Chapter 26
CHAPTER 26
B y the time we leave the Cow Lake General Store—a quick stop that Gabe insisted on—we’re loaded up with enough groceries—plus his beloved Cheezies—to ride out a small apocalypse.
“We’re almost there,” he calls over the crunch of gravel under the tires. He’s turned off the main road onto a narrow, bumpier one that’s more ruts than road. It’s not full-on off-roading, but it’s rough enough to make my teeth clack together every time we hit a large dip.
I brace one hand on the handle above my head, the other gripping the edge of my seat as the truck jostles over another deep rut. The suspension groans in protest.
“Define almost ,” I say, shooting him a look.
He grins, completely unbothered by the fact that we’re practically shaking apart. “Couple more minutes.”
The trees press in closer on either side, their skeletal branches clawing at the truck’s sides. A pothole the size of a small crater sends us lurching, and my stomach tries to relocate itself in my throat.
“If we die out here, I’m haunting you,” I mutter.
He laughs like it’s the best thing he’s heard all day. “Noted.”
Finally, we turn down what looks like a driveway, and just like that, the trees thin out, opening into a clearing that steals my breath. A small log cabin sits on a gentle slope, overlooking what must be Prairie Creek. It’s rustic but solid-looking, with a corrugated roof and a wrap-around deck. Two weathered Adirondack chairs are parked out front, like sentinels guarding the door.
Gabe pulls up next to the cabin, cuts the engine, and glances at me, almost shy. “Home sweet home,” he says.
I take in the details—the hand-scribed log joints, the deck that seems made for watching sunsets, and the glint of water through the pines. “It’s gorgeous here.”
We climb out, the clang of his SUV doors echoing in the quiet. The stillness is almost surreal, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the faint babble of the creek. It feels like a different world from the nonstop rush and noise of Montreal’s streets.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing a couple of grocery bags. “I’ll show you inside.”
I follow him onto the deck, my stomach doing little flips of excitement. The front door creaks open, and sunlight floods the small space within. The cabin is cozy: end-cut wood floors, a free-standing woodstove, and a tiny loft above the bedroom and bathroom. The kitchen is tucked into one corner, simple and unpretentious, with just enough space for two people who don’t mind bumping elbows.
I linger near the window that overlooks the creek, the banks dotted with tiny wildflowers. “Is that where you’re taking me fishing?”
“No, there’s too much brush along the banks in front of the cabin,” he says, setting the bags down. “I’ll take you to a better spot upstream. It’s more open—easier for beginners.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t even like holding fish.”
“Well, you’re going to learn, because I’m not pulling them off your line every time you catch one.”
“This is sounding less fun by the second,” I say, crossing my arms. I briefly consider trying to convince him to let me sit on the deck and read instead.
He chuckles. “I was kidding. I wouldn’t set you up on a real fly yet, anyway. First time I tried, I got it caught in my ear.” He points to a faint scar near the top of his ear.
I wince. “Ouch, that must have hurt.”
“I cried while my grandpa got the pliers to yank it out. Learned pretty quick not to get cocky with my casts. And to pinch the barbs on my flies…”
I wander into the living room and kitchen, which blend into one big open space under vaulted ceilings. The cabin feels cozier than it looked from outside, and as I spin around, my eyes land on the only bedroom on the main floor—a queen bed that nearly fills the small room. Overhead, there’s a low-ceilinged loft that looks charming at first glance, but it’s clear it couldn’t hold much more than some old storage. It’s obvious: sleeping options here are going to be… limited.
“So… is this it?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Yup.” He shrugs, heading toward the kitchen. “Hot shower, solar power for the fridge, a generator for backup, woodstove for heat. No cell service.”
“One bed,” I add.
“Technically, there’s two, but the second one is an old mattress that I used to sleep on in the loft. It’s seen some stuff, so I don’t recommend it.”
“So… what’s the sleeping arrangement, then?” I ask, testing the waters.
“Well…” He rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I can take the couch.”
I glance at the couch, raising an eyebrow. “You’ll never fit. Your legs would hang off the edge.”
“Technically, it’s a futon,” he says with a little smirk.
“Great.” I blink, feeling my plan to share the bed slipping through my fingers.
“It’s broken, though. Won’t stay supported.”
The plan is back on . “Oh, that’s too bad. I guess we’ll have to share the bed… if you’re okay with that,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
His eyes widen slightly, then soften as he nods. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” I say, aware of what sharing a bed could lead to after yesterday’s kiss. The quiet rustle of leaves outside draws my attention. “It’s so peaceful here,” I say softly.
