And today, I hit pay dirt. Through the front window of the cottage diagonal from mine, I see him.  My heart flutters in my chest, making me feel breathless for a second.

The heat must be on over there because he’s only wearing a white T-shirt. I can just see him from the waist up, but it’s enough. It’s enough to give me butterflies and warm my cool skin. Cole is standing in front of the window with a few nails clamped between his lips, hammering something above his head. I let my hungry eyes drift over him, drift over his god-like face, over his peaked biceps, over his narrow waist.  The material of his shirt has ridden up as he stretches, revealing the very last row of muscle on his chiseled abdomen.  My stomach turns a flip as I imagine what that skin must feel like–smooth and hard.  Probably warm.  Hot even.

“What is it, Momma?”

I jump guiltily, so enthralled I didn’t hear her approach.  “You scared me!  What are you, a ninja-in-training?” I tease.

Emmy’s eyes light up.  “Like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?” she asks.

“Even better!  You’re not green and you don’t have to carry that heavy shell on your back all day.  But if you want to try, maybe you could start with carrying me.”  I grab her and pretend to try and climb on her back.  She squeals and wiggles, so I end up tickling her instead.

“Your hands are cold,” I tell her when she runs her icy little fingers up my neck in an attempt to tickle me back.  “How about a hot bath to warm you up?”

“A bath?” she asks in horror.  “Ewww!”  Like every other child in the world, baths rank among Emmy’s least favorite things.

“A clean little girl?  Ewww!” I dance my fingers up and down her spine and she twists and turns to avoid them.  “Fine. I guess I’ll have to settle for a clean and warm Momma then.”

“That sounds better,” she admits with an impish grin.

“And after that…lunch.  Then school work,” I warn.

I see Emmy’s eyes roll before she turns away from me to scamper back into the living room. School work, especially since she’s homeschooled and has no playmates to soften the blow, falls right above baths on her “list of things I loathe.”  Getting her to do either is like pulling teeth.

In the bathroom I turn on the hot water spigot and temper it with just a little bit of cold as I wind up my hair and shed my clothes.  I think my eyes roll back into my head when I stick my toe in.  The moan that rumbles out of my throat when I sink down into the warm liquid is uncontainable.  “Holy crap, that feels good!” I say to the empty room. It’s fairly quiet in here, only the muted blare of the television interrupting the tranquility.

I let my eyes drift shut, visions of Cole dancing through my thoughts.  His beautiful face, his incredible body, his overt strength. His hidden vulnerability.  He’s like all things delicious–and gorgeous, and capable, and mysterious–wrapped up in a package that has KEEP AWAY scrawled across the front.  It makes for one of the most irresistible combinations I’ve ever encountered.  It’s so easy to picture him sweeping me off my feet, holding me in his strong arms, crushing my mouth with his perfect lips, warming my skin with his calloused touch.  God!

I don’t know how much time has passed in my fantasy world when I lift my head to look around.  Emmy is happily singing along with one of her favorite DVDs and my water has cooled considerably.  Not ready to give up Cole just yet, I hook my toe in the drain plug and yank. I let out a couple of inches of tepid water before I re-plug it and twist the hot water knob to add more heat.  I hear a dull clink and practically the whole thing comes off in my hand and then, a deluge of water.

The hard spray hits me right in the face. I squeal and press my hand in to cover the pipe hole.  Water is in my eyes, shooting up onto the ceiling and spilling from the tub out onto the floor before I get it somewhat under control.  And even then, it’s still spewing like crazy.  And it’s getting hotter.

“Mom!  What happened?”

Emmy is standing in the doorway, wide-eyed.  I flatten my palm over the pipe end to stem the flow as I look around for some kind of shut-off valve.  The only one I see is for the toilet right beside the tub.

My mind races. I’m no plumber! I have no idea what to do in a situation like this other than let it flood the house, which would be a nightmare!  One thought, one person, pops into my head.  Whether advisable or not, I cling to that image.

“Emmy, I need you to run to the cottage across the street. You know the one where Mr. Danzer worked this summer?”

“Yeah, I know which one.”

“You go straight over there and knock on the door.  Don’t stop and don’t talk to anyone else, do you hear me?”

“I won’t, Momma.”  Her eyes look frightened, but she’s already backing out the door.

“Emmy, get Mr. Danzer and bring him over here, okay?”

She nods and then turns to run.

“Emmy!” I yell.  I sigh in relief when she appears in the doorway again, cheeks already flushed.  “Hand me two towels,” I say.  She grabs one from the sink where I left it and another from the cabinet underneath and hands them both to me.  Water leaks copiously from around my fingers when I ease back to wind one around my front, half of it dragging in the water, and then stuff the other one on the pipe to staunch the flow of hot water. “Okay, go, go, go!”

She races off and I pray that sending her after him was the right thing to do. This would be a terrible time of year to have to find alternative accommodations.  But if anyone can fix this, I bet Cole can.

I snatch the plug out of the drain again and listen to the water in the tub gurgle away, my stomach twitching with anxious anticipation.

TEN

Cole

PART OF ME is glad that Eden isn’t at her window anymore. It’s hard enough to keep my mind off her as it is, but when I can see her…when she stands so still in her kitchen and watches me…

I close my eyes and grit my teeth against the unwanted sensations that tear through me.  I don’t want to feel anything for her. I don’t want to think about her or imagine what her soft lips would feel like against mine.  I don’t want to lie awake at night and wonder what she’s doing, what she wears to bed, or what she looks like when she sleeps.  I don’t want any of this.

Not that it matters.  I’m getting it anyway.  No matter how hard I fight it, she’s all I can think about.  Accept on beach day.

I almost don’t hear the knock at the door. I’m too deep in thought and the sound is too soft.  I stop hammering for a second to listen, thinking I might’ve mistaken some other noise for a knock. But then I hear it again, hesitant but insistent.

I lay down my hammer and walk to the door, cracking it to look outside. Standing on the porch is Eden’s daughter, Emmy.  Her eyes are as big as saucers, her thumb is stuck snugly in her mouth and she’s wiggling one foot where it’s being swallowed whole in what looks like her mother’s shoe.

A searing streak of panic blazes through me.  I fling open the door and drop to one knee in front of her.  “Emmy, what is it? Is your mom hurt?”

She shakes her head slowly, eyeing me suspiciously, like I might try to grab her and run away.  Relief washes through me and I drop my head for a second.  I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t care more than in the polite way that people care about what happens to someone they hardly know.  But that’s not what this is.  This relief…the panic that I felt initially…it’s much more than just polite. It’s a helluva lot more.

And I have no idea why.

I think again, briefly, vaguely, What the hell is she doing to me?

Emmy raises her arm and points back to her house. Her message is clear.