Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
LIZZY
I groan as Chase heads back to his cabin, scrubbing a hand down my face. His broad, tanned back is just as muscular as the front, and his ass . . .
I should never have accepted his help.
I just got out of a toxic relationship. I don’t want to be indebted to my next-door neighbor — my incredibly sexy neighbor who smells like cedar and sunshine.
My dad’s words ring in my ears.
There are only two people in this world you can count on, Lizzy Bear — yourself, and your dear old dad. Now I won’t always be around, so you need to learn to stand on your own two feet.
My eyes burn with tears, but I refuse to let them fall.
He was right.
Shuffling into the bathroom, I catch sight of myself in the spotted mirror over the sink. My hair is a haystack, my eyes are red and puffy, and I’m wearing my pink cat pajamas.
I sigh. This is what I had on when my handsome, shirtless neighbor showed up.
Can this day get any worse?
As if in answer, my phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. I see my ex’s name pop up above the text messages, along with nine missed calls. All from him.
Where are you?
Answer your phone.
I said I was sorry. What more do you want?
Fury and indignation bubble up in my gut, and I peel off my smoky pajamas. I find a clean pair of jeans in one of my bags and pull them on just as it buzzes again.
Fuck you and your bullshit.
You can freeze me out, but I will find you, Lizzy.
This isn’t over.
My chest constricts, my heart beating faster. The angry red scratches on my arm stand out starkly against my pale skin, some of them oozing clear fluid. I took the bandages off yesterday, and they’ve started to scab over.
My hands shake, and I brace them on the counter, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.
You are safe. Bryce is in Denver. He isn’t going to find you here.
I have to repeat the words three more times before I’m calm enough to pick out a sweater and a camisole to wear underneath. I’m still attacking my ratty hair with a brush when I hear a soft knock at the door.
I’m so startled that I drop the brush, whipping around before I remember it’s Chase.
Padding across the cabin, I open the door to let him in and am greeted by a crooked smile that nearly causes my poor heart to give out.
Mercifully, he’s wearing a shirt this time, though I don’t know if it helps.
The fabric clings to his tanned biceps in a very distracting way, and the starkness of the white cotton makes his eyes seem even bluer.
A pair of perfectly worn jeans hang low on his hips, and — mother of pearl — he’s wearing a leather tool belt.
My ovaries nearly explode at the sight, along with all my good sense.
A metal toolbox rests at his feet, and I get the feeling he plans on fixing more than just the deadbolt and my blocked flue.
“Are you sure you aren’t a handyman?” I ask, nodding at the tools.
That lopsided grin grows, which only serves to make him more handsome. “Nope. But it pays to be able to do some basic repairs when you live in the mountains.”
“I can see that.”
Toeing off his boots, Chase comes inside, those blue eyes combing the cabin with an assessing look. He’s clean-shaven with short brown hair that accentuates a sharp, chiseled jawline.
Fuck, why does he have to be so handsome when I’m such a hot mess?
“Can I get you something?” I ask, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans. Then I remember that I haven’t been to the store yet and don’t have any food in the house. “Coffee or . . .coffee?”
He chuckles — a low, warm sound that travels all the way down to my knees. “Coffee would be great.”
Grateful to have something to do besides hover awkwardly while he fixes things, I go into the kitchen and start boiling water for my French press. Chase is already laying a canvas drop cloth down in front of the hearth and opening the door to the wood-burning stove.
I snap my head around at the sound of a feral “ree-ow!” just as the black cat I’ve dubbed “Cinders” comes darting out from behind the couch.
Chase gives a startled yell as the cat scampers past him with a hiss. Cinders bolts around the room at a breakneck pace before banking off the kitchen counter as he leaps onto one of the rafters.
“I don’t suppose you want me to dispose of that cat for you,” Chase grumbles, staring up at the feline as if he holds a personal grudge.
“Nah. I don’t mind the company.”
“You don’t mind sharing your new home with a demon?”
“He’s only been demonic to you so far,” I muse, adding the coffee grounds to the French press.
Chase snorts and peers inside the stove, reaching a hand in to feel for any obstructions. “It’s not blocked,” he says. A pause, and then, “You just have to open the damper.”
