Chapter 2
OWEN
“Dammit.”
I bend to inspect the chunk of wood that has skittered under my workbench after I’ve accidentally split the small sculpture I’m working on in two.
This is the third piece I’ve screwed up this morning.
I’d thought I’d be safer moving to hand tool tasks after nearly taking my thumb off with the bandsaw earlier, but clearly, this is not the case.
Okay, yes, I’m safer. I’ve only ruined the wood this time, not myself, but this is my livelihood, not to mention my escape. If I don’t have the ability to work, what the hell am I supposed to do with myself?
Goddamn Beau, getting in my head.
I should probably leave the work behind for a while.
I could go for a walk. Except it’s dark.
And cold. And after 9 p.m. in my sleepy little town of Moonlake Village, Vermont, which means there is nowhere to go.
Anyway, at the rate I’m going, I’ll probably slip on some ice or trip over a fallen branch in the woods outside my cabin, slide down the icy path into the lake, and no one will find me until spring.
I sigh. I love it here. Love the quiet. Want to be alone with my thoughts. Except now, when my thoughts are full of the bullshit Beau has put there. Boring. Beau said I’m boring. Not exciting enough to stay with, even if the sex was “decent.”
I damn well know I’m boring. Didn’t I tell him exactly that when we got together?
I like peace and quiet. I like simple things.
I’m not exciting or sophisticated or cosmopolitan.
I’d been upfront about that, and Beau had still flirted with me.
Still asked me out. Still stayed with me for four months.
But now, suddenly, I’m “boring” and “holding him back.”
I let out a growl of frustration.
I grab a length of two-by-four from the rack on the wall and fire up the radial arm saw. Its high-pitched whine pierces the silence, almost, but not quite, enough to drown out my thoughts.
It isn’t really about Beau breaking things off. Frankly, describing the sex as “decent” was completely accurate, and the sex was far and away the best part.
It’s the confirmation of everything that I already knew. I am who I am, and I’m content with that. But I don’t have much to offer anyone. And I live somewhere I’m not likely to meet anyone to offer it to, even if I did.
I knew it years ago when I still lived in Boston. I knew it when I inherited my uncle’s cabin and decided to move here instead of selling it. And I knew it the day I traveled to Burlington to pick up some supplies and let the cute guy in the line at the coffee shop have my number.
But I’d hoped. That was the thing. Even though I knew real romance wasn’t likely to be in the cards for me, even though I’d had enough mediocre relationships along the way to prove it, somehow, I’d allowed myself to secretly hope, again, I would turn out to be wrong.
And now that same goddamn cute guy from the coffee line has taken up residence in my head, even though he is out of my life.
Boring.
Holding him back.
I reach the end of the two-by-four and realize I’ve cut it into four-inch lengths. Which are two inches too short for the pieces I’m working on. Which means that I’ve just wasted a whole board because I haven’t been paying attention. Because of course I have.
I scoop up the useless hunks of wood and dump them onto the scrap pile in frustration. If a lonely single man primal screams in the woods, does it make a sound?
Given the way sound carries across the lake and the fact that the county sheriff probably doesn’t want to be hauled out in this weather from three towns over just to make sure I’m not murdering anyone, I decide it isn’t worth the risk.
I sigh. Okay. I’ll just get another two-by-four and start o—
My phone rings. Oh, thank God.
I have a split second of panic as I reach for it—what if it’s Beau?
—before, one, remembering I gave Beau his own ringtone the other day (“We Used to Be Friends”) so I’d definitely know if it was him calling, two, remembering I’d then changed my mind and blocked Beau after that, and, three, actually looking at the screen and seeing my favorite cousin’s—Zoe’s—gorgeous, goofy photo there.
I pick up. “Hey, you.”
“Hi, sweetie. How are you?”
“I’m good, you?”
“I’m always amazing; you know that. Now, how are you really?”
I shouldn’t have told her about the breakup. Or, more accurately, I shouldn’t have given her all the gory details. But I needed to vent, and there is no one better to vent to than Zoe.
“I’m fine, Zo.”
“Not pining for Mr. Spray Tan?”
“He didn’t have a spray tan and no.”
“Mr. Hair Plugs.”
“He didn’t have those either.”
“Mr. Butt Botox.”
I crack up. “I don’t think that’s a thing. And you never even met him, so you wouldn’t know any of this anyway.”
“It could be a thing. And I don’t need to meet him to know he’s the kind of asshat who would get butt Botox if it were a thing. And anyway, at least I got you to laugh.”
True enough. “Yeah, thanks.”
“So, are you really okay?”
I fiddle with a clamp on the workbench. “I’m okay.”
“You need to meet a nice guy—that’s what you need.”
As if that would change anything. Meeting a nice guy and having one want to spend time with me long-term are two very different things. But I’m smart enough to keep that thought to myself. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious!” She gasps, then lowers her voice to a mischievous whisper. “You want me to fix you up with my friend George?”
“Your friend George.”
“He’s really cute…”
“Your friend George is a famous author. He’s been on the cover of Time Magazine. I make wooden knick-knacks for a living. And was too boring for a guy who sells antiques to octogenarians.”
“Eh, it’s probably for the best. George has been in a mood.”
I chuckle to myself. If I didn’t love Zoe so much, I’m not sure I’d know what to make of her. “Listen, Zo, I appreciate it, but I’ll be okay. I don’t need to be fixed up. I just need to lay low here for a while, take some time to myself—”
“Oh my God, Owen Wilde, that is the absolute last thing you need! Good Lord, if you sit alone in that cabin one more day, I swear you’re going to—”
Zoe’s voice cuts off abruptly. I look at the phone. The call still appears to be connected. “Zo?”
Over the line, Zoe lets out a little, happy squealing noise.
“Zoe, what are you—”
“Your cousin is a genius, Owen. A genius!”
I love Zoe, but that kind of statement generally means trouble.
“Why are you a genius?”
“Mmm… I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Zoe…”
“Tomorrow. Promise. Now, let me tell you how my blind date went last week.”
I groan but let it go. “Is this the one your neighbor set you up with?”
“No, but that guy turned out to be a fruitarian.”
“A what?”
“A fructivore? Someone who only eats fruit. You should have seen the restaurant he took me to…”
A smile creeps across my face as I lean against the workbench, settling in. On the list of things I’m grateful for, Zoe trying to cheer me up—while pretending that isn’t what she’s doing at all—is pretty damn high.