The point is, I can’t see my guy with any of them.
Can’t or won’t?
It doesn’t matter. It isn’t my business who he is or why he’s here with these two adorable teddy bear dogs. Right now, I need to focus on whereIam and how quickly I can get back to the lodge, quit in a dramatic huff and head home to be with my friends. Can a person cancel their sabbatical mid-sabbatical? I imagine it’s a lot of paperwork and a pain in the butt for scheduling. What would they think if I showed back up after two months away? And what are the odds that the assistant principal suddenly comes down with a raging case of something horrible with boils that has him using all his sick days and vacation time until summer so I never have to see him again?
Not great, Winnie.
With my head still pounding and the dogs still frolicking on the bed, I cautiously survey the room for clues and exit routes. It’s not like I’m expecting bloody chains or terrifying taxidermy, but with the way this weekend is going for me so far, anything is possible. What I see instead is photo-spread-ready furniture and…wood. So much wood. Wood is the word of the day.
Even in my pants, though it’s not quite hardwood yet. It must be one of those life-affirming reactions to a near-death experience.
I ignore it and take in what I suppose most people would call “rustic chic” instead of “We only had one building material, so we utilized the hell out of it.” It’s actually not that bad. I mean,wood, yes, but not that dark seventies paneling that makes every room feel three times smaller and a smidge more murdery. This room is big and bright and attractive, with those rounded-pine-log walls and colorful mismatched throw rugs on the distressed wood floors.
A staircase with steps that look like halved logs rises up to an open loft above, highlighting the knotty wood beams that cross the vaulted ceiling.
Wood. Wood. Wood.
Thankfully, the large modern kitchen to my right, with its quartz countertops and tiled floor, breaks up the motif. Beside me, tall bay windows and a glass door reveal the snowstorm still raging beyond the covered porch outside. It looks like it’s gotten a lot worse out there.
I could still be lost in that, which is a scary thought. But now I’m here, safe and snug in what I can only assume is “the cabin.”
I shiver with remembered cold, despite the wood-burning stove in the center of the living room that’s radiating heat. It’s huge, just as tall and twice as wide as I am, and I’ve never been so thankful for anything in my life. Being warm is not something I’ll be taking for granted ever again.
I’m also damn thankful not to be naked—and I’m tacking that on because I’m pretty sure I was undressed after I got here. Stripped, toweled brusquely and redressed in a buttery-soft baggy T-shirt and sweatpants. Then I was wrapped in blankets and held while being urged to sip a cup of broth before being carried into the bathroom to pee.
The hands holding my head slide down to cup my flaming cheeks. Oh good. I survived the freeze, so now I’ll get my chance to discover whether or not someone can die of mortification, right here in this tree graveyard of a mountain getaway.
I’m not sure if it’s better or worse that I was only partially conscious for the most embarrassingly intimate relationship of my life. Let’s go with worse. There’s no coming back from that. All the mystery is gone now. A man helps you sit down to pee one time and that’s it. Sex is off the table.
Sex is still on the table. Don’t lie.
There has to be something wrong with me if thinking about his hands on me, even in a caretaking capacity, is turning my semi into a full-on sequoia. I’m shocked at myself.
Are you really?
Truth? It’s not even the weirdest sexual experience on my resume. Getting turned on by being taken care of while suffering from hypothermia isn’t in the same realm as, for example, continuing to have sex with a guy when you realize halfway through what he meant when he said he felt a kinship with horses.
He neighed, Winnie. Whinnied, if you will.
I won’t. Never again. I’m open to a lot of things, but pony play isn’t one of them. Still, perspective is a good thing. And so are fuzzy distractions. As soon as I make eye contact, I’m rewarded with two matching yips, as if the dogs are chiding me for taking so long to greet them.
There’s no stopping the “Awww” that escapes my lips. How can anyone be upset around those faces? Covered in silky curls—one auburn and the other a pure golden brown—they watch me with bright, curious eyes, like my favorite stuffed animals come to life. “You’re bothso cuteand this cabin smells like candy. Is it a trap?”
When I reach out, they sniff my hands and shiver with delight instead of answering. What are these teacup terrors doing here instead of inside some reality housewife’s giant purse?
Are theyhis? They can’t be. He looks more like the big-dog type, maybe a mastiff or an Irish wolfhound or something. Maybe they got lost in the woods too, only they don’t look like they’ve suffered a day of their teeny tiny lives.
I never had a pet. Our apartment is too small and Connor and I both have after-school activities that make our schedules too complicated to add a dog to the equation. But if Icouldchoose, these two would be perfect for me. They’d keep each other company while I graded papers, and I can imagine carrying them to class in a backpack or dressing them up as robber barons and revolutionaries for Halloween. Aren’t there studies about animals in classrooms promoting positive attitudes toward learning and decreasing test anxiety?
My school would never okay something like that, but it would be amazing if they did.
“You both need to stop being precious right now, or I’m going to talk myself into taking you home with me, and that would be stealing.” I scrub their tummies and they squirm in ecstasy. “Not to bring up a sore subject for me, but have either of you seen the bathroom?”
My teeth feel about as fuzzy as my head, and I really do need to stand up and aim for myself now. It’s a pride thing.
“Win?”
One word in that voice, just the sound of my name, and my entire body reacts as if a switch was flipped. My spine straightens, my dick stirs again, and I know even before I look toward the top of the stairs that I’ll see my dragon. Is he wearing glasses with that lumberjack beard now?
