5. Chapter 5
Chapter five
Benji
She doesn’t even remember me. I thought we had something special, a once-in-a-lifetime connection.
I thought she saw more in me.
It hurts. This fucking sucks. And she wants a divorce.
Maybe I have nothing more to offer than one night of fun. Maybe I should give her the divorce and get Clay to drop me off at my parent’s house in Chicago.
Briar takes one look at me when I walk into the cabin and scoops Trouble off the couch, pushing the cat into my arms. “I’m sorry this wasn’t the reunion you were hoping for,” she says.
I nuzzle into Trouble’s fur, accepting my fate as a future single dad to a minimum of three cats. He gives me his quieter purr.
“I told you this would happen,” Clay says from the kitchen. He didn’t—he couldn’t have known my wife would be engaged to someone else. But he said this wouldn’t turn out how I’d hoped. He was right.
Gina returns, looking as wary as I feel, and invites us all to dinner at her cabin. She hands Clay a map and pulls a pen from her pocket, drawing out the directions. Then she’s gone—work to do, she says.
All the Trouble-cuddles and even the coconut cake can’t make me feel better, but I shower and put on my cleanest dirty clothes. When it’s time to go, I cram myself into Clay’s backseat. We came all this way, so I have to see this through instead of giving up and crying in bed over it.
It’s weird, but I actually cheer up as Clay turns down the dirt road with the private property sign. Whatever happens, I get to see her again tonight.
The driveway abruptly turns to grass, and Clay parks next to a rusty old truck on the edge of a meadow. Gina’s cabin sits on one side of the clearing, and a long coach-style RV sits on the other. Smoke trails lazily up from a fire pit in the middle.
“I’ve seen garden sheds bigger than that house,” Clay says.
Briar points at the RV. “Maybe they aren’t living together. Maybe it’s not that serious.”
He gives her an incredulous look. “She’s engaged to the hot ax murderer. How is that not serious?”
She shrugs. “She’s married to Benji.”
She’s implying my relationship with Gina isn’t serious? I open my mouth to protest, but Gina didn’t remember. It was a drunken night of fun—how can it be serious?
“What does the ax murderer have that Benji doesn’t?” Briar demands.
Clay holds up a finger. “A solid four inches of height.” Another finger. “An inch or more of biceps girth.” Another finger. “A luscious head of hair.”
I glance in the rearview mirror and tousle my hair. My hair is a little too long, but the cut is good, and I don’t look like an alpaca. It’s nicer than some sloppy man-bun.
“Thighs that could choke the life out of someone,” Clay continues, “and probably an Only Fans where he chops wood naked.”
Fuck—that would be badass. If my wife doesn’t mind, maybe some naked lumberjacking could be a job option.
Briar rolls her eyes. “Benji is sweet. And he’s… you know .”
“Dumb as a two by four?” Clay asks. I’m barely paying attention, but I still flip him off. Lumberjack isn’t my aesthetic. And going cock-out while swinging an axe doesn’t sound very safe.
Briar smacks his arm. “Packing some serious wood.”
It’s not worth the risk of accidentally chopping my dick off.
I frown at Briar and Clay. “Why are we talking about wood?” I know why, but we’ve been sitting in the car for what feels like ages. “Can we go in? Gina’s going to think we’re weird.” The car is a two-door, so I’m stuck in the backseat until one of them gets out.
Clay ignores me. “Mr. Lumberjack Calendar is probably bigger. What’s your point?”
“My point is that Benji has a chance.”
“Thanks,” I say. I don’t know if I have a chance, but it’s nice to know Briar believes in me. The big dick doesn’t always count in my favor, but there’s nothing I can do about that.
Clay and Briar finally get out of the car. I squeeze myself through the gap between the front seat and the door. The moment I can unfold, I stretch my hands high over my head and sigh in relief.
I drop my arms to my sides, all stretched out and feeling loose and good again. Gina’s standing on the deck, a shallow glass bowl in one hand, watching me, her lips parted in surprise.
“You definitely have a chance,” Briar says quietly, squeezing my arm before walking away.
Maybe I do.
“We brought some beer,” Briar calls out to Gina. “And some expensive wine because someone won’t drink ‘cheap swill.’”
“I didn’t see you offering to pay,” Clay says, following her and leaving me to grab the beer and wine. That’s fair since Clay and Briar went into town to buy it while I showered and stewed.
I open the trunk and freeze. There’s an old blanket covering something, and I’m positive that something is the five duffle bags Clay won’t talk about. Maybe I’ll take a peek inside one.
“Benji!” The snap of Clay’s voice makes me jump, and I bang my head on the trunk door.
Christ, can he read my mind?
“Coming,” I call, grabbing the booze.
Briar and Gina chat while Gina lifts chicken from the bowl and places it onto the charcoal grill with tongs. Clay leans against a picnic table, watching them without much interest. The lumberjack is nowhere in sight.
“I’ll put the beer in the fridge,” I say, wanting to snoop. If Briar is right, and they aren’t living together, I have a chance.
“There should be room,” Gina says with a smile. It’s genuine, like she’s happy to see me even if she asked for a divorce and doesn’t remember me. She looks more relaxed, too.
Maybe she and the lumberjack called the wedding off.
I head to the small cabin and take the steps to the front porch two at a time. I open the screen door and step inside.
It’s exactly like I pictured it.
Okay, maybe not, but there are no surprises.
The windows are open, catching a light breeze.
The open-plan living space feels well-lived in and loved and is clean but cluttered.
The walls are covered in paintings and drawings of nature in various mediums. Suncatchers hang on the windows, a few catching the early evening sun, shards of light bouncing off the mirrored tiles and crystal beads, glittering on the wood floors and thick rugs.
