Read Under the Boardwalk: A Dazzling Collection of All New Summertime Love Stories for Free Online Page A

watched as she lifted the globes of the lamps and touched the match to the wicks, then replaced the globes. She blew out the match and tossed it into the fireplace.
    Without a word she went into the kitchen and duplicated the chore, though there were four oil lamps there because she liked more light when she was working. The fire in the stove had been banked; she opened the door, stirred the hot coals, and added more wood.
    "What are you doing?" he asked from the doorway.
    Mentally she rolled her eyes. "Cooking." Maybe he'd never seen the process before.
    "But we just ate."
    "So we did, but those sandwiches won't hold you for long, if I'm any judge." She eyed him, measuring him against the door frame. A little over six feet tall, she guessed, and at least two hundred pounds. He looked muscled, given the way his shoulders filled out his shirt, so he might weigh more. This man would eat a lot.
    He came on into the room and settled at the table, turning the chair around so he faced her, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. His fingers drummed on the table. "This irritates the hell out of me," he confessed.
    Her tone was dry. "I noticed." She dipped some water into the wash bowl and washed her hands.
    "Usually I can do
something
. Usually, in bad weather, I
have
to do something, whether it's working a wreck or dragging people off of flooded roads. I need to be out there now, because my deputies will have their hands full."
    So that was the cause of his restlessness and irritability; he knew his help was needed, but he couldn't leave here. She liked his sense of responsibility.
    He watched in silence then as she prepared her biscuit pan, spraying it with nonstick spray. She got her mixing bowl and scooped some flour into it, added shortening and buttermilk, and plunged her hands into the bowl.
    "I haven't seen anyone do that in years." He smiled as he kept his eyes on her hands, deftly mixing and kneading. "My grandmother used to, but I can't remember ever seeing my mother make biscuits by hand."
    "I don't have a refrigerator," she said practically. "Frozen biscuits are out."
    "Don't you want to have things like refrigerators and electric stoves? Doesn't it bother you, not having electricity?"
    "Why should it? I don't depend on a wire for heat and light. If I had electricity, the power might be off right now and I wouldn't be able to cook."
    He rubbed his jaw, brow furrowed as he thought. She liked the sight, she mused, eying him as she continued to knead. His brows were straight and dark, nicely shaped. Everything about him was nicety shaped. She bet all the single women in town, and a few of the married ones, were hot for him. Short dark hair, bright blue eyes, strong jaw, soft lips—she didn't know how she knew his lips were soft, but she did. Oh, yeah, they were hot for him. She was a bit warm herself.
    She thought of walking over to him and straddling his lap, and an instantaneous flush swept over her entire body. Warm, my foot; she thought she might break out in a sweat any minute now.
    "Running a gas line would be even harder than running power lines," he mused, his mind still on the issue of modern conveniences. "I guess you could get a propane tank, but filling it would be a bitch, since there aren't any roads out here."
    "The wood stove suits me fine. It's only a few years old, so it's very efficient. It heats the whole house, and it's easy to regulate." She began pinching off balls of dough and rolling them between her hands, shaping them into biscuits and placing them in the pan. If she kept her eyes on the dough, instead of him, the hot feeling cooled down somewhat.
    "Where do you get your wood?"
    She couldn't help it She had to look at him, her expression incredulous. "I cut it myself." Where did he think she got it? Maybe he thought the wood fairies chopped it and piled it up for her.
    To her surprise, he surged up out of the chair, looming over her with a scowl. "Chopping wood is too hard for