Chapter 10
Rowan
“You’re a menace!” Jason shouts after me as I dash out the door off the utility room.
“You shouldn’t have offered!” I laugh, arms pumping in time with my legs.
Apparently, he was just trying to get a rise out of me when he casually asked if I wanted to take on that task of clearing the storage shed Ed referenced in his taunting note to his son.
But when I said, “Umm, yes, please,” I was dead serious.
In terms of getting the full cabin experience in one go? This is it.
Jason didn’t like that.
There was some backpedaling and the whole “Joking, joking” thing, all while that deep furrow between his brows got deeper as he followed me into the utility room off the kitchen where I tied my hair into a ponytail and put on a pair of work gloves I brought with me.
Then that macho bullshit where he just wants to make sure it’s safe before I go in.
No way, buddy. I bolted.
And I think I’m going to make it. I can practically see myself throwing the shed door open, my overwhelming confidence warning any unwelcome inhabitants to vacate the premises.
It’s possible this fantasy includes Jason cowering a few yards off, the clouds parting overhead and Ed beaming down at me from the heavens with pride in his eyes.
But then his big bulldozer of a son blazes past me.
FYI, Jason is fast. It’s almost like the guy makes his living racing down the ice or something. But while he has speed on his side, I’ve got determination and a ticking clock counting down the minutes until this place is lost to me forever.
Plus, I’m observant, almost like someone who spent the first twenty years of her life trying to stay a step ahead of a deeply narcissistic parent with volatile moods and a hair trigger. And what I’m noticing about Jason is that his overprotective streak is still front and center.
He’s about to reach the shed when I let out a yelp, feigning an ankle twist.
It’s low. I know it. But it works.
Jason stops and whirls around, doubling back. “Shit, you okay?”
This guy really is nice, and I feel a little like a dick for using his caring about others to my advantage… but then I think about that locked bedroom door and…
Cue the wince. “I mean, I think so?”
He comes in closer. “Did you roll it?”
“Oww. Maybe?” I’m half crouched, waiting…
Dropping to a knee beside me, he gently brushes my ankle, the contact from his fingers featherlight and a little too nice for the dirty trick I’m playing. “Where does it hurt?”
I gingerly test the weight, take a tentative step… toward the shed… and then another. “I’m pretty sure”— another step —“I mean, it might just be a bruise to umm… your ego?”
Jason’s head snaps up, his mouth dropping open.
I flash a grin, jogging backward a few steps. “Don’t worry, hot shot. It’ll only hurt for a second. Just… walk it off.”
And then I triumphantly fling the shed door open and hit the lights, ready to confront… well, nothing more than a few rows of shelving units, a whole lot of dust, and a handful of spiderwebs.
“Oh.”
Jason steps up beside me. “Hope it was worth it.”
He’s trying to keep a straight face, but there’s a grin in his voice that’s kind of contagious.
“Totally worth it,” I announce, checking behind the first rack of shelves. And I’m not too proud to admit I’m relieved they aren’t housing a nest of anything. “Zero regrets. Ten out of ten stars. Highly recommend.”
I mean, I won, right?
“Yeah, but now you’re the girl who cried wolf.
What happens if you hurt yourself for real?
” He reaches past me, his broad chest brushing my shoulder lightly as he checks a stack of plywood against the wall.
“If I don’t see blood or a bone sticking through your skin, I’m going to just laugh and leave you crumpled on the grass.
Tell you to walk it off. Rub some dirt on it. ”
“Oh man, I’ll remember that when the internal bleeding gets bad. I asked for this.”
His laugh is low and warm. It’s a good sound, one that has me turning around to try and see his face while he gives in to it. I want to see the way his eyes crinkle and what his mouth looks like when he does, but he’s already moved behind a set of shelves stacked high with… “What is all this?”
“Four generations worth of parts, I guess.”
I lift a brow. “You don’t even know what this stuff is?”
“That’s the toaster that caught fire when I was seven. And I’m pretty sure this might have been the ceiling fan from my dad’s bathroom back when Gramps was still in there. But most of it? No idea.”
There’s so much.
Shelving unit after shelving unit. Some normal stuff like jars filled with nuts, bolts, screws, and nails.
But then there are cardboard boxes with illegible writing that look like they’ll disintegrate if you breathe on them, and mechanical autopsies left unfinished with wires and bits hanging every which way.
“Your dad was such a neat guy.”
