Alone With You (Cabin Fever Series Book 1)

Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EPILOGUE
Enjoy this excerpt from LOST WITH YOU, Book 2 in the Cabin Fever Series
About The Author


ALONE WITH YOU
by
Lisa Ann Verge


Living With A Hot Stranger Wasn't The Plan
Jenny is sure the cabin is hers, until she steps out of the shower to surprise a brawny man in her bedroom.
Leaning his six-foot frame against the doorjamb, Logan strips off her towel with his gaze and asks what the hell she's doing in his cabin.
His cabin? She has a key from the owner. Turns out he has a key from the owner, too.
No way is she taking on a hot-as-sin roommate. She isn’t a people-person in the best of times. How is she going to get any work done under the glow of that slow-fuse grin?
But it's only for two weeks. Hardly long enough to seduce her…never mind melt her frozen heart.
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Publishing History
ALONE WITH YOU © 2020 Lisa Ann Verge
ISBN 978-1940963198
This novel was previously published in print as LOGAN'S WAY, © 1999, by Harlequin Enterprises
Digital Edition published by Bay Street Press LLC, 2020
Cover design by Kim Killion
Digital formatting by Lisa Ann Verge
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CHAPTER ONE
It took him a while, but Logan finally realized there was a naked woman in the cabin.
He stood in the hallway just outside the bedroom, staring at the pool of clothing at his feet. A skirt stretched a splash of color across the carpet. Fragile lace formed the outline of a pair of women’s panties. Logan crouched and hooked a finger inside the back of a high-heeled shoe that still radiated warmth from its owner’s foot. He lifted it to eye level and glanced at the designer name scrolled along the curvy inner arch. A match, he thought. Its sexy mate teetered on the welcome mat by the cedar cabin’s front door.
What the hell?
Hearing the rumble of water through the pipes, he turned his attention to the master bedroom, with its frilly curtains and ruffled bedspread. The door to the master bath stood ajar. He could just glimpse a sliver of mirror fogged with moisture. The vision was blurry, but a woman definitely occupied that shower. She was very naked and very wet.
For a sharp second, his limbic brain took over. His blood flow shifted, heading south. Logan filled his lungs to restore oxygen and sense to his brain. Along with the rush of air came a subtle, sexy fragrance from the silky puddle of woman’s clothing. The scent bulleted to his glands.
He let the shoe drop. This wasn’t what he’d expected. When he’d come home to find a rental car parked on the gravel driveway, he’d assumed the visitor was some member of his meddling family. His mother, or one of his sisters, flying in to surprise him from Montana. He expected to discover them flitting around the place, clucking at the disarray, doing his laundry, cooking up a storm, staunch in their belief that a good meal could cure any ill, real or imagined. Or maybe it was one of his brothers, wanting to “crash” for the weekend, determined to get him stinking drunk—their cure for any ill, real or imagined. As if one good bender and a few good meals could make him forget everything that happened.
Whoever this woman was, she sure as heck wasn’t family. His mother and sisters didn’t wear Italian leather pumps. Neither did Mrs. Napoli, his nearest neighbor in this one-horse town in Washington State, the only woman he’d bothered to strike up an acquaintance with. Now that he thought about it, he should have figured out his visitor was a stranger from the first. No one he knew would rent the latest model Saab, when a good solid sub-compact Ford would take them anywhere a road led.
Then an image lit up in his mind, of the waitress who’d winked at him in the diner just outside of town yesterday. She’d reminded him that his hormones still ran hot, despite months of hermit-like solitude. Then again, that waitress didn’t look as if she could afford the string of pearls he’d seen on the kitchen table. Nor did that waitress have the throaty sort of voice now humming Mozart in the shower. None of that mattered, anyway, because he wasn’t of a mind to be ambushed by any woman. Sex would just bring complications. He refused to invite anyone into his messed-up life.
The pipes rumbled to a sudden silence. Wooden rings clanked as the intruder drew the shower curtain back. He should say something. Call out to her. Warn her of his presence. Let her know in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t entertaining guests. Give her time to collect her clothes and her dignity. But that was his Montana breeding talking, his mother’s chiding voice, and it was fading fast under the rising anger that his most recent domicile had been invaded – even if it wasn’t really his home, and even if the invader wore smoking hot underwear.
He stood in the bedroom doorway,