My cheeks heat. How did I forget to open the fucking damper?
I’m an idiot, that’s how.
“Probably for the best,” he says. “No one’s lived here for a long time. I should clean the chimney before you have a fire.”
He goes back outside and climbs onto the roof, and I hear lots of clanging and thunking before he reappears to sweep the ashes into a metal bucket.
Cinders watches the entire operation through narrowed eyes, and I busy myself with unwrapping the rest of my framed photos as Chase examines the back door.
“So . . . what do you do?” he asks, taking a screwdriver to the deadbolt.
“I’m a photographer,” I say, feeling self-conscious after my idiocy with the fireplace. “Although, I probably need to pick up some part-time work. Just until I can get some more jobs booked up here.”
“What sort of work?”
I shrug, embarrassed that I called myself a photographer when I’m really a waitress who takes pictures on the side. “I’ve waited tables before. I could do that again.”
“There are a couple of restaurants in Bristlecone that might be looking,” Chase offers, still fiddling with the lock. “A buddy of mine and his wife own the pizzeria. It’s a small family operation, and I think they’re hiring.”
“That would be perfect,” I say, bustling back into the kitchen and trying not to think of my dwindling savings and how hard it’s going to be to find new clients now that I’ve moved out of Denver.
“Is that one you took?” Chase asks, pointing to a photo of my dad hunched over his workbench. He’s in the middle of turning a chair leg on his lathe, and sawdust glistens around him in the dying sunlight.
I nod, my neck prickling as Chase comes up behind me to get a better look. “He didn’t know I was taking the picture,” I add. “Otherwise, he never would have let me.”
“It’s incredible, Lizzy. You’re really good.”
I chew my bottom lip, uncomfortable with the praise.
Bryce always called photography my “hobby” when we were around other people.
When I started booking real jobs that paid real money, he would complain that we were short on cash, even though I was making more than I had when I’d just been waiting tables.
Thankfully, the coffee is done, which gives me something to do with my hands. Chase grins as I hand him a cup in my Scooby Doo mug, and we fall into easy conversation as he fixes things and I unpack.
He talks about his sister, Riley, and her two little kids. He tells me about the Marines and living in the mountains and how the residents of Blue River snowmobile into Bristlecone when the highway is closed.
When he asks me about my life, I stick to the basics. My small photography business. My friends in Denver. I don’t tell him why I moved to Blue River or how things ended with Bryce. I convince myself it’s because I don’t know him well enough, but really it’s because I’m ashamed.
I’m just organizing my toiletries when I step into a small puddle pooling on the bathroom floor. Hissing, I shuffle back, staring at the water.
“Oh, no,” I groan, my stomach clenching as I realize there’s yet another issue I have to solve.
“What is it?”
I give a jolt when I realize that Chase is standing right behind me. I must not have heard him coming. His eyes crease with concern at my obvious jumpiness, but I just clear my throat. “I . . . think there’s a leak.”
“I think you might be right.”
Chase doesn’t seem at all bothered by the fact that there’s a growing puddle on my bathroom floor. He just steps around it and opens the cabinet to peer under the sink.
My throat constricts as fresh financial panic sets in. This isn’t something that can be put off until I can reach my landlord. I called him last night and twice again this morning, and he still hasn’t returned my calls. I can’t afford a bill from a plumber.
“Can you grab that flashlight from over there?” Chase asks.
I hurry over to retrieve the heavy-duty flashlight resting on top of his toolbox. I hand it to him, and Chase shines it into the cavity beneath the sink as I run to get towels to mop up the floor.
Shoving up my sleeves, I bend down to start cleaning up the water. But just as I’m almost eye level with Chase, his hand shoots out to capture my wrist.
I suck in a breath, my stomach clenching when I realized I accidentally exposed the long, deep scratches running up my forearm.
“What is this?” he asks, his voice low and deadly.
I swallow, trying to wrench my arm away before he can get a better look at the cuts that obviously did not come from my new cat. But his hold is like iron, though his fingers are gentle where they grip me. “It’s n-nothing,” I stammer. “Just a scratch.”
