“I’ll cook.”
“Won’t argue with you there.”
“Why do you want me here?” I can’t help asking.
“Because I’ve felt like dog shit for the last year. Hell, the last couple of years. No one has clicked with me. No one wanted to. You make me feel good. Great. Epic. Phenomenal. I’m trying my damnedest to make you feel the same way.”
Is it me, or did a trickle of hurt seep into the hard planes of his face?
“You do.” I don’t hesitate to tell him that—he absolutely makes me feel all of those things, and he should know.
“I brought you home for night one, Becca, but you were the one who came to me on night two.”
“Dax—”
“Tomorrow.” He ducks his head and places a kiss on my forehead. “Tomorrow you’re coming back to me.”
That’s the ends our conversation.
He opens the door for me to leave. I leave.
I guess that’s that.
WEDNESDAY
I spot Dax as I’m slowly driving down cabin 7’s driveway the next morning. He’s standing on the front porch, a steaming cup of coffee resting in front of him on the railing’s edge.
I’m on a similar edge—I want to go to him, cozy up, and stay here until he heads back. I’m also tempted to cut and run.
The battle waged on in my head after I left his cabin, which made for a practically sleepless night. Indecision also tormented me for a good part of my morning while I packed an overnight bag. I hesitated before adding two extra outfits, zipping the bag closed, and accepting my fate.
I want to be here.
I admire Dax’s strong forearms leading down to hands braced on the railing. He’s wearing jeans and a tee with an open flannel over top, and I have to laugh. I packed a similar wardrobe.
Such is life in the sticks.
I climb out of my car, which I parked beside his Jeep, and then move to the back door to gather my stuff. A moment later, my host is at my side, hand extended.
I give him my overnight bag and a shopping bag full of food, since I planned a few meals. No questions asked, he takes the straps of both bags in one hand and holds out the other, his eyes surveying with sharp approval the number of bags I have with me.
I packed for the week. It’s obvious.
“That it, Princess?” he asks, both hands full.
I pull my purse over my shoulder and grab my makeup bag. “That’s everything.”
He hefts the load inside, holding the screen door for me even though I’m the one carrying the lightest bags.
“Only one bedroom, babe,” he says when he walks in to find me frozen in the center of the living room. “That’s where you go.”
He moves past me to plunk down the groceries on the counter before walking into the bedroom and depositing my other bags on the bed. When he turns to the doorway, I’m across the hall in the bathroom divesting myself of the makeup bag.
I step into the bedroom and hang my purse on the doorknob. This room’s smaller than the previous bedroom we shared at cabin 13. “Cozy” is the way our website phrases it. “Stifling” might be a better adjective for this gun-shy girl who’s staying with a guy she was only supposed to know for a few hours.
My eyes survey the king bed. At least we have plenty of real estate on the mattress.
“You okay?” The gentle but rough quality of Dax’s voice puts me at ease. I trust him. I really do.
“I’m okay,” I answer with a smile.
“Wanna be more okay?” He sticks a finger in my belt loop and hauls me close. I come to him and rest both of my hands on his cotton-covered chest. A second later I catch his kiss with eager lips.
My eyes are still closed when he pulls away. “You’re making it hard to regret my decision.”
“Good.”
I follow him to the kitchen, where we start unloading groceries. He holds up the plastic pack of fresh mint leaves and shoots me a dubious look.
“It’s for my mojito fish tacos. Assuming you didn’t cook your fresh fish yet?”
“Not yet.”
I point to the coffeepot, where there’s one cup left. “Are you done, or should I make a new pot?”
“I’m good. Help yourself.”
I pause my grocery divvying to pour myself a cup of coffee to sip on while we work. We do so in silence, until the last of the bags is emptied.
“What’s on your agenda today?” I rest my hip on the countertop and curl my coffee mug close to my nose.
He opens the fridge and pulls out a container of half-and-half I left there the night I made pancakes. I give him a smile after I cream my coffee.
“Better?”
“Perfect,” I admit.
“When are you gonna learn you don’t have to compromise, Princess?”
It sounds so good when he says it. If only the world worked the way Dax decided it did.
“Thanks.” The sentiment seems small for what his gesture meant to me. I was sipping my coffee black and bitter simply because he was in the way of the fridge while I filled the cabinets. He never lets me settle for less than “perfect.”
“Camping tonight. Fishing tomorrow. Hiking in between.” His eyes go to my flat white tennies and skinny jeans, then up to my loose gray shirt with a screen print of a glitter-dusted unicorn on the front.
“You bring clothes that might aid in those pursuits?”
I make a choking sound to communicate how insulted I am. “Yes. I was trying to look cute. I have functional clothes too.”
“You don’t look cute.” Before I become more insulted, he adds, “You look fucking hot.”
“I’ll take hot.” I’m glowing from the compliment.
“Yeah, so will I.” Instead of kissing me, he snaps up the bags I folded and holds out a hand. “Keys.”
I hand over my car key and follow him as far as the door. Then I watch him open my trunk and put away the shopping bags. He swaggers back, large and broad and so handsome it hurts.
I know what you’re thinking: Come on, Bec, how could you for a second doubt sharing several sex-and food-packed days with this guy?
Simple.
In the past, I’ve purposely left myself an out in every relationship, save one: The first one. The one you lose your virginity to, assuming you’ll be with that person forever. Until they leave and drag your heart across a football field’s length of broken glass.
After that happens, you might decide that not having long-term relationships is better than having them.
“The ground’s still damp. Think I’ll forgo the tent and sleep in the Jeep tonight,” Dax says as he comes back inside. “You good with that?”
“Sure. I can camp.” Maybe. The Jeep sounds more doable than the ground.
“Have you ever camped, Princess?”
“Now, see? When you say it that way, it feels like you’re slotting me into the ‘fussy’ category.”
He smirks.
“The answer is yes, I have camped. Once, when my brother and I were kids. I remember s’mores and campfire beanie weenies and singing. It was fun.”
“Beanie weenies,” he repeats.
It’s really hard not to giggle when a grown man uses those words together.