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“We’ll need to phone from my cottage, then. Let’s go.”
They moved through the grove of trees separating the two properties, past the dusty black Jeep in the driveway, to the three-story cedar house. From the lake it appeared massive: the termcottagedefinitely a misnomer. Uncle John had a real cottage: two bedrooms, small living areas, country-styled furniture, and homily comfortable. This place seemed at least five times the size. For such a rough-and-ready-looking guy, he seemed to be staying in a pretty fancy-schmancy place. He must know some rich people to stay here.
He led the way up the stone steps to the front door. “Come in.”
Sarah walked through the massive entrance and stood on the flagstones, staring at the lovely home. Late afternoon sunlight on the red timber paneling and exposed brick created a rustic, cozy feeling, while the high ceilings and huge picture windows gave a sense of space. The back windows of the large living room overlooked the extensive back deck, and she could see through the trees to the hot tub, boatshed, and tranquil lake beyond.
“Nice.” Massive understatement. She gazed around at the comfortable furnishings, leather lounges, huge flat-screen television, gigantic stone fireplace. He took her on a brief tour. Six bedrooms, four bathrooms, several living spaces—for a holiday cottage, it was way larger than an average home. The people he’d borrowed it from must be loaded.
“Happy with pizza?” She nodded, and after debating the pizza options, Dan ordered. “They usually take a little while. Want a coffee while we wait? I can make you a cappuccino if you like.”
What, like one of those cappuccino-in-a-packet things? No, thank you. Then she noticed the chrome machine sitting in the corner of the kitchen. Her taste buds switched to high gear. “There’s a real espresso machine!”
“It’s nice to not have to travel into town when I need my coffee fix.”
“I’d kill for a real coffee. I mean, the plunger’s okay, but it’s not quite the same.”
“You’re not an addict, are you?”
“I prefer the termaficionado.” She offered a half smile.
He studied her a beat longer, mouth tucked up in one corner. “So, what’ll it be?”
“Can you make a latte?”
“Sure.”
She sat on the barstool as he switched on the machine and plugged in the electric grinder, whose high-pitched whine soon filled the room. Well, hello, Mister Barista.
“Want any flavoring?”
“No. I like to actually taste the coffee.”
“Hey, me too.”
As he described where he bought his organic beans, Sarah bit back a grin, chastened about her initial preconceptions. And when she tasted the coffee, she knew just how wrong she’d been. It was like liquid gold hitting her bloodstream. She closed her eyes and smiled. Okay, she’d been way wrong. Seriously nice, smooth, dark, delicious…
Whoa. Her eyes snapped open to meet his gaze. The coffee was delicious—nothing else.
Her cheeks heated as he continued studying her. “What?”
“You have some froth…here.” He leaned over the marble counter, eyes intense, and touched her lip.
A tingle shot straight through her. She jerked away.
His surprised gaze held a question she wasn’t up to answering, so she swung off the stool, carrying her mug over to a large bookcase. She sipped coffee, tracing the spines, while he excused himself to make a phone call. John Grisham, Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlam, Lee Child. Someone liked to read. Mostly action thrillers, but she noted a few authors she liked also.
He hung up the phone and glanced her direction.
“I love this book.” She held up a hardcover copy of L.M. Montgomery’sThe Blue Castle.“Do you think it’d be okay if I borrow it?”
“Sure.”
“Did you know it’s set here in Muskoka?”
He shook his head. “Take it. I know you enjoy your books.”
“Thanks.” She looked up at him—baseball cap on backward, barefoot, lounging against the wall, biceps straining against the faded blue maple-leaf-emblazoned T-shirt as he crossed his arms. Classic jock. “So, do you read?”
