Chapter 19 #2
He doesn’t answer for a moment, and I keep quiet as I let him mull it over. I can sort of tell when he reaches the decision, nodding to himself as he breathes in deep, then expels a sigh noisily between his lips.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Yes!” I half shout. I’m beside myself all over again as I awkwardly hug him without thinking, my arms barely reaching around his middle just as his come up in surprise to make room for me. “It’s going to be great,” I say against his coat as I give him a squeeze. “And I will totally help you.”
Shit, I think, Hunter’s scent assaulting my senses as I realize I’ve gotten ahead of myself again. I pull back carefully, feeling embarrassment heat my cheeks and my neck and even lower in my chest.
But Hunter doesn’t look embarrassed.
In fact, Hunter is sort of looking at me like he was last night. He’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me.
And that only raises more questions.
Questions I’m still afraid to ask, if I’m being honest. I think there’s a part of me that won’t like his answer if I prod him about why he doesn’t kiss me.
I’ve had my fair share of heartache and disappointment and downright bullshit in the men department over the years, and adding not the hot lumberjack’s type to the list might actually be the thing that pushes me over the edge.
But apparently the universe still hates me—or loves me, depending on how you look at it.
The loud sound of a tree limb banging against a window robs me of any chance to ask Hunter anything, even if I could find the courage to do so.
We jolt apart as the branch gives another loud bang, and Hunter curses under his breath as he scowls at the glass.
“I have to take care of that,” he sighs. “Don’t want another broken window. I need to finish bringing in the wood anyway before the snow gets too high.”
“Right,” I say airily, weirdly feeling like pouting all over again. “I’ll just…go shoot Nate a quick confirmation text.”
“Okay.” Hunter’s eyes linger on mine for a moment as if he wants to say more, but he finally nods. “I’ll find you later?”
“I’ll be here,” I say. “Nowhere else to go and all that.”
His mouth quirks. “Right.”
He turns back to leave and is nearly through the patio door before I call after him, “Oh, hey, where’s Jeannie, anyway? I want to tell her the good news.”
Hunter looks at me pointedly, with one hand gripping the doorframe and the other on the handle, his brown eyes seeming to darken a little as they lock with mine. “Jeannie went back down to her place in town this morning. She’s riding out the storm there.”
“Oh.” I feel a bit dazed by the implications of that, especially since even in my hungover state…I’m remembering my brothers were supposed to head to Denver early this morning. “So it’s just…us?”
Hunter nods. “Until the storm passes.”
I nod back because that’s all my brain can seem to manage, and Hunter gives me one last lingering look before he disappears outside. He leaves me standing there as I try to remember how to take steps, the reality of what he just said beginning to set in.
Because until this storm passes…I’m all alone on a mountain with a hot lumberjack.
One who may or may not want to kiss me.
“Fuck,” I huff, pulling off my goggles.
The last of the old carpet I’ve torn up has yielded a nasty surprise, and I stare down at the gaps in the original wood with a frown.
Of course, I should have been skeptical when we made it this far without a hitch.
Thankfully, I’ve already filmed a short TikTok highlighting the wood before I found this problem.
Usually this far into a project we’re up to our eyeballs in issues, so I suppose I should be grateful that this is our first one.
The only problem is…I’m not entirely sure how to proceed.
I wrestle my cell from my pocket, muttering obscenities under my breath as I scroll through my contacts.
There’s a fifty percent chance he’ll just let it go to voicemail because he’s lost his phone again, and I wait patiently to see what type of day he’s having in that regard.
Fortunately, he picks up on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Dad,” I say, feeling warmth bloom in my stomach at the sound of his voice. “What’re you up to?”
“Same old,” he grunts. “Watching Pawn Stars reruns.”
“Anyone bring anything good?”
“Some rip-off of Elvis’s signature.”
“Ah,” I answer. “I’ve seen that one, actually.”
“Pretty sure we’ve seen most of them,” he chuckles. “Did you need something, kiddo?”
My brow wrinkles as I stare down at the problem at my feet.
“Right, yeah…I’m restoring some original hardwood here at the lodge, and I had a question about some gapping.”
“Gapping,” he echoes.
“Yeah. Some of them seem too wide for filler. I wasn’t sure of the best way to move forward.”
