Chapter 3 Harris
Harris
I am up at dawn despite swearing I would sleep the day away.
Fresh air will do that to a person, I suppose.
Inhaling a clean shot of pine, I stretch, then sit up with a yawn. Twist my body from side to side to get the knots out of my shoulders.
The cabin is quiet, save for the rhythmic creaking of the dock outside as waves lap lazily against the wooden posts. I pull on a sweatshirt and step out onto the porch, bare feet brushing the cool weathered boards. The lake is still, a mirror reflecting the soft hues of early morning.
It’s the kind of serenity meant to relax you, but all I can think about is how much I need caffeine.
Back inside, I stare at the ancient coffee maker sitting on the counter. It looks more like a science experiment than a kitchen appliance, complete with levers, knobs, and a water reservoir. I try pressing buttons at random.
Nothing happens.
I fumble with the filter, spill some coffee grounds inside, and press the buttons again. Still nothing.
The quiet of the cabin is getting on my nerves.
“Fine. Be that way,” I mutter, abandoning the piece-of-shit contraption. I grab my keys from the hook by the door and head outside, the gravel crunching under my boots as I make my way to my truck.
The drive into town isn’t long—fifteen minutes, tops—but it’s a winding road that hugs the lake on one side and the forest on the other. The scenery is postcard perfect, but I’m too focused on my mission to appreciate it.
A decent cup of coffee isn’t a want at this point; it’s a necessity.
I park outside a place called Loon Landing Café and stare up at an aged wooden sign swinging in the breeze.
Zero shops are open, except the café, and I watch as an older man in a flannel shirt steps out of the hardware store and begins sweeping the sidewalk in front of it.
The first thing I notice once I’m inside the café is the air; it smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, maybe? Bakery. Bread. My stomach grumbles as I eyeball the sweets inside the glass case, the young woman behind the counter greeting me with a smile almost as bright as the morning sun.
Yikes. Chill, lady. Dial it down a notch, I’m still waking up . . .
“Morning!” she chirps. “What can I get for ya?”
“Coffee.” I smile. “Black.”
She scrunches up her nose judgmentally. “Kind of boring, don’t you think? How about something seasonal? With a splash of syrup?”
A small chalkboard near the register lists the daily specials in loopy handwriting: Pumpkin Spice Latte, Maple Pecan Cold Brew, Apple Cider Chai.
“Uh—no thanks.”
“For here, or to go?”
“To go?”
My stomach growls again, louder this time, as my eyes wander back to the glass case. A stack of cinnamon rolls drizzled with icing sits front and center, mocking my weak resolve. I’m debating whether I should cave when the barista reappears, sliding a steaming to-go cup across the counter.
“Here you go—one boring black coffee.” She winks, but it’s playful, not annoying. “Anything else?”
I hesitate, glancing again at the cinnamon rolls. Damn it. “I’ll take one of those too,” I say, pointing.
“Good choice.” She grabs one with a pair of tongs and slips it into a paper bag before handing it over. “Breakfast of champions.”
Indeed it is.
The first bite of the cinnamon roll is fucking glorious—soft, sweet, the right amount of frosting and spice. I wash it down with a sip of coffee, and for the first time since arriving at this retreat, I feel like maybe this whole “disconnect from the world” thing might not be the worst idea.
I take another long sip of coffee, savoring the bitterness as I lean back in my chair. The place is getting busier now, the low hum of chatter filling the café.
I should go.
I stand, trying to hold both my coffee in one hand and my cinnamon roll in another, pulling the door open with the tip of my boot, managing to do so. Hold it open with my shoulder. The bell above my head jingles, and the cool breeze hits my face as I begin stepping out onto the sidewalk.
Ahh. Not bad. Not bad at all . . .
The sunshine is bright, almost blinding as it rises over the lake.
Distracted by the view, I remove the lid from my coffee cup to dunk the cinnamon roll inside, ready to sip my brew and lick frosting off the tips of my fingers when it happens.
Thud.
I walk straight into someone.
The impact sends steaming hot coffee sloshing over the rim of the cup, the liquid spilling across the front of my hoodie.
“Shit!” I hiss, the heat soaking through the fabric as I stumble back. I can feel it soak my skin.
“Oh God! I am so sorry!” a distressed voice exclaims, and I finally look up at the commotion I’ve caused.
A woman stands in front of me, wide-eyed with shock.
Her dark hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she’s wearing a fitted pink jacket over matching pink leggings.
Coffee streaks down the sleeve of her jacket as she crouches to grab the yoga mat that fell out of her hands when I crashed into her.
Her cheeks are flushed, and she looks everywhere but at me.
