Chapter 21
GEORGE
Owen’s sweater is cozy and warm and smells distractingly good.
Like detergent and aftershave and just a hint of fresh-cut wood.
And while layering it under my coat has certainly made my trek into town more pleasant than my first one, it is also destroying my concentration and reinforcing my lumberjack fantasy.
I wonder if Owen looks like a lumberjack.
Okay. This is not a productive line of thinking.
Though if I wanted to pursue it, I know the man likes plaid flannel, having had to go through his drawers to find the sweater. And I know he’s tall and sturdy from the way the hand-knit pullover hangs off my clearly smaller frame.
Maybe he’s blond, because Zoe’s blonde…
Maybe I should stop thinking about this now.
I’ve managed to get almost the whole way to town without making any progress on my book, despite having opened up my voice recording app for all the notes I haven’t made. In the city, walking often helps me brainstorm, but here? Now? Not so much.
Strictly speaking, I’ve come up with a few ideas. Unfortunately, they’re all swoony scenes for the book that isn’t supposed to exist, rather than solutions to my Sebastian-Steele-locked-in-a-bank-vault problem.
I blame the sweater.
Then I feel guilty because the sweater is clearly not to blame. And any associated lumberjack daydreaming is clearly my mind desperately trying to latch onto something that isn’t my damn book. Owen is not a lumberjack. And even if he were, I don’t even know Owen.
Which is also why it was stupid to take the time to put together that whole New York walking tour I did for the guy. I’ve probably frightened him off from ever emailing me again by coming on so strong.
It’s weird… admittedly, I was probably procrastinating when I started. But once I got going, I found that I was enjoying myself – guessing what Owen might like from what I know about him, sharing some of my own favorite secret spots in the city.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had the opportunity to do something for someone else like that. Making careful choices, putting in little personal touches. I feel a small pang, which I choose to ignore.
As I come to the town square—this time warm enough, thanks to the sweater, to pause and take in the large, colorfully lit tree in the center—a notification buzzes on my phone.
Okay, so maybe I set my phone up to alert me if Owen emails. We are occupying each other’s homes after all. There could be an emergency.
…And possibly I’m enjoying having someone to chat with—even if he isn’t exactly a friend. Or a lumberjack.
I tap over to the email. Most likely, Owen’s letting me know he’d given in to Zoe’s pressure and is now headed to some bizarre destination she picked for him.
I wouldn’t take it personally if he just ignored my whole list. After all, who the hell am I and what do I know about what Owen wants to do with his time?
From: Owen Wilde
To: George Knight
Date: December 21, 11:45 AM
Subject: Check it out!
But whatever’s inside the email is a mystery, because my phone doesn’t seem to be able to load it. I guess I should be grateful I have any bars at all. It’s been spotty for half of the walk.
Still, it’s cold, sweater or no, and I’ve made it to town now, so it makes a lot more sense to go inside rather than standing here watching my email load.
The bell on the door jangles cheerfully, and the warmth of the general store and all its soap and cinnamon-y goodness wraps around like a cozy embrace as I step inside.
Which is why I don’t notice at first the three women standing at the cashier’s counter who have all very much noticed me.
“George! Welcome back!” says Ruth.
“Hey, smokey!” The young, Black woman with long braids who I recognize as the volunteer firefighter I met last night—Allie, apparently—throws me a wink and some finger guns.
The third woman, plump and middle-aged with long gray curls and statement eyeglasses, just blinks at me. Allie elbows her.
“This is the gentleman who tried to set Owen Wilde’s cabin on fire.”
“Oh, now, Allie, you know it was an accident,” Ruth scolds.
“George Knight! You’re George Knight,” says the one I haven’t met. She has a sort of awestruck look I’ve seen before. Oh God. I really don’t need this right now. With my luck, she’ll have a blog or YouTube channel or something.
“Is that your last name, dear? I didn’t catch it yesterday,” says Ruth.
“Yep, that’s it,” Allie confirms, saving me the trouble. “George Reginald Knight—needed his full name for the incident report.”
“Hi,” I flash my most winning smile and hold out a hand to the new woman. “Nice to meet you. If you wouldn’t mind, I’m kind of trying to keep my presence here on the down-low.”
Allie snort-laughs. “That why you invited the folks with the flashing lights and sirens over yesterday?”
I shoot her a look. “I didn’t invite anyone.”
“I am so happy to meet you,” the other woman gushes as she shakes my hand. “I’m Carol, the head librarian. I’m a huge fan.”
“Of his firestarting?” Allie asks.
“Of his books!”
“Books?” Ruth’s brows knit together in confusion. Then her expression changes. “Oh! Oh, are you that George Knight? Oh, my goodness, I hadn’t realized.”
“Oooh,” says Allie. “Yeah, I’ve heard of you. With those Benedict Brass books.”
“Sebastian Steele,” Carol corrects.
“Whatever.”
So much for anonymity. I’m not recognized often, but I’ve been on enough magazine covers and plus the occasional interview… It usually doesn’t matter, but right about now I’m really not feeling up to being “that George Knight” publicly.
“Well, my goodness,” Ruth is saying. “Isn’t that something? Another creative type! How wonderful for Owen.”
I damn near do a spit-take, despite not having anything in my mouth.
“Ruth, I told you, we’re not—”
“Oh, I know, I know, sweetie.” She pats my hand, then makes a zipping motion across her mouth. Then giggles behind her closed lips like the glee might burst out of her despite the zip.
Allie and Carol exchange a very interested look. They both turn to me, Allie with an arched brow, Carol beaming.
“I’m just staying at his place. He’s not there.”
