Chapter 6
OWEN
I sigh. Zoe seems to think this is a good idea. And Zoe, while not necessarily the savant she proclaimed herself, well, she does have her moments.
Maybe this isn’t the worst idea in the world. She could certainly be onto something about my place making a good writer’s retreat. Lord knows I’ve found the peace of Moonlake Village conducive to creativity. Usually.
And maybe she is onto something about me as well. Maybe.
At the very least, getting away for a little while can’t make things worse for me. And if what I need is distraction? Zoe is nothing if not distracting.
So, I’ll let her distract me for a little while.
Even if it doesn’t get me out of my head, it’ll make her happy.
And who knows? Maybe lending the guy my place will earn it a cameo in his book.
Maybe he’ll write my view of the lake into the thing.
Or my spiral staircase, leading up to the loft bedroom.
Or my ancient refrigerator. Or my shitty cracked coffee mugs.
Jesus, why am I doing this again? Oh, yeah. Zoe.
I make the bed with my best set of flannel sheets. They are well-worn, but they are the coziest I have. And they’ll have to do. If they aren’t good enough for George Knight, George Knight will just have to deal with it.
I sigh, surveying the place. I don’t really think anyone Zoe likes as much as she obviously likes George is going to judge me.
Not really. Not for not being rich and famous, anyway.
But there is just no hiding the humbleness of my existence.
No hiding the boring. And this is a guy who writes sexy spy novels for a living.
At least I assume they are sexy. Based on the covers and that one movie adaptation I’ve seen. Crap, should I have read one of the guy’s books? No. We’re just swapping homes. I don’t need to become the guy’s new best friend.
And a guy like that wouldn’t want a best friend who is basically a 30-year-old hermit. A boring guy who would just hold him back.
Goddamn Beau.
I tidy the rest of the place quickly. It doesn’t hurt that there isn’t all that much to the rest of the place.
Kitchen, living room, bath, sleeping loft, and of course, my absolute favorite place, the four-season porch, with its wood-burning stove, comfy couch, and wall of windows looking out on the lake.
I ought to bring in some firewood, since I’ve used up what I had in the basket by the stove.
I start out to the woodpile, but the Christmas tree catches my eye.
Damn, I hope Knight won’t mind caring for it.
If I’d known I’d be heading out of town, maybe I wouldn’t have gotten one.
But it’s too late now. Besides, I like having a tree. It makes the place feel cozy and homey.
Although it does look a little like it’s missing something.
It’s decorated. I’ve wrapped my twinkle lights around it and hung my ornament collection—a combination of old sentimental ones from my childhood I snagged when my parents decided macaroni crafts didn’t match their current aesthetic, a few my uncle left me, and an eclectic bunch of wooden ones I made myself in the shop.
But there’s nothing under the tree. And even though I’m fine with this for myself, there is something a little lonely about it when I look through the eyes of a guest.
Then inspiration strikes. A slow smile creeps across my face, and I head out to the shop.
Half an hour later, I wrap my creation in one of the brown paper bags I have yet to recycle, make a little gift tag out of the same paper, and place it under the tree. There. Perfect.
Well. It could use a bow, if I had one. Wait!
In the back of the closet, I find Beau’s still-in-the-box birthday gift.
(Really, though, a leather jacket I’d clearly never pick myself?
So we could go clubbing sometime? Subtle, Beau, really subtle.
In retrospect, I should have seen “bad match” written all over that relationship pretty early on.) But…
the gift had come with a gorgeous red velvet ribbon tied around it.
I snag it, tie it around my homemade gift, and put it back under the tree. Now it’s perfect.
Hmm. It’s also, I suddenly notice, dark outside my windows.
Granted, it gets dark ridiculously early this time of year, but I hadn’t realized I’d spent so much time getting things ready.
I still have over six hours of driving ahead of me, not to mention a man coming to stay there and expecting me to be gone. I’d better hit the road.
I go to the sleeping loft, hastily pull a variety of clothes from the dresser into a couple of duffel bags. Downstairs, I add things from the bathroom, plus a couple of nicer clothing items from the closet—I know I’m attending a wedding, and who knows what else Zoe has in store for me.
I scrawl out a quick note to my guest, propping it on the kitchen table. Then I head to my truck, trying not to think about how utterly wrong this all feels. God, I hope Zoe knows what she’s doing.