House plants sit on windowsills, trail down the side of the fridge, and hang from macramé holders. There’s pottery, too. Too much of it for it to be anything other than a hobby. Hers? Or his? She didn’t mention it in Vegas, but we couldn’t talk about everything in one night.
I slip the beer into the mostly empty fridge and leave the wine on the counter. The cabinets are painted gray-blue with orange wildflowers stenciled in the corners. There’s one of those rugs made out of braided rags on the floor by the sink.
It feels like Gina’s space. But just because there aren’t any axes propped in the corners of the room doesn’t mean he doesn’t live here, too.
Three doors branch off a nub of a hallway, and all three are open. I stick my head into the bedroom first.
The bed is small enough to paste an image of that lumberjack curled around my wife in my head. I hate it. A hoodie at the foot of the bed is large enough to be his. But it could be hers. Oversized hoodies are the best.
Nothing else in the room screams lumberjack. The bedside tables hold lamps. One has a paperback next to a glass of water. Wooden trinkets and little boxes cover the dresser. The room is tidy, and all evidence is put away.
I’m not about to rifle through drawers to find out, so I turn to the bathroom. It’s small, just a hand basin in a short vanity, a toilet, and a shower that could fit two people, so long as one of those people wasn’t a massive lumberjack.
But here there’s proof. Two kinds of shampoo and two types of body wash. Two different brands of toothpaste lie side by side next to the sink. Two toothbrushes.
Fuck. He is living here.
Because I’m thorough, I stick my head into the last room. It’s a laundry with plenty of storage, holding hiking boots, raincoats, and fishing gear. A backdoor leads out to a clothesline hanging between two trees.
The screen door swings open with an audible spring, and I turn around as Gina walks into the kitchen.
She moves in the same graceful way she did in Vegas, although she looks more at home in jeans and a T-shirt than she did in the little black dress she’d been forced to borrow from her mother.
Her legs are long, her thighs wonderfully thick, the curve of her hips so mouth-wateringly sweet.
She slides the platter into the sink, her back to me. I can’t stop staring. God dammit, I want to touch her. Taste her. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.
I need that night to mean more to her. I need her to want more. To want me.
“You found the fridge?” she asks teasingly, glancing at me over her shoulder as she washes her hands.
Busted. I laugh. “Yeah, I’m snooping.”
Her eyebrows go up at my admission, but she’s smiling. “And?”
“I like your home,” I say. This space isn’t just a cabin or a house. It’s hers. His, too, but her stamp is bigger.
She smiles warmly. “Thanks.”
I like that she doesn’t make excuses for the cabin’s size or try to diminish what it means to her. Not like I could judge. I’ve been couch surfing since I lost my last apartment to the one-two punch of a rent hike and my roommate moving out to live with his boyfriend.
Gina dries her hands on a towel and leans against the counter. “Briar says you talked about me a lot.” There’s a hesitation in her voice.
She’s interested. It’s a good sign. “I told you it was the best night. Want to see the pictures?”
She nods, so I join her at the counter, sliding my phone out of my pocket and unlocking it.
I pull up the first picture and hand my phone to her.
She takes it carefully, cradling it in her hands, and laughs at the selfie of the two of us smooshed together, our cheeks pink from the cold February night.
The smiles on our faces are massive, the diamond on Gina’s hand glinting as she holds it up.
There are fifteen photos of that night, and I’ve looked at them so many times that they’ve imprinted on my heart.
I watch Gina’s face as she flips to the next one.
It’s the first of the thirteen taken by one of our tourist friends at the wedding.
Her eyes drink in the photo, her expression full of wonder as she slowly swipes through.
When she gets to our first kiss, her cheeks turn pink.
I could tell her how it happened, how it felt to kiss her. But right now, I want her to see the magic in those photos.
The last one makes her smile. It’s blurry because we were drunk, lying in that hideous bed in the tacky honeymoon suite. Gina had curled up next to me, the tip of her nose pressed to my cheek as I smiled a dopey, drunk smile for the selfie I took. She’s laughing in it, her eyes squeezed shut.
“I took a photo of the marriage certificate,” I say.
She swipes again. And again. And laughs. “Did you? Or did you want me to see a bunch of shirtless selfies?”
I’d forgotten about those. “Couldn’t hurt my chances, right?” I say, brushing my hair back and grinning. All that boy-next-door charm might work on her.
She gives me some side-eye, but it’s flirty side-eye.
“I’m supposed to post content on social media,” I say. “Or, I was. It helps with promotion for the show. There are videos of me dancing, too. But there’s nothing secret or inappropriate—you can look at anything on my phone. And I don’t have to go back to stripping if you don’t like it.”
“It’s not a problem,” she says, continuing to scroll through all my shirtless selfies. “I don’t have a claim on you.” A few catch her eye long enough that her thumb pauses before she swipes by. My chances of winning her over aren’t zero.
I lean closer to see the screen, too, but really so I can breathe in her summer scent. “I’m your husband. You have a claim on me.”
The soft-looking skin above her collarbones pebbles, her reaction kicking off a response in my body. I’ll need to think about meeting the business-end of an axe until my cock settles down again.
She hands me the phone without a word. I find the photo I took this afternoon of the marriage certificate and hand it back.
She looks at it for a few minutes. “There’s a typo in my name.
That’s why I couldn’t find the record online.
” She sighs and returns the phone. “I’m sorry, Benji. But I need that divorce.”
“Shh.” I press a finger to her lips, making her eyes go wide. “Not today,” I say quietly. “Let’s hang out. I’ll help you with dinner. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”
She gives me a doubtful look, but something happens on the inside because her shoulders relax, and she nods. “I’d like that. Here, take these out to the picnic table.” She hands me three stacked glass containers and then balances some plates and silverware on top. “Got it?”
“Easy,” I say, giving her a wink as I head toward the door.