“Where is he?” Carol asks.
“Oh, he’s staying at George’s place,” Allie says with a knowing look.
“Right. Because we’ve just swapped homes. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Mmm.” Allie nods. “Pretty cozy one, too. So, you’re like, sleeping in each other’s beds and stuff?”
“Yes, but we’re not—” They all look at me with emotions ranging from starry-eyed to indulgent. “—You know what, never mind, can you just tell me where I can find the bundles of firewood?”
“Back right corner,” all three women say in unison.
I nod my thanks and escape while I can.
“He’s shit with building fires, but the butt’s not bad,” Allie says behind me, barely lowering her voice.
“He’s a famous author,” Carol hisses. “Also, how can you tell under all those clothes?”
“I just can.”
“Mmm.” Carol hums. “Yeah, okay, I see what you mean.”
“Owen’s a lucky, lucky guy,” says Ruth.
I hurry to the back of the store.
Ten minutes later, I return to the register with two bundles of firewood wrapped in twine.
There are handles, sort of, fashioned out of the twine, but they just serve to dig into my hands and allow the logs to knock into me, repeatedly, as I carry them.
My legs are probably already black and blue.
I hadn’t thought about the logistics of getting a bunch of wood back to the cabin.
Ridiculous, but then I have been distracted in any number of ways.
I wonder if there’s any such thing as a delivery service out here in Moonlake Village.
I imagine not. I’ll have to call an Uber in from whatever the nearest town with Ubers is to take me less than a mile and a half back to the cabin.
I suppose I could just buy one bundle, but I think I might need two, and anyway, the point is moot because who am I kidding, I’m not going to be able to carry one of these things that far in the cold either.
Carol jumps in as soon as I’ve hoisted the bundles onto the counter.
“I just want you to know I would never say anything to anyone about your being here. I understand how important an author’s privacy is.”
I feel myself relax a tiny bit. She seems sweet and genuine. “Thank you. I’m actually here to work, so I appreciate that.”
“A writer’s retreat! Right here in Moonlake Village! We are honored.” Carol clutches a hand to her chest. “You know, I always think you’re going to run out of ways to keep Sebastian Steele exciting, but you just keep them coming.”
“I try,” I say through a practiced smile. It isn’t that I don’t like the attention. I love that there are people out there I’ve connected with through my books, people my work means something to. But there’s no escaping the fact that they aren’t my fans, they’re Sebastian Steele’s.
I quickly remind myself how fortunate I am to have created a character who is so popular. That I like Steele. That I am grateful for everything I have. That feeling “stuck” writing books that are loved by millions and that have given much-needed queer rep is the definition of privilege.
I pull out my wallet, then grab a local paper from the display in front of me, because why not? Might come in handy for firestarting, and if not, I can always read about the regional maple loaf contest or whatever the breaking headline is today. I hold it up and turn to Ruth. “How much with this?”
“Twenty-one twenty, dear.”
When I’m all checked out, she offers me a warm smile. “Enjoy your fire.”
“Not too much,” Allie adds.
I smirk. “I will bear that in mind.”
I roll the paper and stuff it under my arm. I’m reaching for the wood bundles when Allie grabs one and heads for the door. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
I freeze. Carol smiles. Ruth shrugs.
Allie calls from the exit, “What are you going to do, George, call Uber and wait for Agnes Mayfield to make her way over here from Chestnut Creek in her 30-year-old Volvo? Because she’s the nearest driver.”
I do not really feel like telling her that yes, that was in fact my plan.
“Okay. Yes, sure. Thank you.”
“Say hi to Owen for me,” Ruth calls after me as I follow Allie out. I wince, but keep going.
Seated in Allie’s pickup, as we roll out of town, I turn to her. “You know, just for the record, there really is nothing going on with me and Owen.”
She glances at me before returning her eyes to the road, “Yeah. Don’t worry about Ruth. She just wants good things for him. He’s had a hard time.”
I wonder what exactly that means. Zoe said something about a breakup and the guy not being worthy anyway.
It also doesn’t escape me that if you’re young and single and gay, a tiny town in Vermont might not be the best place in the world to meet your soulmate.
Not that I know a damn thing about soulmates.
Allie slows to a stop to let a deer hop across the road. She turns to me. “Ruth’s protective of him. We all are. He’s a good guy.”
“I’m sure he is.” I give her a hesitant little smile. It isn’t like I need her approval, but somehow I feel like my time in Moonlake Village might be better if I have it.
This seems to satisfy her because she gives me a nod and continues down the road. I look down at my phone and idly click to open Owen’s “Check it out!” email. It has loaded finally. It’s a photo.
It shows a rustic, circular structure. Not really an enclosure so much as a loose sketch of one in rough-hewn wood, bare-branched surroundings visible on all sides, skyscrapers further back—like a secret woodland chapel in the middle of the city.
Cop Cot in Central Park, one of the stops along the route I sent Owen.
He went.
Huh. Go figure.
Allie clears her throat, and I look up to see we’ve arrived at the cabin.
“You planning on getting out, or are you just going to sit in my truck and grin at your phone all day?”
I blink. “No… I… thank you. I’ll just grab the firewood.”
I hop out and hoist the two bundles from the truck bed, but as I turn toward the cabin, Allie is standing there. She holds out her hand. “You left your phone on the seat.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I go to grab it, but she yanks it back, giving me a sly grin.
“I didn’t mean to pry, but I couldn’t help but notice the return address on that email. I happen to recognize it.”
At which point I feel my whole face flush. I take the phone from her, mumble a farewell, and head to the cabin.
“See you around, George Knight,” she sings like the goddamn canary that got the cat.