Just Once (16 page)

I hurry through the dining room, bare feet squeaking over the wooden floor, and turn down the hallway to the main offices. “Gina?” I call. “Gina?” She’ll know what to do. Gina has worked here for eight years and is everybody’s stern but lovable mother. She’ll know. If I can find her. “Gina?” Nothing. “Dammit!”

There’s nobody upstairs. The wranglers are out with guests, Hailey and Lisa just left, and Pete’s off with the ranch hands. Alec and Mark share a cabin out back near the boys’ bunk, but I know what they’d tell me to do: First, go to hell for interrupting them on their time off, and second, get Shane.
Goddddd.
I do not want to do that. But there’s no time. I cut back through the dining room, and water is starting to spill out from the kitchen and cover our freshly cleaned floors. I pick up the pace and push through the front doors, onto the porch.

“Shane!” I holler in the general direction of the barn. “Shane!”

No response. Not unexpected.

I left my wet socks and shoes in the kitchen, so I hoist up my sagging, soaked jeans and dart down the steps, across the gravel road, and down to the barn, hissing when I step on a particularly pointy rock. “Shane!” I call again when I’m near the barn. “Stop ignoring me! This is a work emergency!”

Still nothing. No way he left with the ranch hands, right? If he’s not here I’ll have to get Hank and Mary and explain that not only did I cause several staff members to quit, I have now flooded the place. Confessing is a last resort.

“Ow, ow, ow!” I grunt as I hurry across the grass around to the back of the barn and Shane’s trailer. I pound on the door. “Shane!”

No answer.

“Shane! I know you’re in there!” I know no such thing. “Please come out. This is a work emergency! A pipe burst in the kitchen, and I don’t know how to fix it!”

I try the handle but the door is locked. I’m ready to cry. I can only imagine the disaster zone the kitchen is and how I’ll spend all afternoon cleaning it up. I’m so hot, and I’m so tired, and I stepped on a super sharp rock, and my foot really hurts.

“
Shane!”
I bellow, pounding hard. “Open this fucking door! I’m very sorry for what I said at the dance! I don’t think you’re dumb or disgusting. You’re very kind, and you helped my shoulder, and I’m sorry I never thanked you, but please come help me in the kitchen! I don’t know who else to ask. Alec’s cabin is so far and—”

“What the hell happened to your pants?”

I whip around to find Shane fast approaching from the paddock. He’s got an open plaid shirt over a white T-shirt and cargo pants, and it’s hard to say whether I’m so happy to see him because I think he’s gorgeous or because I’m so desperate.

“Burst pipe in the kitchen,” I manage, trying to compose myself. “Please help me.”

Shane hops the fence easily and jogs around into the barn. I follow as quickly as I can, which is actually incredibly slowly because my foot hurts, and then I just watch as he exits the barn with a tool belt and runs into the lodge.

“Be careful!” I holler after him. “It’s slippery!”

He doesn’t look back.

I limp across the road, onto the porch, and into the dining room, half of which is now covered with water.
Shiiiiiit.
What a brilliant day to send my two remaining employees away early.

I enter the kitchen and find Shane crouched in a pool of water, pulling the ice machine away from the wall. The familiar hum is absent, and I assume he’s turned off the power. He’s removed the plaid shirt and his white T-shirt is already sodden, water dripping from his biceps as he pulls the heavy machine away from the wall.

“Can I help?” I ask. I’m promptly rewarded with a spray of water straight to the face as he finally dislodges the ice maker and the pipe twists my way. I gasp and nearly fall down, blinded. I feel Shane’s hand on my ass as he steadies me, though just as quickly he takes it away.

Water drips into my eyes, and I’m grateful I skipped makeup this morning. Mascara tracks would be the perfect addition to my edgy new drowned-rat look.

Shane’s got a wrench in hand, but he’s just using it to beat a stubborn, rusted valve that refuses to turn.

“Is there anything I can do?” I offer again. “Tell me how to shut off the water. Or maybe you need another tool? Or I could get someone else?”