He smiles, and it’s so genuine it makes my chest ache. “That’s why I love it. No noise, no crowds, no stress.”
Clearing my throat, I ask, “So… what’s the plan for the rest of the day? Fishing? Hiking? Or just… hanging out?”
“We should get changed and head down to the creek for an hour,” Gabe says, his eyes flicking to mine. Then he pauses, like he’s mulling something over. “Look, if you end up hating this” —he waves a hand toward the cabin— “I’ll drive you back. No pressure.”
I take a deep breath, letting the warm, quiet vibe of the cabin settle around me. “No, I want to stay,” I say, surprising myself with how certain I sound.
He nods, a grin tugging at his lips like he got the answer he was hoping for. “Alright then.” Tipping his head toward the door, he adds, “Let’s unload the rest of the stuff first. Then we’ll grab the waders and head out. Best spot on this creek is about fifteen minutes from here, right by the bend.”
I follow him outside to grab more bags from the SUV. “Just so you know,” I say as we haul groceries into the kitchen, “I’ve never actually been fishing. My family isn’t exactly the outdoorsy type.”
“Well, consider this your crash course,” he says with a smirk. “This creek’s famous for brown trout. The ecologists have done a ton of conservation work here—fencing riparian zones, replanting, setting up habitat leases. It’s pretty cool, biologically speaking.”
I laugh lightly. “Okay, you’re really selling me on Alberta right now. I almost want to move here.”
His grin falters, just a little. “Maybe you should… you know, for the work,” he says, trying to sound casual but failing. “There are a lot of environmental biology jobs out here.” He clears his throat, like he’s already regretting saying too much.
I let out a small laugh, brushing off the weird flutter in my chest. “Sure. From Montreal city life to deep in the bush. Totally the same thing.”
“Sorry,” he says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to push or anything. Just… saying there are options out here.”
I blink, the words hitting harder than I expected. It’s just a casual remark— there are options out here —but it feels heavy with unspoken meaning. Has he really thought about me living in Alberta?
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say finally, voice softer than I intend. I can feel his gaze lingering on me as I head to the kitchen to unload the groceries.
Gabe nods tightly and heads back outside.
After unpacking and organizing the food, I linger in the kitchen, breathing in the cabin’s warm, woodsy smell mixed with the fresh air drifting in through the open door from the deck. It’s quiet—just the hum of the fridge and the faint sound of the forest shifting in the breeze outside. Then, heavy footsteps crunch around the side of the house.
Gabe walks back in, his strong arms loaded with chopped wood. “For later,” he says, heading toward the fireplace. “It can get kinda cold up here at night.” He sets the wood down and brushes off the woodchip dust from his hands before moving to the hallway by the front door. “Come here,” he calls over his shoulder. “I need to see if these fit.”
I glance at him, curious, and wander over to where he’s standing in the tiny, dimly lit hallway. “See if what fits?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, but he just grins and motions for me to hurry up.
Inside a small closet are two pairs of waders and some fishing rods. One pair is clearly bigger, while the other looks smaller and beat-up.
“These might fit you,” he says, patting the rolled-up waders with a faint smirk. “They’re from when I was fifteen. They’ll probably be a little loose around the waist, but we can tighten the straps.” He holds them out to me, and I grab them from his hands.
I snort. “So you’re just gonna watch me waddle around in your old hand-me-downs?”
He winks. “Better than freezing your legs off in the creek. Trout don’t exactly come to shore to say hi.”
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can get a word out, he unbuttons his jeans and shucks them off, standing there in nothing but boxers as he steps into his own waders. My eyes go wide, and I whip around, suddenly very focused on the floorboards beneath my feet. My face feels like it’s on fire, and I’m not entirely sure I’m keeping my expression neutral.
“Fair enough,” I mutter, slipping into my own waders. To my relief—and my nerves—they fit surprisingly well. “So, what’s next, Mr. Fisherman?”
Gabe straightens, his gaze lingering on me for just a second too long before he clears his throat. “Next, you let me show off my guide skills, and maybe we reel in a decent catch.”
I nod, my heart racing as I grab one of the rods. “Lead the way.”
As we walk side by side toward the creek, rods in hand, I can feel the tension humming between us, crackling like the static charge before a big thunderstorm. And I can’t help but wonder if catching trout is really all that’s on his mind—because it’s definitely not the only thing on mine.