Chapter 10 Quinn
Quinn
Even though it’s been a short few days, we've fallen into a great rhythm together.
After our rhythm throughout the night, Luke wakes early, starts coffee, and then goes to tend to the cabins.
I heard Audrey call him early this morning with a honey-do list, and it made me smile.
He answered her with respect and concern for making sure the guests here have everything they need.
Luke's quick turnaround at his reaction to me made me feel good. It made me feel like maybe I haven’t lost touch with “rekindling romance” and that I just needed to regroup outside the city.
It’s been fun watching him come out of his shell, open up more to me, and have some fun.
We even cooked dinner together, and when I began cutting vegetables kind of the same way I was stacking wood, he was eager to correct me.
So, I listened for a moment, then grabbed a carrot and began slowly peeling it, long strokes while staring him dead in his eye. Then I placed it down and chopped the tip off.
“Happy now?” I asked sweetly.
“You’re a menace in the kitchen,” he muttered, taking the knife from me.
“Good. Keeps you on your toes, mountain man.”
But what really surprised me was yesterday afternoon. I told him I was getting some inspiration and really needed to get my words down. He said he would leave me with the quiet, which turned out to be exactly what I needed.
Almost.
I couldn’t quite place it, except to say I wasn’t used to the quiet. In the city, there is always some kind of background noise, and I always assumed I needed it to write.
So, when I sat with way too much silence, I found myself searching the windows for him.
I spotted him restacking the wood outside the cabin, and I was relieved when he looked my way.
I waved, and he nodded, standing with his hand on his hip a little too long.
I was disappointed when he turned around and left, walking back towards his cabin without a word.
I sat back down, taking a deep breath and telling myself just to keep writing.
A few minutes later, I heard his steps on my porch. When I went to the door, he was sitting in the oversized rocking chair, a knife in one hand, a smooth piece of wood in the other. He carved and rocked away, neither one of us speaking.
I left the door halfway open and moved to the bistro table with my laptop to write. And the words poured out. Every so often, I glanced out the door, seeing him in his flannel, his hands moving quickly and with focus.
And it felt good. It felt right. And that scared me more than the storm did.