Chapter 5
Chapter five
Roman
The grumpy lumberjack scowling at me from across the kitchen counter is hot.
Very, very hot. He’s probably a good ten years older than me, with light brown hair, a neatly cropped beard, and a body I’d love to hug.
He’s put on clothes (shame) and is now leaning against the counter wearing a green flannel shirt and baggy blue jeans.
He looks ridiculously sexy, hovering over the entire glass dish of cottage pie as though he’s a dragon protecting his eggs.
I really could do with a bit more of it, but I don’t dare ask, lest I set off his grumbling again about me being in his space and eating his food and essentially reenacting the tale of Goldilocks right here in the kitchen.
He’s made it abundantly clear that he wants me to be the one to leave, even though I have as much of a right to be here as he does.
I didn’t cause the computer glitch that has us both here at the same time, so I don’t get why he’s all scowly with me.
And it’s not like he locked the door either – the place was warm and welcoming when I walked in.
If he thinks I’m leaving, the sexy, angry man is sorely mistaken. I need this cottage. So even if Mother Earth wasn’t going all apocalyptic, I would still not be leaving.
Despite the sounds of the storm outside – trees whistling in the wind, rain tapping a rhythm on the roof – the silence between us sits thick and heavy.
“Um…” I start, my sock covered feet brushing the wooden floor as I swing my legs from my perch on the kitchen stool. “What brings you to Christmas Falls?”
Garrett gestures over his shoulder with one hand.
“Work.”
“Oh.” My eyes widen. “What do you do?”
Please say lumberjack. Please say lumberjack. Please say lumberjack.
“I’m a writer,” he answers, chewing his bottom lip, his attention anywhere but on me.
“Oh.” So not what I’d wished for. Still, that’s pretty cool. “That’s fun. Do you write vampire fucking?”
Garrett makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff before he’s shaking his head again.
“No. I don’t write…that. I write police procedurals. Crime dramas. That sort of genre.”
“With a touch of magic?”
He rests both hands on the counter.
“No magic.”
“Wolves?”
“No wolves. Just every day people doing everyday things, while trying to solve crimes.”
“Everyday things like fucking?”
He runs a hand over his face, his palm rubbing over his neatly styled beard.
“No sex. Crime and murder and justice.”
“Oh.” Well, that sounds boring. I don’t say as much because if there is one thing my aunt taught me, it’s being respectful of others' feelings and I’m certain criticising his livelihood would be disrespectful.
Who am I to judge, anyway? I’m sure lots of people love his no vampire fucking, wolf-free stories. “Are you famous?”
In a gesture I don’t see coming, Garrett pushes the half eaten cottage pie towards me. I take it with a mumbled ‘thanks’ and start digging in.
“I’m relatively well known.”
The cottage pie is meaty and salty and the mash is creamy and I am suddenly so hungry, I’m shoveling it in like a wild animal.
“That’s cool,” I say with my mouth full, a spot of mash falling to the counter and making Garrett frown. “So you came here to find inspiration?”
He nods. “Something like that. What about you? Why are you holing up in the middle of the woods all alone for Christmas?”
I finish my bite of food, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Escaping. Hiding,” I reply, giving him the short, truthful answer.
Garrett taps a finger on the wooden counter.
“What does that mean, exactly? What or who are you hiding from?”
I shrug. “Everyone. My fans. Myself. The trolls of the internet.”
“Are you famous?” he asks, repeating my question.
“Kinda.”
“Are you a rockstar?” He does a quick assessment of me, his eyes scanning my face, his head tipped to the side like he’s trying to determine if he knows who I am.
“Nope.”
“Athlete?”
I snort a laugh, looking down at my body. I’m skinny but not muscular. I can’t run without getting winded, and I am sure I have two left feet.
“Nope. I’m a content creator.”
He pulls the dish back, spearing the cottage pie with his fork.
“What does that entail?” he asks, bringing the food to his mouth.
I tell him all about what I do, his frown deepening when he asks if it’s a ‘real job’ and I explain to him my business model and about sponsors and investments and all that goes into the less than exciting side of social media stardom.
“You fucked up and now you’re hiding until people forget about it?”
“In short,” I nod. “Yes.” I pull the dish towards me and take another forkful. Without either of us realising, we’ve fallen into a rather companionable process of sharing a meal.
“This is the perfect place to do that, I guess.” He gestures with his fork to the window. “No chance of running into anyone who knows you, and no way to sit and doom scroll through comments.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “You get it. But now you see why I can’t be the one to leave. And this close to Christmas, it won’t be easy finding something as remote and cosy.”
“Hmm,” he mumbles. “That may be true, but I can’t leave either.
Sorry, sweetheart.” His eyes go comically wide, and there’s a subtle pink hue spreading from beneath his beard and over his cheeks.
I gather he did not intend to let the pet name slip out.
I like it far more than I care to admit to myself.
Throwing him some slack, I bypass the little slip of tongue and say, “Well the place is not big enough for the both of us, so when the storm passes, someone has to leave.”
