Page 38 of Smooth Sailing

Good to know.

Through this, surreptitiously, I took Muzzle in.

His strength was lean and defined, whereas Hugger’s was hulking and, well…also defined.

Muzzle had dark-brown hair; it was longish, unruly and thick. He was scruffy, with stubble but not a beard. He had hazel eyes that had a mesmerizing tawny center.

Clean him up a bit, put him in a button down and newer jeans, he’d be my type. Long, lean, dark and handsome.

Hugger was none of these things, and yet I found myself cooking beside Muzzle without the barest hint of that uncomfortable excitement you get when you’re around an attractive man you want to get to know.

Instead, it was just comfortable and friendly.

No. The tenterhooks I was riding was waiting to hear the front door open, heralding Hugger was back.

This was a problem.

I didn’t tend to be shy around guys I liked, so that wasn’t it.

No, it was that I was a realist.

Hugger lived in Denver.

I’d been around snow. It was pretty if you were sitting inside, drinking hot cocoa and watching Hallmark movies.

Other than that, I wanted no part of it.

That wasn’t the only reason I had no intention of leaving Phoenix. The others were more important, and they were named Nicole, Gram, Larry, and all my friends. Also my job.

Not to mention, I’d never heard that first story where a long-distance relationship worked out. I’d also never heard of it working when one or the other (and it was usually the woman) moved somewhere for her man. That was always a disaster, costly and emotional.

It had to be noted, the biggest part of the problem was, I wasn’t even sure he liked me, but instead, he thought I was an idiot.

The slaw was macerating. There were six crisp cod strips sitting on a paper towel, with three more in the oil, and I was seeing about warming up the tortillas when we heard the front door open.

My heart jumped.

Crap.

Hugger walked in carrying odd-shaped, square-ish, beat-up, black leather bags that were closed with straps and buckles, one in each hand.

He stopped, looked at me, looked at Muzzle, looked at the fish frying in the skillet, then looked back at me, first to my cleavage, then to my eyes.

“Dinner isn’t ready,” he declared.

I started laughing.

Then I said, “Come with me.”

I left the kitchen and went down the hall to my room.

I stopped at the door to my walk-in closet and turned back to see Hugger standing a couple of steps inside the room, looking around.

There was no happy wiggle in my belly at that.

Nope.

The happy wiggle I felt at Hugger in my bedroom was somewhere south.

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