Free Alaskan Sanctuary by Teri Wilson Page B

she’d just bought a week ago at Aurora’s one and only hardware store was in Ethan’s manly grasp. The damp cabin wall glistened in the misty morning sunlight. “But why? And how? Where did you find all of this stuff?”
    “In the shed.” He pointed the paintbrush at her. “Which you need to keep locked from now on, by the way. Anyone off the street could have opened the door and walked right inside. It’s a nice heated shed, and you don’t even keep it secure. They sell padlocks down at the hardware store, you know.”
    He was angry. As usual. Although why he cared so much about the fate of her gallon of Olive Branch Green latex paint was a mystery she couldn’t begin to fathom.
    “Duly noted,” she said, waiting for further explanation. Or even a hint as to what was going on.
    Wordlessly, Ethan kept moving the brush in long, even strokes. Up, down, swish, swish.
    Finally, Piper couldn’t tolerate his silence another second. “Ethan, stop.”
    He gave the area in the middle another dab, stuck the paintbrush handle-side down into the snow and bent to snap the lid back on the gallon of paint. For a man who had so much to say in the newspaper, he was awfully quiet all of a sudden.
    “You know the youth group just painted the cottage less than two weeks ago, right? I mean, not that I’m complaining or anything. It just seems like a strange chore to have chosen in my absence. I know I’m late this morning, and—” she had to pray for strength to force out her next words “—I’m sorry.”
    There. She’d apologized. To Ethan, of all people.
    He pounded the lid securely onto the can of paint and stood to meet her gaze. There was something different about the way he looked at her. She felt as light and delicate as a snowflake all of sudden. “It’s not a problem. In fact, I’m glad you were away this morning.”
    Of course he was. Just as she’d been happy to avoid him. Then why did his words sting the way they did? “I see.”
    “That’s not what I meant.” Ethan jammed a hand through his hair. He had a dab of green paint near the corner of his mouth, which drew her attention slam-bang to his lips. She wondered suddenly what it might be like to kiss those lips, to kiss Ethan Hale. Her nemesis.
    Revolting. Obviously. She couldn’t think of anything that should disgust her more than kissing Ethan. Nevertheless, her gaze remained stubbornly fixed on his mouth.
    “Piper? Did you hear me?” The corners of that mouth, still the focus of her unruly attention, tipped downward in a frown.
    She cleared her throat. “Yes, I did. Sorry, you have some paint. Right, um, there.”
    Without realizing what she was doing until it had become too late, she reached out and touched his face. His cheek was cold beneath her fingertips. Cold and wind-kissed. He didn’t flinch or shy away, as she might have done had their roles been reversed, but instead just watched and let her touch him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if her fingertips should alight on that place right next to his mouth and hover so perilously close to his lips.
    She forgot to breathe. She forgot everything for a moment, everything but the hard planes of Ethan’s chiseled face and the haunted look in his eyes behind the lacy veil of snow that fell between them.
    Have you lost your mind? What are you doing? She erased the smudge of paint with the pad of her thumb and pulled her hand away.
    “All gone,” she managed to whisper.
    Why was her hand shaking? And why, oh, why had she gone breathless all of a sudden? It didn’t make any sense. None of this did—Ethan painting her cabin, her sudden fascination with his contemptible mouth and, least of all, the unexpected intimacy of the moment.
    She shoved her hands in her pockets and prayed for the world to turn right-side-up again. Or alternatively, for him to say something that would remind her why she disliked him so very much.
    “Thanks.” There was a softness in his gray eyes