Chapter 4
Together, the core teams of Nephilim and FlyButter total eighteen people—the exact number of rooms in the lodge, according to the matronly housekeeper who greets us.
The large common space in which she’s gathered us makes me think of those ambience YouTube videos I sometimes put on to trick my brain into thinking that I’m on vacation.
There is a large, crackling fireplace, and the smoky smell of burning wood feels like a warm embrace.
I spot couches and soft, plush pillows in the seating areas, floor-to-ceiling windows that show bird and squirrel feeders, and trees so high, they must have been around for millennia.
The intricate wooden beams on the ceiling make the space look timeless and immense.
I have not the slightest intention of going anywhere near the skis and snowboards hanging from the rack just past the entrance—whatever part of the brain is responsible for loving rolling down a hill, mine must be defective.
Still, I know I’ll have a great time sticking around the cabin, letting the scent of cedar fill my lungs and the bar’s hot chocolate fill my belly.
“What a nice place for a holiday,” I murmur.
“And what shitty, shitty company,” Ethan whispers in my ear.
I can’t quite hide my snort. When Jesse and Ashley turn in the noise’s direction, I pretend to be fascinated by my boots.
“You are, of course, welcome to use the facilities, including the hot tubs and the sauna on the back deck,” the housekeeper informs us.
I wonder if she picked up on the tension between…
well. Everyone and everyone. Nephilim and FlyButter have neatly split into two very separate, very eye-contact-avoiding groups.
“You can find your room number in the welcome envelopes we gave you earlier,” she continues.
I glance at mine and trace the wax sigil, charmed, before breaking it open.
Inside I find a single candy cane (which I immediately unwrap and stick in my mouth), an informational pamphlet, and a wooden keychain with the number 4 written on it.
“Meals are buffet style, served at seven a.m., noon, and six p.m. in the dining hall.”
“Which room are you in?” Ethan asks me, sliding the strap of his backpack around his shoulder.
“Four.”
“Oh,” he says, in a slightly subdued tone that has me pausing. By now, I can read him like a line of C++.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Eighteen.” He purses his lips. “But Shannon is in three.”
I smile, picturing Ethan and Shannon tiptoeing across the cabin in their underwear.
They started seeing each other a month or so ago, and their relationship is so new, no one at FlyButter knows about it except for me.
That’s how they want it, and I get where this is coming from: Going public at work means lots of people shoving their noses into your business and dispensing unsolicited opinions.
Not to mention the awkwardness if they were to break up.
Their plan is to lie low and keep everything a secret until they’re more stable, and I support them.
However, I suspect that they’ll be found out very soon if they continue making out in the copier room.
“If at two a.m. you hear someone sneaking inside your neighbor’s room,” Ethan tells me, “nope, you didn’t.”
I wonder if he’d really be that loud. And then I wonder if sharing a wall with Ethan’s girlfriend might lead to finding out things that I do not want to know about my friend.
He’s like a brother to me. If he has a fondness for daddy kink and milkmaid role play, he better take that to the grave.
“Actually, how about we swap rooms? That way you’ll be right next to her,” I offer.
“Can we?”
I shrug. “What are they gonna do? Punish us? Lock us in a lodge with our industry enemies for several days?”
He hides his laugh into my shoulder, but the sound is not quite muffled, and everyone turns toward us. “Hey, lovebirds,” Mila hisses. “Housekeeper’s telling us about the amenities. Hush.”
I roll my eyes, because the running joke about Ethan and me being secretly in love has run its course, and tune in to hear all about the multimedia rooms.
We disperse soon after. Ethan beams and kisses me on the cheek when I drop my keys into his palm.
He insists on rewarding me with his complimentary candy cane, so I chalk it up as a win.
A super win, really, because rooms seventeen and eighteen are in a loft of sorts, a separate, quieter wing of the lodge that faces the woods behind the building, and I just know that the view from the windows is going to be breathtaking.
I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see who’s going to be my neighbor for the next five days.
I have no real preference, though I do hope that it won’t be Otto or Mike.
There’s always a chance that they’ll end up rekindling things, and I do not want to find out if either of them has a milkmaid kink.
But, as it happens, I don’t need to worry about that. Because room seventeen is not Otto’s. Nor Mike’s. And it’s now abundantly clear that I have, indeed, pissed off a god—nay, an entire damn pantheon of gods.
I’m redefining the whole concept of cursed.
“Are you looking for something?” Jesse asks, coming to stand on the landing. He sounds polite, and kind, and absolutely emotionless. Like he found a lost toddler wandering the cereal aisle at the grocery store.
A milligram of good fortune would be nice, I think, taking the candy cane out of my mouth.
It’s clear that he’s trying to keep as far away from me as possible, but he still takes up so much of the small space, it’s hard to look anywhere but at him.
“Nope. Well, yeah. But I found it.” He stares at me like he doesn’t quite comprehend, and I point to my door. “I live here.”
My words set off a whole journey of emotions on Jesse’s face, and I amuse myself by attempting to tease them apart.
Confusion (could this plebeian really be encroaching on my car and sleeping next to me?), then worry (will she give me the cooties?), finally incredulity (I will send a strongly worded email to corporate for allowing this to happen).
His expression settles on something blank and unreadable, and he says, pleasant and neutral: “I can ask the housekeeper to give me another room.”
I don’t want anything to do with her.
Really, I just wish I understood the reason for this. I didn’t kill his damn pet reindeer, didn’t bully him in high school, didn’t steal his auntie’s secret apple pie recipe. Seriously, his desire to avoid me is so completely unjustified, it’s almost comical.
Except that I am not laughing.
“I don’t snore loudly, or anything,” I offer.
I’m not sure whether I’m appeasing or challenging him.
Smooth things over, a voice inside me insists—the same one that learned to play nice with four older siblings endowed with huge personalities.
You’re going to have to work together. Maybe he doesn’t want anything to do with you, but you can still salvage this professional relationship.
Do it for Limerence. “I don’t shower in the middle of the night,” I add.
“And you seemed to dislike my music in the car, so you’ll find it reassuring to know that I own great noise-canceling headphones. ”
I smile, but Jesse doesn’t smile back. Instead he says, “I’ll try to keep out of your way.” It sounds like he’s promising me something, and I—I don’t get it. I watch his door close gently behind him, leaving me alone on the landing.
With a deep sigh, I stick the half-eaten candy cane back in my mouth. I pick up my bag, step inside my room, and forbid my feelings from hurting.
Jesse Andrews may not want me around, but he’s stuck with me for the next few days—and if things go well, a whole lot longer than that. The earlier he comes to terms with it, the better for all of us.