“It’s not nothing,” he rumbles, his eyes flashing in the dim bathroom. “Who — hurt you?”
“Nobody,” I insist, yanking my arm back and pushing my sleeve down to cover the marks. I don’t like looking at them myself, and I certainly don’t want Chase staring at them. If he looks too close, he’s bound to realize they’re much too deep to have been caused by a dog.
I can feel his eyes boring into me, but I don’t meet his gaze.
Thankfully, he relents, and I hear a long sigh whoosh out of him as he returns to examining the plumbing under the sink.
“I think I see the problem,” he says, reaching up to put the flashlight on the counter. The movement nudges my phone to one side, and it tips over the edge and hits the floor.
Chase hisses out an apology, his hand shooting out to retrieve the phone, and my heart leaps into my throat. The motion illuminates the screen, showing all my ex’s messages.
I reach for the phone, but not before Chase’s eyes dart down to the lit-up screen.
His expression darkens as he looks away — too quickly — a muscle in his jaw feathering as he hands it to me.
Stuffing it into my back pocket, I clear my throat nervously before asking, “How bad is it?”
Chase’s eyes seem lighter than before — more of an ice blue than the sky blue I remember. He sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly, running a hand over his jaw. “Should be an easy fix. I think I have everything I need.”
I open my mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to fix my bathroom sink.
I should definitely be paying him for all this work.
But I get the feeling he would be offended if I offered, and I’m worried he’s going to ask me about the messages, so I just mutter a quick thanks and return to unpacking my things.
All thoughts of Bryce leave my mind when I steal a glimpse at Chase sprawled beneath the sink. With his arms stretched overhead, the muscles in his triceps bulge, and his T-shirt rises up a few inches in the front to reveal a swath of tanned, chiseled abs.
My mouth goes dry as I watch him work, all the while wondering how much of those texts he saw.
I don’t want his pity. And I certainly don’t want him to think I’m the type of woman who lets men walk all over her.
I’m so busy trying not to stare at Chase that I barely notice him puttering around fixing other odds and ends until it’s almost noon. He goes back to his cabin and returns with two giant ham sandwiches stacked with meat, cheese, lettuce, and tomato.
We eat as I unpack and he continues to work, and by mid-afternoon, my cabin has a functional deadbolt, a sink that doesn’t leak, and a cleaned chimney flue.
Chase also fixed the loose cabinet doors and patched a small hole between the roof and the wall, which I suspect is how the cat has been sneaking in and out.
Bringing in some dry kindling and wood, Chase kneels in front of the hearth and starts a fire in the wood stove. It will be a while before the warmth permeates the cabin, but the crackling flames lend a coziness to the space that makes me feel at home for the first time since I got here.
“There’s enough wood out back to keep this going through the night,” he says. “I can bring some more over in the morning. Tomorrow, when I go into town, I’ll swing by the hardware store and pick up a couple of boards so we can fix the porch step.”
“You really don’t have to,” I blurt, something inside me warming at his use of the word “we.” I didn’t participate in any of the repairs, beyond handing him a flashlight and passing him a drill, but it still feels nice to be included.
In another life, I might be able to imagine us fixing up a place of our own.
Stop it, I tell myself. You just got out of a bad relationship. Dad is gone. You need to learn to do things on your own.
“It’s no trouble,” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
“I feel like I should be paying you.”
Chase cracks that easy grin again, and my insides do a little flip-flop. “You should test out the sink before you offer that. I’m not a real plumber.”
I bite back a laugh, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my whole body. “At least let me make you dinner.”
His blue eyes sparkle, and that warmth becomes a searing heat that travels all the way down to my core. “Now that I can accept. Sandwiches are about the extent of my cooking ability.”
“Tomorrow night?” I ask. “I make a mean casserole.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I could stuff them back in.
Casserole? Really? Of all the things I could offer to make, I had to pick the least sexy food on the planet.
But Chase’s grin just broadens, his gaze softening. “That sounds amazing.”
Biting my bottom lip, I smile back like an idiot as he lets himself out. I watch him go with my stomach all twisted up, and when he turns over his shoulder to glance at me once more, I know I am a goner.