Chapter 4 #3
Silas rolled his eyes as he leaned and took a sip. “Still weird, but it’s good.”
I spooned another bite for him. “Years from now, you’ll forget about this. You won’t remember my name or if you were ever in Vermont in the first place. Unless you end up with a real case of hypothermia and wind up in the hospital.”
“Whoa. Is this coercion?”
“It might be,” I teased. “Another? Chugga-chugga…”
Silas glared but opened his mouth and within ten minutes or so, the soup was nearly gone.
He thanked me and returned to nibbling his grilled cheese, his eyes trained on the fire. “So…are you from here? Vermont?”
“Yeah. Born in Fallbrook. It’s one of the Four Forest towns—about twenty minutes to half an hour away, depending on a logging delivery. My family moved to Wood Hollow when I was a teenager, though. I went to junior high here and got a job at the mill…worked my way through the ranks, I ’spose.”
He slanted a curious sideways glance at me. “Really? You’ve never lived anywhere else?”
The incredulous tone probably wasn’t meant as an insult, but I had no doubt that Silas the football hero had judged this area—and most likely me—as provincial. Quaint, cute, not somewhere you’d want to be stuck for…well, a lifetime.
“I went to college in Upstate New York,” I replied, chowing on my sandwich.
“Got a degree in forestry. Lived in Ithaca for a few years. I always missed home, though. I talked my wife into moving here before Ivy was born. We’re divorced, so that might not be a ringing endorsement, but I swear they all love it.
My kids split their time in Fallbrook with their mom and Wood Hollow with me. That part sucks, but we make it work.”
“Hmm.” More nibbling. “What do you do at the mill? Did I ask that already? I forgot.”
“You did. That’s okay. I run the mill for the owner. Hank doesn’t know some of the more hands-on aspects of the job, so I’m his liaison.”
Silas twisted slightly, holding his grilled cheese in midair while his thorough once-over lingered at my chest. “You mean the job of being a lumberjack?”
“Technically, we’re loggers…not lumberjacks.”
“I like lumberjack better,” he said offhandedly. “Is there a difference?”
“Lumberjack is more of a cultural reference. You know…a guy with an axe, chopping down trees in his plaid flannel shirt. We don’t use axes to chop down trees.”
“But you still wear the shirts.” Silas gestured meaningfully.
“True.”
“The lack of axes is disappointing. Don’t tell me robots do all the work n-now.”
I fixated on his mouth as he bit into the crust. I wasn’t perving on the guy…I swear. I was more concerned that his jaw was clacking again and his lips were too pale. Not blue, but not quite right.
“No robots. Just a lot of sophisticated machinery. It might not be as exciting as—I don’t know…playing professional football, but it can be interesting. In a Jeopardy category about trees, I’d kick your ass.”
Silas’s laughter was a tad hoarse, but his eyes sparked with real amusement. “Dude. You’d kick my ass at any c-category of Jeopardy. I’m no g-good at trivia.”
“I’m not either. I know what I know.”
“Trees.”
“Mmhmm.” I handed him the thermos. “Try the tea now. It’ll be good for you.”
He obeyed. “Same. I know what I know…or knew.”
“Football.”
Silas made a noise that I thought might be a mumbled agreement but could have been mistaken for a whimper. “Yeah.”
“Must feel strange to be retired before forty,” I ventured after a long silence.
He narrowed his eyes. “Forty? I’m thirty-six. Do I look forty?”
“I said before forty.”
Silas was on a roll. “Shit…don’t tell me. I don’t want to know that I’m a fossil.”
I chuckled. “Hey, I’m forty-one.”
“You look forty-one. A good forty-one. You know…well-preserved.” His lips twitched. “Can I say that?”
“No, you can fuck yourself.”
“As soon as the sh-shivers stop, I will.” Silas flashed a naughty half smile.
“Okay…TMI.”
“Dude. We’re practically besties now. You almost had to hold my dick in the bathroom.”
“Jesus,” I grumbled, gathering our dishes as I stood. “Can I get you anything else? More soup? Water?”
“No, thanks. I feel like I just peed and I have to go again. I’m feeling better, so I might as well g-go back to my place.”
I huffed in dismay. “You’re still shaking like a leaf, man. You can’t be on your own yet. Just—here. I’ll show you to the bathroom and put your wet clothes in the dryer. And do some more googling about your condition.”
He nodded, seeming too zapped of energy to argue as I helped him up and led him to the powder room.
“I got it from here,” he mumbled, bracing a hand on the door.
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to offer to hold your dick.”
“Again,” Silas teased, his gaze slipping south to my crotch. Not just a lingering glance, either.
That made no sense whatsoever. In fact, it was undoubtedly a classic case of wishful thinking on my part.
Actually…scratch that. I wasn’t interested in Silas. Not that way.
I tossed his jeans, socks, and underwear into the dryer and while I waited for him to finish up, I reread the passage about hypothermia.
Things to watch for: Shivering, pale skin, slurred speech, clumsiness, exhaustion.
Remedy: Remove wet clothing, warm the core, hydrate, skin-to-skin contact.
I’d tried everything but the last one. If he didn’t improve immediately, this already odd situation was going to get truly weird.
Shit.