Chapter 14
Acabin the woods sounded romantic to my Irish poet’s soul, but my practical New York City toughness carries me through the first cold night where I wish for one large hockey player spooning me and keeping me warm. But who am I kidding? There’s no such thing as warm when it comes to Link Milano. He’s either hot or cold.
In the morning while I try typing on my computer while wear gloves and cringing every time I take a sip of the mud-inspired coffee I made with the old-fashioned percolator, I let my blood boil—partly to keep me warm and partly to plot revenge on stupid a-hole George for generously allowing me to stay in his cabin. Because he failed to mention that this is strictly a summer place and not in the least winterized or fit for human habitation in the winter—unless you’re an Eskimo or you invite a dozen or fifty people to keep it warm with body heat.
I slam down my cup of coffee and pull every muscle in my face into the most intense wince I’ve ever experienced because that coffee only gets worse as it gets cold.
Standing, I can’t take it anymore and even though I should be grateful for him loaning me this cabin because he didn’t have to, I’m going to call him out on the fake generosity of his gesture. It was meant more as a punishment than a gift. That dirt bag.
Glaring at the fireplace with an ugly metal contraption marring what should be its hearth, I pull my phone from my jeans pocket and stab the devil icon—though I should have deleted the incorrigible idiot altogether after he had the audacity to ask me out after firing me, claiming it was for the best that I didn’t work for him because now we can date. Not. Even. Tempted.
I’d never given him the least indication that I was interested. We had the normal friendly workplace banter relationship, the kind you have when you work in a bar. His phone rings several times and then goes to voicemail. I take the opportunity to leave a message letting him know what I think of his unwinterized cabin in the woods that he offered to me for the winter.
That night, bundled up in bed with three blankets, I watch the Whalers play their away game against Montreal. Or rather I listen and catch the highlights while I read my Daniel Silva thriller. After the game ends, I smile as I give into my impulse to call Link to leave him a congratulations message because he scored a goal and I know that’s a good thing even if I know nothing else.
I’m surprised when he answers the phone after two rings.
“How do you like living in the middle of nowhere in a rustic cabin?” He doesn’t sound surprised to hear from me and the congratulations I meant to say flies out of my head.
“What do you know about rustic cabins, city boy?”
“Enough to bet you missed my heat producing qualities last night.”
I laugh. “It so happens that I like it here,” I half lie, sucked back into our never-ending sparring competition. Then scramble my brain to come up with something that I like about this place. “The quiet is refreshing and there’s a deck out back overlooking a dark moody lake that speaks to my Irish soul and all those pine trees smell heavenly. I can even see the stars between all the trees. At the right angle, I can actually see the fucking milky way and all this time I thought it was a stupid name for a candy bar.”
“Shit, Delaney. I bet you could write a song about it. Either a love song or a limerick. Not sure which way you’re leaning.”
I laugh because I can’t help myself and I wish he bored me, wish I could keep my distance and not want so desperately to play his game without caring if I win or lose.
“So are you coming to my game Saturday night?”
“Is that an official date you’re asking me on?”
“It could be. It should be a date. We need to make it seem that way to the world at large and most importantly, to our grandmothers. My grandma watches my games faithfully on the hockey network. We’ll have to make a point to show her a PDA on camera.”
“Or we could take a selfie and send it to her.”
He laughs. “You overestimate my grandmother’s adoption of new technology. She still answers the rotary phone on the wall in her kitchen and cameras are still big boxes with giant flash bulbs attached.”
“Right. I suppose all grannies can’t be as cool as mine.”
“Those are fighting words.”
The low rumble of his voice generates a zip of energy that shoots through my veins like super caffeine and quicker than any cup of coffee I ever drank. “I’m game.” I inwardly groan at the extra excitement in my voice. Shit. Why can’t I stop sounding so eager?
Because you are so eager that you’re out of control, my betrayed brain answers me with disgust.
“Then you’ll be at the game wearing my jersey.” His voice sounds just short of smug. I’m getting used to his brand of confidence, close enough to smug to inspire me to play hard-to-get because I don’t want to be so familiar with him, shouldn’t be.
“I’m not sure, Milano. My car isn’t in the best of shape and I don’t want to push the mileage with too many trips back and forth?—”
“I’ll come and pick you up.”
“Right.”
“Seriously.”
He sounds serious and my butterfly colony comes to life in my chest. “That’s insane. That’s a six hour round trip. Don’t you have?—”
“I can make it and get back in time to be early for my game. We have that morning off.”
I don’t know what to say because sheer giddiness chokes me up. His over-the-top willingness to come after me, to go so far out of his way, literally, to have me there for his game, whips up a swirl of warm pleasure inside me, shutting everything down except those butterflies, forcing me to appreciate the moment. Until my not-dead-yet brain reminds me this is all for show.
His knight-in-shining-armor act is for his grandma, not for me.
“Call me back in two days,” I tell him, stomping on the ashes of my fluttering butterflies.
“It’s a plan then.”
And just like that, sparks rise from the ashes and I laugh, involuntarily.
It’s a good thing I didn’t tell him about the problem with the heat. Maybe he would have been up here tonight to pick me up and whisk me away. I give myself an inward eyeroll though I probably deserve a smack upside the head for foolish thinking. Especially for liking my foolish thoughts.
Next morningwhen I turn on the faucet and no water comes out, I screech into the freezing air feeling helpless, like the damsel in distress that I never ever wanted to be.
Heaving a breath of cold air that almost chokes me, I grab my phone and call George. This time he answers and I calmly tell him I have no water.
“I’ll call a handyman I know in the area and tell him it’s an emergency. He’ll have it fixed in no time. I got your message yesterday. I was going to call--”
“What about the heat, George? It’s freezing in here and it’s not even winter yet.”
“Didn’t you see the pellet stove in the living room?”
“Is that what that contraption is?”
“Delaney, you’re a big girl. You can figure it out. There’s a bucket of pellets and?—”
“And I’ve never used a pellet stove or even lit a match in my entire life. So if you don’t want me burning down your cabin?—”
“I’ll have the handyman show you how to work it. He’ll fix you up.” He pauses and I wait him out because I fear I’m turning into one of those drama queens and I need to calm down.
“I probably should have warned you about the cabin being on the rustic side.”
“True. But I can handle it. In the meantime, I’ll drive into town and get some hot coffee and some water too, while I’m at it. In case.”
“I’ll let you know when my guy can get there. Shouldn’t be long. I promise.”
“Great.”
We end the call and I get myself bundled up for a drive into town —or as bundled as I can for a girl used to city living six hours south of here.
Behind the wheel with my old mittens on—I don’t think I’ve worn them since that high school field trip to Vermont—I fumble my keys and manage to turn them to start the old engine. It turns over slow, like it’s too cold to bother and I try again. When it catches and starts, I stifle the impulse to punch my fist in the air like I’ve won a contest.
Shit. Link’s competitive game playing habit is starting to rub off on me—even when he’s not here. I put the car in gear and back it up. It moves less than ten feet when a loud thud sounds and the back of the car tilts to the right. That isn’t good. I get out and go around back to look under the car as if I can see what’s wrong—or do anything about it even if I find the problem.
Shit. I dirtied my jeans and old mittens all to find out there’s a broken rod or axel of some kind between the back wheels. Now I’m stuck with no coffee and no heat for who knows how long.
Storming back inside the cabin before I freeze, my mind automatically goes to Link. Tearing off my mittens, my fingers itch to reach for my phone to call him, but I can’t. It just isn’t in me to play that role—fucking damsel in distress.
Besides, I doubt he’d appreciate it. He said he’s not into melodrama and I believe him. Neither am I.