Stepping Up To Love (Lakeside Porches 1) by Katie O'Boyle Page A

your man cave.”
    Joel let out a laugh and shook his head. “One of us is in trouble here,” he predicted.
    Manda awoke mid-morning with a killer headache and a satisfied smile on her face. She’d dreamed of steamy sex with Joel all night long.
    “Manda Doughty, you wicked woman,” she said out loud and then covered her mouth. She glanced around to see if Joel had heard her. His apartment was silent except for the ticking of an imposing grandfather clock. She squinted at its face and made out nine fifteen. It must be the real thing, the kind of clock he wound periodically that ran without power. The squint told her she’d forgotten to bring her glasses with her. She didn’t dare run downstairs without putting on clothes.
    Joel’s guest bathroom was immaculate, fully supplied, and very masculine. She brushed her teeth and downed two of his Tylenol before helping herself to shampoo and spicy scented soap. She turned on the shower, and multiple jets assaulted her. Squealing and dodging, she finally found the combination that gave her soothing rainwater from the ceiling.
    Wide-awake and clean all over, she reached for two thick brown towels to dry her hair and body. Her final discovery—silky, spicy body lotion—really needed to be on her grocery list from now on.
    Dressed in blue jeans and a t-shirt, but barefoot—another thing she’d forgotten—she started for the front door only to see that it was pinned with a note for her. She plucked off the note, walked across the carpeted living room with it, and drew back the draperies. Sunlight sparkled on the dark blue lake for miles and miles to the south, interrupted only by a dozen evergreen-covered islands. I’d like to start every day this way .
    Manda wondered if the lake had a different mood every morning. Today it shouted with joy.
    She peered at Joel’s note. The gold, block-letter heading read “Joel T. Cushman.” Thomas, probably. She’d never seen his handwriting. It was bold and slanted, every letter at the same angle. “Water damage to your kitchen,” it said. “Tony is on it. Your laptop and glasses are on the island. Help yourself to coffee and breakfast. I’ll be home before 10. Joel.”
    She looked skeptically at the lake. On the island? When she realized what he meant, she burst out laughing. She set the note on the kitchen island beside her laptop, grabbed her glasses, and went in search of coffee supplies. “A real kitchen,” she said out loud as she spied the sophisticated coffee maker, filters, three choices of beans, grinder, and carafe.
    She was sitting cross-legged on a kitchen stool with her laptop open when Joel returned.
    “That sigh tells me you’re exhausted,” she told him. “Coffee is hot. Want some?”
    He nodded wordlessly and stood looking out at the lake.
    When she carried a full mug to him, she smelled smoke on his clothes and saw smudges on his face. “One of the units burned?”
    He nodded and gratefully accepted the mug. “House near the marina. Total loss. Kid broke an arm from jumping from an upstairs window, but that was the worst of it. No one else hurt, no one burned. I hate fire,” he said.
    “Why don’t you grab a shower, and I’ll fix us something to eat?” She’d seen eggs in the refrigerator and assorted fresh vegetables that would make a tasty frittata.
    “I’ll take the world’s fastest shower and—if you don’t mind—I’ll fix us a mushroom omelet. I really need to do something creative right now.”
    “You cook?” she said to his back.
    “I do. On weekends. Would you mind drying off the chairs on the porch?” His bedroom door closed before she could reply.
    Guessing he’d rather slice the mushrooms himself, she ventured onto a small balcony off the dining room, armed with one of the brown towels. She could see why he called it a porch; it felt like a sheltered, old-fashioned outdoor living space. She tipped the chairs and table to let most of the water drain and drip, before returning