God, that kiss . . . It’d been incredible. She wondered if there was any chance of a repeat when she got home, or if that’d been a one-time, New-Year’s-Eve-at-midnight kiss. Her fingertips drifted to her lips as she recalled how his warm, firm mouth felt against hers. The command in his touch, the barely restrained fire . . . Her belly did a little flip and she swallowed hard.
When he pulled up the long driveway and stopped at her front door, he got out before she even had her coat zippered up. He opened her door for her and offered a hand to help her out of the truck, a perfect gentleman.
She murmured thanks as she stepped out. They stood there, smiling pleasantly at each other.
“Thank you for tonight,” she said. “I really enjoyed our time together.”
“I did too,” he said. “It was great.”
“So you’re finally convinced I’m not an entitled rich brat?” she asked.
His eyes fell away in obvious embarrassment, then lifted to meet hers. “I was very wrong about you. Have you forgiven me for being a horse’s ass about it?”
“Absolutely.” Her smile broadened. He was so close that even in the frigid air, she could feel the heat coming off his large, powerful body. Warmth pooled in her limbs, searing through her more sensitive parts . . . She didn’t want the night to end. She wanted to wrap herself in his strong arms. To take him inside and luxuriate in more of those hot, bone-melting kisses.
But this wasn’t supposed to be a date. And it was freezing outside. She cleared her throat and said, “Good night, Logan. Thank you again for tonight.” She put her hands on his broad chest, leaning against him to rise and press her lips to his cheek.
His hands came up and wrapped around her arms, holding her there. Her cheek leaned against his, his beard tickling her and sparking fresh desire. He didn’t kiss her, but held her close for a lingering moment. Her heart started pounding in her chest. All she had to do was turn her face and she could kiss him . . . It seemed like maybe he wanted to? But no . . . If he wasn’t kissing her, maybe he didn’t want to again. Not knowing what to do, she drew back.
His pale green eyes blazed with intensity as he stared down at her. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then stopped. A hint of a wistful smile curved his lips, and all he said was, “Good night, Tess. Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” she said, and pulled away from him to go inside.
Chapter Eight
Logan shone the flashlight at the boiler in the dark basement of the LeFabrays’ ski house, squinting as he examined it. This was the second time the pilot light had gone out in the last week. Something was definitely wrong; he just had to figure out what. It’d seemed like an easy fix when he was here on the twenty-eighth. The fact that it was out again by the second irritated him more than anything. It shouldn’t have happened again. He hadn’t missed anything, he was always thorough . . . He suspected it was time for a new boiler, and though his clients upstairs had more money than God, they’d grumble about that.
Half an hour later, after a slightly unpleasant conversation with Blaine and Missy LeFebray, he climbed into his truck, grateful for the whip of the cold morning air against his face. He needed a second cup of coffee, or a run on the treadmill. As he turned on the ignition and decided which to pursue first, his phone buzzed in his coat pocket. Three texts; they must have come in while he was in the basement. As it was, cell reception on Red Mountain could be spotty, but in the basement of a McMansion, he absolutely hadn’t gotten those messages.
The first was from his mom, saying good morning and asking if he’d come by for dinner. The second, from Ford, a simple hey, what’s up. The third was from Tess, asking if he’d give her a call when he was able to, she had a question. A little thrill rolled through him. He’d had her on his mind since he’d dropped her off at her house about thirty-six hours before. New Year’s Eve with her had been really nice . . . and then, more than nice. That kiss had him in lusty knots every time he recalled it, which was often. The way she felt, the way she smelled, the way her wide blue eyes sparkled with laughter or darkened with desire . . . dammit, she was in his head, and getting under his skin.