I bend to help her because that’s what gentlemen do . . .
“Shit—sorry,” I manage, though I’m still too flustered to string together anything coherent. Too tired. Still early. My coffee is officially a lost cause, dripping down the front of my gray sweatshirt and staining it.
“No, no, it’s my fault,” she protests, face inches from mine. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Neither was I,” I admit, glancing around for a trash can. The coffee cup is still in my hand, but it’s useless now, mostly empty and dripping like a leaky faucet. I stuff the remaining roll in my mouth and chew, buying myself time to think of something new to say.
Damn, she’s cute.
I give her ring finger a quick glance: It’s bare.
Things are starting to look up.
Maybe she’d be down to hang out, and by hang out, I mean have casual sex. I have time to kill, considering I’m not doing the whole retreat thing and have no activities planned.
As we both stand, she clears her throat, tucking the mat beneath her armpit, then brushes an invisible speck of dirt from the front of her pink jacket.
She glances at me, her lips quirking like she knows I’ve been staring at her boobs, trying to figure out if she’s flat chested or if the sports bra is holding them down.
Not that it matters. I’m an equal opportunity boob guy. Small tits, big tits—I love them all.
Her eyes narrow, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “Are you going to say something, or are you going to keep standing there, working out the square footage of what’s inside my jacket?”
I blink, caught off guard. Laugh. “Sorry, my brain is running on fumes.” Wasn’t trying to be rude.
She arches a brow.
“I’m Harris—and I would shake your hand, but I got sticky fingers.” I hold the door open so she can slip inside, then follow her, intending to buy her whatever she wants.
“Harris,” she repeats, mulling the name over. “I can’t say I’ve seen you around before. Are you in town for work or pleasure? Wait.” She snaps her fingers. “Are you part of the group of men who took over half the rooms at the lodge?”
As if I would admit to being in town for a fucking retreat.
“I am here for work.” Forcibly, against my will, ha ha. Can’t deny it.
“You are?” Her brows shoot up farther into her hairline. “Oh my gosh. Are you a lumberjack?”
Am I a lumberjack? What the fuck is she talking about?
“’Cause my friend Annabelle is practically pulling her hair out waiting for y’all to get here,” she goes on. “She wasn’t sure you were coming.”
I absolutely have no fucking clue what she’s talking about, but she’s so damn adorable I let her keep talking. Crossing my arms, I lean against a table next to the windows, playing along for the sheer entertainment value.
A lumberjack? Can’t say I’ve ever been accused of being one of those, but it sounds fun, and it’s been a mind-numbing twenty-four hours.
“Lumberjack?” I say. “What gave it away?”
This oughta be good.
She grins, enjoying this as much as I am. “Oh, you know. The broad shoulders, the mussed-up hair, the cuts and bruises on your hands. You give off ‘I wrestle bears for fun’ energy. It’s so very lumberjacky.”
I mull this over. “Interesting. I didn’t realize I was giving off ‘rugged outdoorsman.’ Must be the coffee stains.”
“Exactly,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “No self-respecting lumberjack has a clean shirt. It’s part of the aesthetic.”
“Well,” I say, leaning closer to her. “If I were a lumberjack, I’d say your friend Annabelle needs to work on her communication skills. I can’t magically appear. She would have to give me an address.”
And an axe.
She laughs, the sound light and musical, and it draws a grin out of me. “You’re saying it’s Annabelle’s fault the lumberjack company is short staffed and only sent three of you?”
Only three of us? Dang. “How many had she ordered?”
“Eight!”
Well shit. Sounds like Annabelle better get her money back.
“All I’m saying is—I never got a call.” It’s the honest-to-God truth. “How does she expect us to roll logs, chop wood, and look rugged if she doesn’t give us the proper tools—or, you know, the address? It’s poor planning.”
The woman shifts her yoga mat to her other arm. “I’ll be sure to let her know you’re already dissatisfied with management. Maybe she’ll throw in some flannel shirts as a peace offering.”
Flannel shirts? Me like. So warm. So cozy.
I nod solemnly. “It’s the least she could do. Flannel is nonnegotiable. How am I supposed to live up to the lumberjack ideal without it?”
She narrows her eyes at me as if she’s trying to decide if I’m being serious. “Flannel shirts and an axe. Got it. I’ll pass that along to Annabelle. Anything else on your lumberjack manifesto?”
“Maybe beard oil.” I stroke my jaw with mock seriousness. Beard oil sounds like something a lumberjack would use, eh? What else, what else . . . “Suspenders.”
My new, nameless friend tilts her head. “You didn’t come to town with any of these things?”