“Get a towel,” Shane mutters, dodging the water. “Hold it over the spray.”

That’s a great—and very obvious—idea. I have to put a hand on his shoulder as I squeeze past him, my feet sloshing in the water. I make it to the laundry room—also flooded—gather up two towels and return, pressing them to the busted pipe and finally staunching the flow.

“Thanks,” Shane says after a moment.

“Do you know what happened?”

“I was going to ask you.”

“I don’t know. One minute everything was fine, the next I fell down and found this.”

“Pipe’s old,” he says finally. “Probably just gave out. I shut off the water, but the pipes are full. That’s why it’s still spraying.”

“Thank you for coming,” I say. “There was no…Everyone else was gone.”

“It’s my job.”

He gives the valve a final (and, in my opinion, unnecessarily hard) bang, and it snaps off and rolls away. He pulls out a pair of pliers and twists the now-exposed metal threads. There’s a hiss and a groan and right before our eyes a new hole appears in the pipe and filthy water sprays directly into our faces.

“Fuck!” we cry in unison, belatedly covering our eyes.

“Goddammit!” Shane curses, punching the ice maker.

I use the free towel to wipe gunk off my face and turn so Shane can’t see me as I spit. I hear him do the same and feel a faint pull on the towel as he uses it to wipe his own face. I look back and his dark hair is gleaming with water, a piece of unidentifiable black goo is stuck to his forehead, and his white shirt clings transparently to his chest. If this were a porno I’d invite him upstairs to clean
my
pipes, but of course I can’t say that. Though I want to. All the frustration of the last three weeks is gathering between my thighs, and I just want some relief. Relief I know those strong hands can provide. If the distance in his eyes is any indication, however, he is not feeling at all pornographic.

I look away and pull my pink polo shirt away from my chest, wringing it out.

“The machine will be out for a couple of days,” Shane says. “We’ll have to go to town for parts.”

“Okay.”

“Just make ice in the freezer.”

“Got it.”

I pull myself up and limp past him to find the mop and bucket.

“What happened to your foot?”

“Nothing.”

“Kate.”

“I stepped on a rock.”

I see him stare at my foot, and I want him to pick it up and inspect my wound and tell me it’ll be okay. But he doesn’t. He stands up and wrings out his shirt before using the hem to wipe at his face. He succeeds in smearing the black goo over to his temple. I don’t laugh, but I want to.

He gestures to the mop. “Got another one?”

It takes an hour to sop up the water. We empty the mop buckets sixteen times. I’m grateful for the water by this point—it hides the copious amount of sweat my body has produced. With the electricity turned off we have no fans to rely on, and the sodden mop is heavy.

Finally we pour the last bucket of filthy water down the drain and wheel the mops and buckets back to their places in the corner.

“God,” I groan. “I’m disgusting. I need a shower.” I freeze—
disgusting
is not a good word to use around Shane. But when I shoot a tentative glance his way he’s simply running the back of his arm over his brow, forehead shiny with sweat.

“It’ll have to wait,” he says.

“What?”

“Connor knows more about plumbing than I do. I shut off the water, and it’s off until he gets back to fix it. It’s well water, and he’ll have to turn the pumps back on. I don’t know how to do it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“What am I supposed to do? Air dry? I can’t go in the pool like this, I’m gross.”

Shane looks me up and down. “Yep,” he agrees.

I scowl. “Thanks.”

He sighs. “Come on, then. Put your shoes on.” I watch in surprise as he goes into the laundry room and picks up two more towels, but I don’t argue. I squish into my wet sneakers before following Shane outside and down the dirt road.

Oh
. I quickly realize his brilliant plan. The river that divides the ranch from the road is too shallow and fast-flowing for swimming, but it will rinse this sticky, sweaty, gunky mess off our skin no problem.

It’s about four hundred yards to the river, and Shane doesn’t speak on the way. He walks too fast for me to keep up, even if I weren’t limping, so he gets there before me and has already stripped off his shirt and shoes and has his hands on the button of his cargo pants when I arrive.

