4. Jana
Four
Jana
I ’ve always been slow to wake up in the mornings: groggy and cranky and dumb. That’s why bar work suits me so well. I’m never expected at Flint’s before 11am, and by that time, I can usually string a sentence together, or at the very least, pretend to be human.
But my first moments after waking? Those are never proud moments for me.
Add a dark blond, bearded man looming over my bed at night, catching me in the act of trespassing, and we’ve got a recipe for disaster.
“Hngh!” A weird, animal grunt bursts out of my mouth as I fling a pillow at the strange man’s face. He ducks, cursing, but it still hits him in the forehead, and in that time I scuttle backward up the bed like a crab.
There are no thoughts in my brain. No reason or logic. Only pure animal instincts and the thrill of fear.
Danger.
“Wait.” The man raises both hands to block another pillow flung full-strength at his face. This one bursts into a cloud of feathers—white, wispy fragments that snow down in a strangely beautiful display around the cabin. I’ve got no time to admire it, though—I’m casting around for something else to throw. “ Wait ,” the man says again. “I’m not going to hurt you, damn it.”
My fingers close on the cheap plastic alarm clock I bought last month in a failed attempt to keep my phone away from the bed. The man is ready this time as I fling it at his face, and he bats it easily into the cabin wall.
The alarm clock explodes into plastic shrapnel, pieces flying everywhere. My heart jolts even faster in my chest, thudding so hard it might burst too, and I’m still too groggy to think straight.
Strange man.
Middle of the night.
Gah!
I pick up the bedside lamp next, but the cord is plugged into the wall. Tugging desperately, I bare my teeth at the man as he leaps back, both palms raised in surrender.
“Okay! Okay, I’m backing up. Jesus Christ. What are you, a feral raccoon?”
I snarl again, yanking at the bedside lamp cord.
The man’s mouth twitches in amusement, and for some strange reason, that’s what finally gets through my groggy, panicked haze. The shrill alarms blaring in my brain quiet a little, and the adrenaline surging through my muscles begins to seep away.
The bedside lamp sags in my hand. I stare at the man, breathing hard.
His bed? Did he say this is his bed?
…Oh, shit .
Shit, shit, shit.
“You can put the lamp down.” The man’s voice is rough and husky, like he hasn’t spoken much lately. His mouth hooks up on one side, fighting a grin. “Let’s not add murder to your list of crimes.”
Crimes!
My fingers flex against the lamp, testing my grip, but my palms are clammy. Reason is finally catching up with me, and when I blink at this stranger, I see him more clearly too.
The beard; the tanned, wind-beaten face; the slightly gaunt cheekbones that say this man has pushed his body to the edge recently. His salt-stained gray t-shirt and dark hiking pants, with well-worn boots on his feet.
The prodigal adventurer has returned.
“Oh, god.” One wobbly arm returns the bedside lamp to the nightstand, and then I tug my pajamas straight, feeling like the world’s biggest ass. “I thought… I thought you were dead.”
The adventurer’s pale blue eyes sparkle with humor, and shoot, at least one of us finds this funny. Though what kind of crazy person enjoys a situation like this, finding a stranger in their cabin?
The same kind who enjoys perilous mountain climbs and river runs, I guess. Flirting with danger for the fun of it.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he says, tone teasing. “Though you nearly finished the job with that lamp.”
“Ugh.” Can’t even bring myself to look at the lamp in question now, not with cold reality slapping me in the face and an immediate future in a jail cell stretching out in front of me. What have I done? How could I be so reckless? “Shit. I’m so, so sorry.”
Digging my knuckles into my eyes, I suck in a shaky breath. There’s no running from this; no fleeing the scene even if I wanted to. All my belongings are spread around this cabin, and plenty of people in town know I moved myself in here. I’m toast.
Besides, I don’t believe in running from things. I’ve always owned up to my actions, even the stupid ones, and I’m not gonna stop that now.
Lord knows I have plenty of practice with being a screw up.
“I’ll clean before the cops arrive.” Dropping my hands, I start scooting my butt to the edge of the bed. Can’t meet the adventurer’s gaze, not with all this shame slithering in my belly. “If you give me ten minutes before you call them, that should give me time to sweep up all the feathers and broken plastic.”
