“Okay.”
“Really.”
“Yep.” I walk to the snowmobile, holding her small body in my arms. She weighs nothing, even in the amount of ridiculous clothes she’s wearing. This red, puffy coat completely hides her body from view, like seriously. It’s the same one she wore at the bridge, and it annoys the hell out of me because it makes her even more noticeable and hard to ignore. If I wanted to ignore her, that is.
I place her on top of the snowmobile and ask, “Do you think you can ride behind me?”
She lets out a loud snort and winces instantly. “Of course, I can. Or did you want to put me in front of you like a child?” Her forehead wrinkles as she pouts her lips. “I’m not a child.”
Do you think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed that?
I ignore her tantrum and jump on the seat in front of her.
“Hold onto me,” I say, turning my head slightly.
When I feel her arms fully wrapped around my torso, I take off. The ride back is twice as long since I’m carrying precious cargo. Alex and Kenneth will kill me if anything happens to her.
Back at the cabin, I jump off and offer her my hand. She takes it and carefully climbs off, wincing on the way. I want to scoop her up and carry her inside, but my adrenaline begins wearing off, and I don’t know how much of a good idea so much physical contact with her can be at the moment. I might just wrap her in a hug and not let go until my heart settles. I gesture for her to head inside the house instead of following my instinct of securing her in my arms.
After stepping inside, she timidly leans on the door and looks around. She doesn’t seem like the sure woman from ten minutes ago who wielded a whole cast iron skillet. Instead, she behaves like an unwelcome guest. I made her feel that way, but I had my reasons to. She took me by surprise. It’s like when you dream of seeing someone—and maybe even rub one or two out at the thought of them as well—and then they suddenly show up at your doorstep, surprising the ever-loving shit out of you. You begin thinking that you drank too much and that it finally caught up to you, so you go insane.
“Are you going to keep standing there all night?” I ask casually, trying not to sound like a prick.
She shifts her attention from the floor to me. “I was hoping I could use your phone.”
“There’s no reception here.”
“At all?” she asks, confused.
“At all.” I poke the inside of my cheek with my tongue. “No phone, and electricity is a rare occurrence. The power went down twice in the past couple of days. I thought you knew.”
“I didn’t.” Her voice falls. “When I came here, I was so excited that I didn’t even check it.”
“Why did you need a phone anyway?”
“To call a tow company,” she says as she keeps looking around.
“When the snow stops, I’ll drive you down the road. You can get a bar or two closer to the highway.”
“But what should I do now?” She finally looks at me.
I meet her stare—yeah, we’re in a pickle here. To say the place is small would be an understatement. Three hundred square feet, if that. One queen bed with two nightstands, one tiny sofa, two worn out chairs, and a small breakfast table with two stools. I longingly look at the closet I haven’t dug into yet, hoping it has an air mattress or something similar because I don’t fancy freezing my ass off on the floor.Please, let it have an air mattress.
“What you were planning to do here when you showed up, I guess.” I shrug, pretending that staying with her in close quarters like this doesn’t bother me. It does. More than I care to admit. And my heart sure as fuck shouldn’t be racing so much in excitement.
She looks around again and then at me. “But—” Her throat moves in a swallow, and I follow her slender neck, or what I can see of it before disappearing under her monstrous coat. “But I wasn’t planning on having you around.”
“I wasn’t planning on it either, but here we are.” I gesture for her to come to the table and sit. “C’mere, I need to check your wound.”
“My wound?” she parrots, confused.
I reply by touching my temple. She repeats the same motion with her hand and finds blood on her fingers. “Oh. Oh! Shit, I’m bleeding.”
“You are, but it’s not a lot. You probably hit the window. Might have a concussion. Come sit here so I can check it.” I point at the stool in front of me.
“Okay.” She takes off her boots and walks to the table in white socks. I bet the soles of her feet will be dirty by the time she reaches me. I briefly glance down and feel a ping of guilt about wearing shoes when she doesn’t.What the fuck is wrong with me?It’s my house—I can wear whatever I want.
She plants herself on the stool and lifts her head like a good girl so I can see. I go to wash my hands and grab a clean towel. With a newly wet cloth I clean her wounds. Like the little soldier she is, not a sound comes out of her mouth as I dab the blood away, even though a big, purple bruise begins spreading from the center of the wound. But it’s just a scratch. Thank fuck, because I only have alcohol here, no medicine. That’s about it.
