“Thirty-three.”
She flips her card, and I follow. “I win. I’m higher.”
Nofuckingshit. It takes everything in me not to flip the damn table and send her and the stupid cards across the cabin.
“What kind of music do you like?”
I grip my cards so tight they bend. “Why all the questions?” This goes against everything I thought I learned.
“It’s called a conversation.” She says the last word like I’m hard of hearing and read lips.
“More like an inquisition.” I flip a card.
“You’re higher.” She pushes the cards my way. “That’s because you’re not participating.” She flips a card. “My birthday is April third, I’m twenty-seven, and I love jazz.”
“Jazz?”
“Yes. That surprises you?” We flip the cards, and she gathers the win.
A little, but I don’t tell her this because I think it would insult her to know she comes off as too immature and simple to like something as complex as jazz.
“I played saxophone in middle school. It was a free after-school program, and all I learned to play was ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm,’ but I loved the sound.” She sighs and gets a faraway look in her eye. “Smooth and soulful. I could listen to John Coltrane and Charlie Parker all day. Be nice to have some music in this place,” she says and searches around her as if a record player might suddenly appear. Her spine goes stiff when she looks out the window. “I see blue sky!” She jumps from her chair and moves closer to the window. “It’s not snowing.” Her head whips around toward me. “We can go fishing!”
“Thank fuck,” I mumble to myself and toss the rest of my cards on the table.
At least while we’re fishing I can tell her to be quiet so she doesn’t scare away our dinner. If nothing else, the fresh air will be a good detoxifier for my nervous system.
Being in close quarters with this woman, watching her move around the space wearing nothing but tight thermal pants and a top, has tested me in every way. My muscles remain in a constant state of tension and tingling, my stomach is constantly clenched, and my skin feels too tight.
The only time I feel any kind of relief is when I go to bed, but when I close my eyes, my thoughts run amuck and remind me that, at my core, I am only a man. I’ve spent months in this cabin and never felt the kind of restlessness I’ve felt over these last few days. The whole reason for my coming out here is to decompress, recharge, and escape the responsibilities of my everyday life. And when I return, I always feel better, less agitated, more agreeable. This cabin has saved me more times than I can count.
This time, I fear it might ruin me.
She slips on the sweatpants and flannel that, after I showed her how to wash them, she has claimed as her own. I try not to think too deeply on her assuming possession of my things as I slip on my coat and grab two poles and tackle.
She meets me at the door with a bright smile that falls the moment she takes in my face. “Whoa. Why the sour pussy?”
In an instant, all the tension in my body is redirected to my face in an attempt to keep from smiling. A futile effort as I feel my indifference crack.
“What?” she says.
I rub my mustache down to my beard and massage the muscles in my cheeks.
“What!”
I clear my throat. “Nothing.”
She tilts her head. “It’s obviously something. Just tell me.”
“The term is sourpuss.”
She frowns. “That’s what I said.”
“No.” I scratch my jaw. “You said sour pussy.”
“I know.” A slow smile spreads across her face, and she shrugs. “I just wanted to see if I could get you to say pussy.”
“Why?”
“Because you like to correct me when I’m wrong. Because you looked miserable.” She nods her head toward my mouth. “And maybe because I like your smile.”
I’m not smiling… shit… I am.
I immediately erase my grin and reach for the door. “Let’s go before it starts snowing again.”
“Maybe I should start calling you Grumpy instead of Grizzly,” she says as she passes me through the door.
My brothers are the only people who get away with teasing me, and even they know that to do so is a risk. This woman has no idea of the man she’s living with. No clue of the things I’ve done, the things I’m capable of. Her fearless attitude is dangerous—refreshing but risky. The sooner I get her back into her world where she belongs, the better for both of us.
I walk ahead of her through the deep snow to clear a path as she ambles along behind me. She’s moving much better now that she’s had a couple of weeks for her injuries to heal. She could be ready to take the hike out of here in another week’s time.
“This is beautiful,” she says as we approach the lake. “I can’t believe this has been here the entire time.” Her breath turns to white clouds from her parted lips as she takes in the tree-lined lake.
I clear snow from the dock to make room for us to stand yet stay a safe distance from the water. Slick ice, freezing cold water, and still-healing broken bones are a bad combination for someone who struggles to stay upright by simply walking.
She seems overcome by the landscape, which means I get to prep our rods in silence. Seeing as she still keeps her arm glued to her ribs protectively, I cast the rod for her and place it in her good hand.
“Reel it in slowly. If you feel a tug, tug back. Can you handle that?”
“Yes.” She rolls her eyes.
A cool breeze comes in from the water, and the clouds are still thick enough to cancel out the sun. I cast my line, and the gentle lapping of water on the shore calms my—
“What do I do after I reel it in?”
Her voice pops my peaceful bubble, and I glare over at her to see her attempting to recast.
“Do I just…” She moves the pole awkwardly to her side.
“I’ll get it.” I begin to reel in my lure.
“I can do it.” She hauls her good arm back and throws it forward with more power than I would’ve thought she was capable of. “Oh shit!” The entire rod goes hurling ahead and makes a dollop sound when it hits the water.
“Gotta be kidding me,” I mumble to myself and shake my head.
Her hand flies to her mouth. “I’m so sorry!” She gazes out toward the lake as if expecting the rod to stay floating at the surface. “I don’t know how that happened. I was trying to do what you did.” She drops her hand from her face, looking defeated. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
I go back to my rod, hoping to pull in something for dinner. I cast and reel, finding a nice rhythm, but this time my attention is divided while I keep watch on the woman kicking and stomping snow on the dock.
“Don’t fall in.”
“I won’t.” She stops moving around and watches me for a couple of casts. “Can I try—”
“No.”
Her bottom lip sticks out, pink, plump, and wet.
Looking at it makes me uneasy, so I turn back to the water. “It’s my last rod.”
“All right, fine.” She finally moves off the dock toward the capsized boat that managed to stay free of snowfall from its spot under a white pine.