“There’s no door on the bedroom.”
He stared at her. “Oh no. Cabin six is a one bedroom. I’m sorry—I didn’t even think.”
“That’s fine. I slept on the sofa. But they barely spoke on the way up, and last night Dad actually offered to take the sofa.”
“I can move you.”
“No. My dad loves it—says it has the best view. And it’s not the cabin. Something isn’t right—Mom practically pushed me out of the door today. Told me to get coffee.”
“We have bags of beans in the lodge.” He had opened the cat litter and now poured some behind the front wheel. “I should have stocked it for you. I was out late—”
“You have to be exhausted.”
“Naw.” He smoothed out the litter with his boot, kicking it behind the wheel, then did the same with the other wheel, on the ice.
“A true Minnesotan.”
He looked at her, and she lifted a shoulder. “No, really. I get it. I grew up in a small town in Minnesota too. I learned to keep my troubles to myself. It’s the Minnesota way. And especially, the Brown family way.”
He wore a frown, his green eyes in hers. “Really, I can move you. We’re not that full.”
“No. I just need to do something to stay out of the way so they can figure this out.” She got in the car.
He bent down, put his shoulder against the car’s bumper. “Slowly.”
She gave it gas, and he eased the car out of the ditch, back onto the pavement. Just like last night.
Yeah, she’d been completely wrong about him. Of course.
She got out of the car. “Thanks. Can I do anything for you? Buy you some hot cocoa maybe?”
“I have coffee in the truck. Just…stay on the road. And let me know if I can make your stay any better.” He grinned, winked. “Like not running you off the road again.”
“That would get you five stars on Trip Advisor.”
He laughed, lighting that little stupid fire in her again, then headed off toward his truck, got in, and pulled away.
And just like that, the conversation from last night was in her head. But he definitely has his hands full. Maybe you can help.
Whatever.
Or…
She got in the car and pulled out toward town.
CHAPTER 3
TUESDAY, 1:00 P.M.
Romeo had finished the Millers’ half-mile drive when he spotted the low oil pressure light on in the truck. How long it had been flashing at him on the dash, Romeo couldn’t guess.
His mind had been replaying the conversation on the side of the road with Stella.
Who should be in Vienna.
Who had said she liked his crazy name and apologized for last night, and, well, cried. And that had simply undone him.
He didn’t handle women falling apart well. Thanks, Mom.
But Stella had pulled herself together, and frankly, he’d ended up liking her. Sorta wished he’d said yes to her offer to buy him cocoa. But then what? She was a guest.
Hello, awkward.
But he couldn’t get those blue eyes and the way she’d looked at him through the windshield as he pushed her out of the ditch—like he might be a hero or something—out of his brain.
And right then, the check engine light pinged on.
Perfect.
He got out and climbed under the Ford F-350 and spotted the trouble right off—a hole in his oil pan, courtesy of some rock in the ditch, probably.
Which meant he’d be pulling the oil pan and replacing it before he could do any more plowing. He didn’t want to take a look at his growing to-do list.
Miraculously, he made it home without the engine seizing, but by the time he pulled into the parking lot of the resort, the truck had started to ping. He got out, unhooked the plow, then drove the truck into the garage.
He’d noticed that the Browns’ car wasn’t back. Hopefully Stella wasn’t in a ditch somewhere.
Romeo wasn’t the best mechanic, but he’d learned a few things from Uncle John over the years, and if he got into a pinch, he could retrieve the extra keys to Casper’s truck and use that until the crew returned.
But he’d rather get the truck back on its feet before the Christiansens could stand around and critique his work.
Uncle John had left his very impressive toolbox, the one on wheels and a tow hitch, behind when he moved to the boat. And now Romeo dug through the tools for a ratchet and socket kit.
He probably wouldn’t need to drop out the engine, but he’d probably have to remove the steering linkage. Then it would just be the bell housing shroud and oil pan bolts.
Four hours to get it out, drain the pan, patch the hole with a nut and bolt—for now—and he’d have it back in and running.
In theory.
In reality, he stood staring at the truck, painfully aware that he could get this thing apart and end up with pieces that he had no idea what to do with.
“I brought you that hot cocoa.”
He turned, and for a moment, just blinked at the voice.
Stella. She stood at the garage door, and something about her simply made him stop. Breathe.
Maybe it was her smile, something gentle and yet inviting, the look in her blue eyes so absent of last night’s ire. But mostly, the sense that she had come looking for him, holding two cups of cocoa from the Java Cup in her hands.
“I know you said you already had coffee, but that was over an hour ago, and I figured that everybody has room for hot cocoa— Is everything okay?” She gestured with one of the cups. “That doesn’t bode well.”
He followed her gesture to the ratchet in his hand, then put it down on the counter. “I blew a hole in the oil pan. And I’m trying to figure out how to change it without destroying the company vehicle.”
“Then you definitely need chocolate.” She advanced into the garage and handed him the cup. “I wish I were handy, but the best I can do is restring a cello.”
He took the cup. “I can’t do that. I can pack a parachute, though.”
“Wow. I can make a mean batch of chocolate chip cookies.”
“I can tie a fishing lure onto a line in less than thirty seconds.”
“I can do a skating toe loop.” She grinned and took a drink of her cocoa.
“I can parallel park in Minneapolis.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s impressive.”
He laughed. Took a sip of hot cocoa. It was still warm. Creamy. “Thanks.”
“No, thank you.” She drew in a breath. “Actually, I was hoping that maybe you’d let me help you out a little this week.”
He frowned. “Help me out?”
She made a face. “I overheard someone mentioning that you were working the resort alone this week.”
Thank you very much, Deep Haven gossip crowd. Kathy and whoever else was holed up at Java Cup. He could imagine the conversation—
Did you hear that the Christiansens brought in that foster kid again? To run the place? What were they thinking—
“I can handle it.”
Her smile fell, and shoot, he didn’t mean it quite like it sounded. Or, frankly, at all. Because he could admit that with the truck kaput, he might be a little in over his head. And then there was, Just keep the guests warm and happy.