“It won’t be me,” he says firmly.
“Let’s settle this the old-fashioned way.” I pause for effect, his eyes not moving from mine. “With a game of poker. Loser leaves when the storm passes.”
Garrett smiles, fine lines stretching out from either side of his hazel eyes as he leans closer to me, his arm brushing mine as he does. There’s a sizzle of electricity between us. I lick my lips and his eyes darken, following the motion of my tongue.
“You have a deal, Short Stack.”
“How the fuck did you do that?” Garrett asks, pushing the cards and the dried pasta shells we used as chips off the table, then immediately grumbling about the mess and scooping them all back up.
After we finished eating, I took a quick shower and changed into pjs and now we’re sitting in the lounge, the soft glow of the fire warming the space and filling it with a calming, woodsy scent.
Garrett is sitting in a brown leather armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and I’m opposite on the sofa, my legs folded beneath me.
I’ve made us a night time berry tea, perfect for this weather, and he’s sipping on his, his nose wrinkled like it’s offended him.
His hazel eyes shine as he watches me, waiting for an answer.
He’s an attractive man. His beard is neatly trimmed, his bottom lip pink and plump, and when he pushed the sleeves of his shirt up earlier, I was greeted by thick arms, with prominent veins and a scattering of dark hair.
My mouth practically watered. It’s taking a lot of my self-restraint not to flirt with him.
First, I don’t know if he’s into guys, and second, I don’t think he likes me.
Especially not now that he’s lost the poker game and the rematch and the cottage.
“I’ve taken part in loads of poker challenges,” I reply, dusting my hands theatrically over my reindeer print hoodie.
“Lost my car in a game once, but won a really cool inflatable Santa once, too.” I grin to myself over the memory of those videos.
Liam was pissed that I gambled with my car, but the video went viral and I made enough off the back of it to buy a new one.
I didn’t though, because I hate driving, so I used the money to put a pool in my backyard.
“You tricked me,” Garrett announces, his voice gruff.
My mouth falls open in mock indignation. “I did not! I simply suggested a game of poker. Not my fault you automatically presumed I’d be shit at it.”
He grumbles and leans back against the chair.
“I’d suggest another card game, but I’m going to guess you’re a savant at most of them?”
I shrug. “Pretty much. Sorry big guy, guess this means you’re trekking into the village tomorrow to find somewhere else to stay?”
Garrett stands abruptly, a scowl back on his face as he moves through the lounge to the desk where an old typewriter sits next to a laptop. He closes the screen and slides it under his arm.
“I’m going to bed,” he announces and I hop off the sofa, coming to stand in front of him.
“Um…why do you get the bed?”
He points to his head, then gestures down his frame. “Have you seen the size of me versus the size of that sofa?”
I glance behind me and then back at him in all his mountain man glory and yep…he has a point. His legs would hang right over the edge.
“Fine. It’s only for a night, anyway.”
Grabbing the snuggly duvet I brought through from the room earlier, I go to wrap it around my shoulders when it is rudely yanked out of my hand.
“I need this,” he says.
I’m pretty sure I growl, or attempt it – some unhappy noise rumbling from my chest – because now he’s not only taking the bed from me, but the blanket too!
“And what will I use?” I have my weighted blanket, but it’s not nearly warm or big enough to be my only bedding for the night.
He points to the fleece throw on the single armchair.
“You’re a really sore loser,” I mutter, retrieving the fleece throw and my weighted blanket and attempting to fashion a comfortable bed from it.
“You get the entire cabin from tomorrow. One night on the sofa is hardly a hardship.” Garrett turns on his heel, flicks the light switch off, and walks down the hallway, slamming the bedroom door behind him.
Novel writers who look like sexy mountain men are actually big assholes, and I dislike them very much.
Laying the fleece on the sofa, I lie on top and burrito myself in my blanket, in a futile attempt to get comfortable.
I wish I could turn my phone on and check what people are saying about me or, at the very least, scroll for hours until my eyes grow heavy, forcing me into a deep slumber.
But that’s not an option, so instead, I squeeze my lids shut and try to sleep.
The fire crackles and there’s a constant tapping against the roof that I hope is a branch and not something nefarious like... a wolf or a bear or whatever lives this deep in the woods.
I may be used to being alone – but that is in the city, where the sounds of sirens and people yelling is the soundtrack to late nights, not whatever is going on outside here.
Right now, it sounds like nature wants to creep into the safety of this cottage and devour me. I have watched enough documentaries to know that Mother Nature does not fuck around.
Lying on my back, with the blanket pulled up enough to cover most of my face, the weight of it reassuring despite the rising panic in my chest, I open my eyes and stare at the patterns dancing across the high wooden beams. When the rain gets heavier, a deluge of it battering the windows, and the trees whistle in the wind, their branches scratching at the walls of the house, I cover myself completely, trying to drown it all out.
This is going to be a very long, very restless night.