over after a bit.
“How do you take your coffee?” she calls.
“Milk or vanilla creamer, if you have it. Otherwise, lots of sugar.”
“Sugar is terrible for you.” She appears in the doorway, holding two mugs. “I only have milk and stevia anyway. You’re getting the healthy version.”
“I’ll survive,” I joke.
She hands me the coffee and immediately takes several steps back, retreating fast.
I take a sip. “Nice. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She nods, wrapping both her hands around her mug. “Isn’t April too early for air conditioning?”
“Better to handle it now before June hits and the AC runs nonstop.” I set the mug on a patch of the coffee table free of papers. “Once summer kicks in, these units don’t get a break until October.”
“Oh, right.” She watches me work, and her gaze on me feels almost ticklish. “I’m still adjusting to having seasons.”
