27. Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Monday, 4 days until the wedding: Benjamin
“ O uch!” Benjamin hissed, sucking on his pinkie to relieve the sting of accidentally touching the stove. He shook his hand out beside him as he labored over breakfast, adding enough water and powdered milk to the oats to get just the right consistency. He scowled at the thick paste and added more liquid.
He’d woken up in a miserable mood with a back nearly as stiff as the erection he’d tried to ignore all night. After returning Francesca to bed untouched—well, nearly untouched—featuring an admirable display of self-control, he might add, Benjamin had struggled to fall asleep. Eventually, he managed to relax his mind enough to reverse the blood flow pulsing below his waistband. That is until he heard the telltale wobble of bedsprings and a satisfied little whine seeping through the bedroom walls. At that point, all progress was lost.
As he continued with the oatmeal, pondering the injustice of masturbatory double standards, the bedroom door cracked open.
“Morning,” came the husky, sleep-addled greeting.
“Mm-hm,” he murmured.
“Sleep all right?”
“Fine.”
She sniffed the air and grinned. “You’re making me breakfast?”
“What makes you think I’m sharing?” He glowered down at the pot he stirred.
She tugged on her snow bibs.
“It’s a rough trek to the pit toilet this morning. It snowed eighteen inches and counting by my estimation, and the wind is brutal.” As if on cue, an ominous howl whipped around the little cabin, rattling the shutters. “Blew the glasses right off of me when I went earlier.” Benjamin adjusted the black frames as they slipped down his nose.
Francesca moved to stand beside him. He glanced over his shoulder and caught her just as she clocked the state of his eyewear.
“What happened?” She choked on a hiccupy giggle.
“I stepped on them.” He grumbled, remembering how the wailing wind had drowned out his enraged roar. Fortunately, it had only been one of the arms and not the already scuffed lenses. A small twig and a bit of first aid tape made them wearable.
Francesca leaned in and evaluated his patch job.
“Not too bad,” she murmured, reaching up to touch the tiny splint. She sucked in a breath as Benjamin encircled her wrist.
“My point is”—he released her and turned back to the oatmeal—“that it’s rough out there. Do you want an escort?”
“Breakfast and security detail. Be still my heart.”
“I’m also making tea.”
“The trifecta. You’re going to make a Mrs. Professor Clark one happy lady someday.”
He grunted.
“Teasing.” She moaned, rolling her eyes in judgment. “Thanks for the offer, but I can manage the out and back on my own. If I don’t return in five, come find me.” She stepped into her boots and out the door.
Through the night, the storm had seemed to settle yet awoke in the early morning with renewed fervor, guaranteeing an extension to their stranding. Perhaps they’d get lucky and the squall would die down enough for them to make their way out of the valley. Though Benjamin rarely found himself to be that fortunate.
He dished up two bowls and carried them, along with the brown sugar and raisins, to the little table. As he poured boiling water over the teabags in each mug, the front door burst open.
Shivering and splatted like a Jackson Pollock on all sides with snow, Francesca hustled into the cabin. She pressed her weight against the door to latch it shut then made a beeline for the stove.
“Holy fuckery of fucks, it’s c-cold out there,” she said as she peeled off her coat and bibs and shook the flakes from her hair.
“Like I said,” Benjamin drolled. He gestured to the spread. “Breakfast is ready.”
Francesca’s grin lit up the small, shadowy room as she settled into one of the chairs and topped her oatmeal with two heaping spoonfuls of brown sugar. She picked up a raisin, popped it into her mouth and cringed.
He eyed the dried fruit he’d already tossed into his bowl with concern. “Have they gone bad?”
“Nope.” She mixed her breakfast, blowing on it to cool it down. “I hate raisins.”
“Then why did you eat one?”
“What if I liked them today?”
Benjamin felt his face contort in confusion. “If you hate them, what would one day make?”
Francesca leveled a scowl on him that was so exasperated he questioned his own sense of logic for a moment. “Tastes can change, professor.”
“Sure, but in a day?”
“Why not?”
She scooped into her bowl and took a big bite. She smiled cheerfully, cheeks full of oatmeal.
“Sometimes you confuse me, Miss Miller.”
“That’s because you’re stuck in your ways,” she said, wiggling her spoon at him. “A creature of habit.”
She had him pegged.
He did have a tendency to set up his days methodically. Perhaps to an outside observer, they were mundane, but to him, it was a measure of adulthood. Long gone were the random flights of fancy that accompanied youth. At twelve, responsibility had rolled in like a thunderhead. He could either whine about it or grab an umbrella. He chose the latter. Since then, he’d organized his world to follow a carefully curated trajectory. The day-to-day schedule was what kept him on track and allowed him to survive. Even better, it allowed him to find success.
“There’s nothing wrong with routine,” Benajmin scolded.
“To an extent. But you’ll miss out on so much if you’re too rigid.”
“Like eating my version of a raisin?”
“Something like that,” she chuckled through a mouthful. “Thank you for breakfast.”
“My pleasure.”
He found satisfaction in providing something that might ease the burden of their situation. The only thing he’d managed thus far was bandaging her wound and washing a few measly dishes. He tended to be the expert in most of the situations he found himself in, and this adventure made him face his discomfort with feeling helpless. He wanted to contribute. Craved the knowledge that he was pulling his own weight.
“Did you sleep all right?” Francesca scrunched up her face like she already knew the answer.
Benjamin shrugged. “Eventually.”
“I doubt you were comfortable,” she began, scanning his eyes and furrowing her brows. “If we can’t get out of here by tonight, you can have the bed.”
He warmed momentarily from her generosity then immediately scowled. He wasn’t going to take the bed from her; he’d feel like an absolute rat if he did. The floor was fine. Once he finally calmed his boiling blood last night, he drifted off and slept like the dead, which was probably why he woke up with a crick in his back.
“Thanks, but I’d rather focus on getting out of here before then,” he stated, finally digging into his meal.
“I get that. However,”—Francesca paused, glancing out the window of the rustic log cabin—“we may need to accept that this could go on for a while.”
Benjamin followed her gaze and swallowed a clump of oats, cringing at what he saw.
A whiteout.
Zero visibility.
It would be suicide going out there, and who knew if search and rescue would even be around to collect them? For all he knew, Highway 2 was closed, and if that were the case, where would they be? Stuck in the elements with no shelter.
He sighed, conceding to their mutual fate.
“Then how do you suggest we spend our time?”
She grinned. “I have a few ideas.”