Snow Jam Read Online Free PDF

father's – the ones I'd read were my father's and we'd had some long father/daughter nights talking about something my mother and sister didn't understand.
    But he smiled. "My brother used to drag them along on every family vacation. Or in David's opinion, forced death march."
    I sputtered on my water. "Not a fan of the outdoors?"
    Rick raised a brow. "Oh, big fan, if it includes sitting anywhere and forgetting sunblock and turning bright red and going through a couple books in an afternoon. He's a certified genius and a complete helpless mess outside."
    There was a friendly note in his voice, like his brother's lack of he-man skills was a subject he was protective of, and his brother's foibles something that made him like his brother even better.
    It made me like him even better. This Rick had some redeeming features. Still, I was glad I'd sent Sunny the fish-filled text with the approximate location of the cabin and my plans to stay here.
    Girl can't get too careful.
    Then he took the books from me, brushing my fingers with his as he did so, turning them back over to say something about the signature color series of the Travis McGee books, but whatever it was, I missed most of it, my breath catching as our fingers touched. He felt that, right? It almost hurt, like a flash of electricity. I was much too curious about what it would feel like if that flash moved between us when we were naked, flesh to flesh, mouths and hands engaged. Would we end up with electrical burns?
    There. That. That was the exact sort of thing I didn't need to be thinking. So I got up and started to clear, and Rick stood and started to help me, and I tried not to yelp at him that he didn't have to bother but say it politely and graciously – something about he'd rescued me, let me handle this, I'd leave everything dried on the counter and he could just tell me where to put things away.
    He didn't bother answering, a sort of selective hearing thing I found a little rude, and I followed him to the tiny galley kitchen again, where we worked together, him washing and me drying though I'd have preferred a switch. I hate drying dishes, they never feel totally dry, especially once the towel takes on water, and I was getting cold. Having my hands in warm water would have been welcome. I was starting to wonder about the chances of a hot shower since Rick did the soap suds in one half of the double sink, rinse water in the other half version of washing – how big was the hot water heater? Then I started to wonder about the bathroom and whether there was one – the cabin wasn't huge and I hadn't taken that close a look around and I hadn't needed one before this, though the minute the thought crossed my mind I did and I was no longer sorry to not have my hands in warm water.
    "There," he said, pointing out the last place for the last utensils. He was rubbing Crisco on the frying pan, the motion of his hands on the hot iron hypnotic. If he hadn't said something, I'd probably have stood there staring.
    Everyone has their conscious or subconscious things they look for in the opposite sex. I know a lot of my friends at least talk about looking at asses and crotches and how big a guy's hands are and other sexual indicators, and that's fine, though I don't really believe them, because when we're alone or when they're actually dating the guy or when the conversation turns serious, just enough drinks in for the walls to come down but not so far that everyone's outdoing everyone else or reached a totally silly place, that's when they talk about some of the same things I do.
    Eyes. Color, shape, how much they communicate. Super dark or light eyes catch my attention. Eyes that show the smile. Eyes caught in a web of crows' feet, like the guy –
    Whose kitchen I was only stranded in. I was on my way to Hanlin, for the last interview for a job I really wanted, then some play time with Sunny and back to Las Vegas, hopefully to pack. I am not getting sidetracked.
    And