“Yeah, each year he talked about getting in here, but neither of us ever made the move.” He sighs, checking the next row of shelves. “Looks like you got out of this one for good, Dad.”
We walk the property and inspect the accessible spaces in the cabin, jotting down the most obvious and urgent repairs and chores as we go.
The broken lock tops the list, and honestly, I didn’t know that Jason’s face could have gotten any redder when he documented that little snafu. But he did it.
Also making the list: the drain in the utility room sink, gutters, chimney, shed, and miscellaneous dock and cabin maintenance that happens every year.
Jason started with the chimney while I’ve been picking up sticks and debris from the clearing so I can mow. I’m filling my third bucket when a frenzy of motion from the shed catches my attention.
It’s Jason, covered in what looks like ash, swearing a blue streak as he scrubs his hair like it’s on fire, spins around, and then grabs his T-shirt and— whoa —yanks it overhead in one jaw-dropping, muscles-rippling motion.
I trip into the bucket.
Jason spins wildly, swatting at his back and head with the shirt before taking a few stumbling steps away from the shed. He stops again and wipes his face, looking over his shoulder and then around and—
Yep, that’s me.
He straightens as I raise a tentative hand. “Everything okay over there?”
Another, significantly more controlled pass of his shirt over his face and chest. “Yep. All good. Fine.”
So obviously not fine.
I cross to where he’s attacking his hair, pulling at it, looking at his hand, and then pulling through the messy strands again. Based on that sticky-looking streak of white he keeps missing, I’ve got a pretty good idea about what happened.
“It’s nothing,” he says evenly.
“I know.” I step closer, taking stock of the miles of bare skin on display.
Slowly, I reach for his chest, the backs of my fingers making contact with the warmth of his flesh before his big hand closes around my wrist, holding me where I am.
“Rowan?”
At the gravel-rough sound of his voice, I look up, ready to explain.
Only when our eyes meet, I lose track of what I was going to say.
What I’m doing.
Why I’m here.
Because the way he’s looking at me, it’s not with resentment or even wary curiosity. It’s like—
The wind picks up, and the lightest brush against my fingers has me nodding toward my upturned hand. “I know you don’t like them.”
Jason follows my gaze to the small spider meandering the length of my index finger like she has no idea the ruckus she caused.
He coughs out a laugh.
“I don’t mind one.” Then, shaking his head, he quietly mutters, “It’s when all the babies come out at once.”
Babies? “Oh sure,” I mumble. I’ve been working hard not to stare at the hockey god’s body, but now…
“Think I got them all.” He twitches, then stills.
I try not to shift my focus up to the tiny dark creature emerging from his hairline… or its sibling now cresting his jaw.
“It’s okay,” I say, sounding as calm as I have since I arrived. A controlled tone that doesn’t betray my actual thoughts is a well-practiced skill, honed over decades.
I feel like I’m nailing the delivery as I let the first spider drift into the wind and carefully reach for, yep, might as well start with the one on his shoulder. “Just give me one second and—”
“Fuuuuuuuck!” The giant, powerful man before me does this kind of shuddering convulsive shake, not actually ejecting a single one of the minuscule guests on his person.
That’s four now.
Wait, no, six.
“Jason, let me—” But that’s as far as I get before he takes off like a bat out of hell, racing down the path toward the dock.
He cuts left, then right, agile and lightning fast. Quickly dropping out of sight as I start after him.
This guy isn’t even following the switchbacks. He’s bounding down the ungroomed hill with the confidence of a man who grew up navigating this island and the skill of a professional athlete accustomed to split-second assessment and follow-through.
I’m barely to the top of the stairs when he hits the straightaway, barreling down the worn planks of the dock at breakneck speed. And then—
Gulp.
His shorts drop, abandoned with barely a missed step. He doesn’t stop for his shoes or the boxer briefs hugging his massive thighs and spectacular ass.
His arms extend in a smooth arc to meet overhead, the muscles of his back rippling and flexing as he propels himself into the air and then down into a perfect, splashless dive.
Watching Jason Stanvic flee a few baby spiders should not be hot.
I mean, really.
It’s ridiculous.
I could have had him spider-free in less time than it took him to jump in the lake.
So what’s with this full-body, belly-stirring, heart-skipping, mouth-watering meltdown as I stand here, staring open-mouthed at the spot where he just dove under?
I resume my descent, watching for him to break the surface. Walking a little faster as I start scanning a wider radius. Still nothing but a bit of chop punctuating the otherwise dark water.