“Cops?” The adventurer jolts forward, shooing me back into the center of the bed. “Hey, stop that. You’ve got bare feet! I’ll sweep up.”
A laugh bursts out of me, strangled and high-pitched. “You’re not cleaning up the mess I made in your cabin. Absolutely not.”
He gives me a faux-stern look before marching over to the kitchen, leaning down to rummage beneath the sink for a dustpan and brush. “Watch me.”
“There’s a bigger broom propped by the wall,” I call weakly. “On the left. Yeah, there.”
And… okay, sure. It’s hard not to watch this man as he sweeps up my mess, plastic fragments clinking against the floorboards. There’s so much confident power in the way he moves, like he’s completely at home in his big, strong body. Like he always knows exactly where all his limbs are at all times, and trusts them to behave. I cannot relate.
“It’s Stig, by the way.” The adventurer glances up at me as he sweeps, smiling when he finds me watching him as instructed. Is it my imagination, or do his muscles flex beneath his shirt? “Stig Hansen. Just in case you’re wondering who you tried to brain with a lamp.”
My nose wrinkles. “I am sorry about that.”
“Oh, don’t be. I liked it.”
This man is nuts.
“Well, I’m Jana Kumara. You know, if you need my full name to fill out a police report.”
“I won’t. Hi, Jana.”
I wave back weakly. “Hi.”
And lord, this must be the weirdest first meeting I’ve ever had with another person. I keep pinching myself through my pajama pants, hot pain blooming on my thigh, but no, it’s definitely real.
“People in town said this cabin was abandoned.” Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, I pluck at the sheets. “They all thought you were probably dead, or at least not coming back. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, I swear.”
Stig nods, still sweeping. The light from the bedside lamp gleams gold against his hair and beard. “Understandable.”
I snort. “No, it’s not. You’re being way too reasonable about this.”
“Well, I am going to make you cut me a new key.” Stig winks, then crouches down to pick up the dustpan. He ferries it to the trash can under the kitchen sink, weaving a graceful path between the furniture.
His furniture. Because this whole cabin and everything in it is his, and even if this man is insanely forgiving, I am still homeless once again.
Where am I gonna sleep tonight? If I hike down to the bar, could I crash in the back office at Flint’s? Would my boss kill me if I took that liberty?
Over by the sink, Stig fills a glass with water, drinks the whole thing in one go, then fills the glass to the brim a second time. His throat shifts as he swallows, forehead creased in concentration, and I finally realize the state the adventurer must be in.
He arrived here in the middle of the night, dusty and sweaty and tired. He’s clearly thirstier than a demon, and I bet he’s hungry too, and probably desperate for a hot shower and some sleep.
But instead of his own quiet cabin, kitted out for his needs, Stig Hansen got home and found new locks on the door and me , sleeping in his comfy bed.
Guilt launches me off the mattress, and I flick on another floor lamp as I hurry across the room. “I can cook! I’ll cook you something. You go shower and change and, and relax or whatever, and I’ll cook you a meal. Then I’ll leave and never come back, I swear.”
The adventurer wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist and sets down the empty glass with a thud. “I have a better idea. Let’s make a deal.”
I yank open the refrigerator door, checking our ingredients: eggs, tomatoes, onions, cheese, spinach, hot chilies. Nothing too exciting, but there’s something here. “Oh?”
“You need somewhere to live, and you already like this cabin—enough to break and enter, anyway.” Stig leans closer to my shoulder, his voice dropping low. His eyes are such a ghostly shade of blue—like the underside of a glacier—and they’re fixed on me, intent. “You should stay, Jana.”
Let’s pretend the full-body shiver that coasts down my spine is because of the cold refrigerator air. Fumbling for the top shelf, I squeeze the biggest tomato to test for ripeness, trying not to get my hopes up already.
It’s too good to be true.
There’s always a catch.
“And what do you get out of this deal, Stig Hansen?”
The adventurer props one elbow on top of the refrigerator. “Simple, really. Nothing crazy.”
My fingers find tomato number two, pressing at the taut flesh. “I’m listening.”
Stig grins, those blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “I need a wife.”