He stares at me, then undoes the pants and pushes them to his ankles. He’s wearing black boxer briefs that strain against his hips, and again I wonder why I never found men with muscles that sexy before. I mean, this man is pure physical perfection, and if he didn’t hate me so much, he’d be ideal. But Shane does hate me, and he turns away and climbs into the river before I’m done looking.

The river is lined with trees, so the only way people would spot us is if they were trying to find us. I hesitate, then decide to keep my shirt on anyway. I shimmy out of my jeans, uttering a thankful prayer that I opted for boy shorts this morning and not a thong.

I step into the water cautiously, feeling the strong current around my knees, and curl my toes around the slippery rocks below. I can’t stifle my moan as I sit down, letting the water rush around my shoulders. It’s cool and clean and wonderful. My eyes sink closed, and I dip my head back and run my hands over my face, washing away the stress and black goo of the past hours.

When I resurface Shane is watching me. He’s about ten feet away, also seated, but this time he doesn’t look away when our eyes meet.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He stands up and makes for the bank.

“Don’t leave,” I say. “Please. I know you’re mad, and I’m sorry about what I said. I’m not good at apologizing. Believe it or not, I don’t fight with everyone I meet. I’m just…I’m sorry. It’s none of my business who you dated…or who you date. I shouldn’t have said anything. You’re not disgusting or dumb or any of that. You’re very nice. You listened to me, and you fixed my shoulder, and I didn’t even —”

“I heard you,” Shane sighs, sitting back down. He’s about five feet away now.

“Wha—”

“When you were beating my door down. I heard you. Stop apologizing.”

“How long do you normally stay angry?”

He smiles faintly. “Forever.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Let me see your foot.”

“Pardon?”

“Now.” He arches that imperious brow, and while my instinct is to stick out my tongue, instead I stick my injured foot out of the water and wiggle it in his direction. He slides closer and wraps one hand around my ankle, his thumb pressing into my arch, avoiding the sore spot.

“Gahhh,” I gasp, half ecstasy, half horror. What he’s doing feels fantastic. I’m horrified that I can’t quite hide my response.

Again he smiles briefly. “You’ll live,” he decides, lowering my foot back into the water but not letting go. I feel his thumb pressing along my toes, bending them backward, stretching the muscles, letting them ease back into place. He’s got the hands of a masseuse, the body of a lumberjack, and the grudge-holding stamina of a sixteen-year-old girl. Almost perfect.

“Do you forgive me?”

He’s not looking at me. “Yeah.”

“Are you going to talk to me again?”

His searching fingers are making their way up my calf, pulling me closer, pressing deep into the aching muscles and making me groan inwardly. Pretty soon I’m sitting next to him, our legs stretched out side by side, my feet at his hip, his just past mine. The hair on his legs rubs against my skin.

“Shane,” I gasp as he presses something tender behind my knee. My muscles feel like they’ve turned to lava, hot and liquid. The water is clear enough that I can see his tan skin move over my pale flesh, and he’s watching it too—watching as his hand inches its way over my knee and up my leg, spanning my thigh and massaging my quad.

“You like it?” he asks, voice low.

I know he’s looking at me, but I can’t meet his eyes. “You’ll have to do the other one,” I joke to ease the tension. “I won’t be able to walk back. This leg will be putty.”

His fingers clamp down and tug me closer. With the current at my back I float forward easily. His hand disappears between my legs, squeezing my inner thigh, making me bite my lip.

“I can’t be your boyfriend,” he says.

I stiffen in surprise. Hell, surprise doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m startled, confused, desperately curious. I’ve certainly never had anyone tell me he couldn’t be my boyfriend when I hadn’t—and would never have—asked. But strangely enough, the statement doesn’t offend me. I get it. And even though I’m pretty sure I know what he’s going to say, I want to hear him say the words. I
have
to hear them. I need to know I haven’t been alone in this…thing we’ve got between us, whatever it may be. I need to know Shane feels it, too, boyfriend material or not.