Chapter 3 Warming Up
WARMING UP
ELAINE
His cabin wasn't what I expected.
I didn't know what I'd expected, exactly, maybe something more… rustic? Rough-hewn logs and a bearskin rug and the faint smell of unwashed bachelor?
Instead, it was clean. Spare. Intentional.
One main room with a woodstove in the corner, a small kitchen along the back wall, and a loft visible through the open railing overhead. Everything was wood, floor, walls, ceiling, but it was finished smooth, oiled to a warm honey color that caught the light from the windows.
"Bathroom's through there," Jack said, nodding toward a door on the left. "I'll get you something dry."
He disappeared up the ladder to the loft before I could answer, moving with the kind of ease that said he'd climbed that thing a thousand times and never once thought about falling.
I stood in the middle of the room, dripping onto his floor, and tried not to shiver so hard my teeth rattled.
Failed.
The cold had settled deep into my bones, the kind that made everything ache. My fingers were still numb. My boots squelched when I shifted my weight.
Jack came back down with a stack of clothes, flannel shirt, thermal undershirt, sweatpants, and a towel that looked like it had seen some use but was perfectly clean.
"These'll be too big," he said, handing them over. "But they're warm."
"Thank you," I managed.
He nodded toward the bathroom again. "Get changed. I'll start the stove."
I didn't argue. Just took the clothes and stumbled into the bathroom, which was as clean and simple as the rest of the cabin. Sink, toilet, shower stall. No clutter. No products lined up on the counter. Just a bar of soap and a single towel hanging on the hook.
It shouldn't have been attractive, but it was.
I peeled off my wet clothes with shaking hands, each layer sticking to my skin like it had been glued there. My shirt. My jeans. My bra was soaked and freezing, and the realization that I’d be wearing his thermal shirt with nothing underneath landed harder than it should have.
Because you're in shock and your brain is useless.
Fair.
I stripped down to bare skin, dried off as best I could with the towel, and pulled on his clothes. The thermal was soft and warm, smelling faintly of wood smoke and something else I couldn't name. The flannel shirt hung to my thighs. The sweatpants required rolling at the waist and the ankles.
I looked like a child playing dress-up.
But I was warm. Or warming up, anyway.
I bundled my wet clothes into a soggy ball and opened the bathroom door.
Jack was crouched by the woodstove, feeding split logs into the firebox. The flames caught quickly, bright and hot, and he adjusted the damper with the kind of practiced efficiency that said he'd done this ten thousand times.
He glanced up when I stepped out.
His eyes tracked over me, quick, assessing, and something flickered across his face before he looked back at the fire.
"Better?" he asked.
"Much. Thank you."
He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I'll hang those to dry," he said, nodding at the bundle in my arms.
I handed them over, trying not to think about the fact that my wet bra was currently in his hands.
He didn't comment. Just draped everything over a drying rack near the stove and adjusted the angle so they'd catch the heat without scorching.
Efficient. Practical. Not weird about it.
I liked that.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the couch, a low, sturdy thing that looked handmade. "I'm going to call this in."
"Is that really necessary?" I asked, even though I knew the answer.
He gave me a look. "Yes."
Fair.
I sat. The couch was more comfortable than it looked, and the heat from the stove was already starting to creep into the room. I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them, watching as Jack moved to the kitchen and picked up a radio from the counter.
He keyed the mic. "This is Jack Myers, civilian caller. I need to report a water incident at the north cabins, Lone Ridge Resort."
Static, then a woman's voice: "Copy, Jack. Go ahead."
"Adult female, early forties, went into the river off the main dock. She's out, no injuries, warming up now at my place. No extraction needed."
"Copy that. Injuries?"
"Negative. She's stable."
"Location?"
"My cabin. North access road, mile marker six."
"Got it. We'll log it. You need us to send anyone?"
"Negative. Roads are a mess, and she's fine. Just wanted it on record."
"Appreciate the call, Jack. Stay safe out there."
He set the radio down and turned back to me.
"They'll log it," he said. "If anything changes, we call back."
"What would change?" I asked.
"If you started showing signs of hypothermia. Confusion, slurred speech, that kind of thing."
"I'm fine."
"You are now." He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You weren't twenty minutes ago."
He wasn't wrong.
"I don't know how to tie rescue knots."
"Then you would've figured something else out." He said it like it was obvious. Like competence was just a thing people had, not a thing you earned.
I found myself smiling despite the lingering cold. "You don't know that."
"Sure I do." His eyes met mine, steady and sure. "You held on. That's the hard part."
Something warm unfurled in my chest, and it had nothing to do with the woodstove.
The radio crackled again.
"Jack, it's Pat. Just got word, north access road's washed out at the junction. You're cut off until tomorrow at least."
Jack picked up the mic. "Copy. Appreciate the heads-up."
"Your guest okay to stay put?"
He glanced at me.
I nodded.
"She's fine," he said into the radio.
"Good. We'll check in tomorrow morning. Stay warm."
The line went silent.
Jack set the radio down and looked at me, expression unreadable.
"Looks like you're stuck with me," he said.
I should have been worried.
I wasn't.
"Looks like," I said.
And for the first time since I hit the water, I felt myself relax.