“If they’re that bad, might as well just rip ’em up.”
I frown. “The owner wants to keep everything as original as we can. We can’t just rip them up.”
“Sounds like the owner is kind of fussy,” he laughs.
I smile despite myself, finding it mildly hilarious that my dad could be so spot-on about Hunter without ever having met him.
“Maybe a little,” I say. “But you’d like him. He’s just as ornery as you are.”
“I’m nothing of the sort,” Dad scoffs.
“Sure you aren’t,” I laugh. “So do you have any suggestions?”
He hums as he considers, and I hear the creaking sounds of his old recliner as he situates himself. “I reckon you could make a patch out of glue and thin strips of wood.”
“Have you done that before?”
“A few times,” he tells me.
“Okay, that could work.” I clear my throat. “It’s looking pretty good so far. We’ve nearly finished the flooring, and the paneling has been refinished. The boys are in Denver today picking up some more supplies, and once they get back we’ll—”
My voice cracks, and my dad doesn’t miss it.
“What’s wrong?”
I stand there, clutching the phone too tight, feeling my eyes prickle for reasons I can’t pin down. “I don’t know,” I say. “I just miss you, I guess.”
“Oh, hon,” he sighs. “You can come visit anytime, you know that.”
“I know,” I tell him. “I will. As soon as I finish here.” I hesitate, knowing he doesn’t love talking about it, but I can’t help it. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” he snorts. “Healthy as a horse. Those doctors don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Dad,” I chide. “You’re doing what they say, right?”
“I’m being good,” he huffs.
I nod to myself. “And when is your next appointment?”
“Next Tuesday,” he tells me. “We’re supposed to go over options.”
“You let me know what they say, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckles. “You’re almost as bad as your mother.”
“I just worry about you,” I admit.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve got some more good years in me, don’t you worry.”
“Sure, Dad,” I manage. “I’ll call you later?”
“Sounds good, kiddo. Be safe out there.”
“I will. Tell Mom I said hi.”
“Can do.”
The line goes dead, and I stare at the phone in my hand for a few seconds as I think back on the conversation.
He sounded…tired. He always sounds tired lately, and that does nothing but worry me.
I know from my own research that he does have options besides getting a pacemaker put in, but none of them will give him the same life expectancy.
Which is why I need to get back to work.
I glance at the gapping wood in the corner I’ve been working myself into, staring at it like it’s the enemy, and maybe it is at this moment.
At the very least, it’s a good outlet for my frustrations.
Deciding that this thinking isn’t something I have time for, I pull my goggles back down into place and do what I always do when I’m avoiding my feelings.
I get back to work.
It might be all the nervous energy I’m still carrying after having been told I’ll be alone for the weekend with Hunter in a snowy cabin like some sort of cheesy Hallmark movie—only with a heavy dose of sexual tension—but I’m almost grateful when Hunter keeps busy throughout lunch, getting ready for the storm.
I scrounge up a sandwich that I eat in my bedroom as I text back and forth with Ada, doing my best to resist the urge to peek out my window every so often to see if I can catch a glimpse of my quiet innkeeper.
Not my quiet innkeeper, I mentally correct.
Even an hour after lunch, Hunter is still outside doing this and that (how he isn’t freezing to death, I’ll never know), and I decide my energy would be better spent doing something productive rather than sitting around.
It takes me a little while to locate what I’m after, but I find a stash of cleaning supplies in a closet just off the kitchen and then a ladder stored away in another on the opposite side of the house.
I get to work in the main entry first, ridding the old elk head of his Santa hats before I start dusting and cleaning all the cobwebs from the walls and ceilings.
And there are a lot of both, it turns out.
I’d wager no one has done this in years, and it takes me a good hour and a half to finish this room.
Granted, I polished and organized the front desk after I finished with the walls, then gave the floors a good mopping and the staircase banister a thorough wipe-down.
The room looks like a whole new place by the time I’m done.
I figure if we can clean the main rooms and the best bedroom in the place for pictures, that will be more than enough for Nate and his team to print up in the magazine. We can worry about the rest when the interview is over and we have more time.
I notice I’m definitely still thinking we. Is that weird?
Probably best not to analyze that one too much.