Chapter 12
Zaila
When we began the scavenger hunt, the Texas sky had burned a brilliant, cloudless blue. But now at the end of it, a churning mess of dark gray clouds had boiled up from the horizon, and the wind began to howl like a banshee. The downpour hit as we hurried back to the resort’s main building.
I squealed as the rain pounded my skin with its stinging needles.
Gunnar grabbed my hand and towed me toward a building I couldn’t make out through the sheets of rain, but once we entered, the musty smell and grass-covered tools informed me that we were in a garden shed.
I heaved a sigh as I shoved my wet hair from my forehead.
Looking out onto the resort grounds through the torrent of water, I felt a pang in my chest.
“It’s so pretty,” I breathed. “Like a blurry watercolor.”
“You mean a painting?” Gunnar asked. He ran his hand through his hair, ruffling the ends to get the strands dry.
“Yeah. Kind of dreamy. Like a…a…Susan Weintraub.”
“Who is Susan Weintraub?” Gunnar asked. “Should I know her?”
I shrugged. “Probably not. My daddy liked art, especially watercolors. Said it soothed him. I used to go with him when he toured galleries.”
“You, Zaila Monroe, continue to surprise me,” Gunnar murmured as he stared out at the downpour.
“Your suit’s clean, thanks to the rain.”
He barked a short laugh. “So it is. A bit of good to come out of what’s been an eventful day.” He paused. “You know, I never talk about my brother. Ever. But I mentioned him to you earlier today. It seemed so natural.”
I shoved my chilly hands into my pockets. The ambient temperature still had to be over eighty degrees, but this conversation had turned heavy, and I wasn’t prepared after the lightness of our day together. “You don’t have to say anything,” I murmured.
Gunnar turned to look at me, blinking as if to bring me back into focus. “That’s the thing; I want to, which has never happened before.” He shook his head, rubbing his large palm across the back of his neck. “I’m old enough to be your father.”
“Uh…not my dad. He was fifty when he adopted me. You’re not even fifty now.”
Gunnar offered that tiny lip flip I craved. “Getting close, though.”
“Whatever. You can claim age or maturity or…whatever, but you know what really matters? Connection. Respect. Intimacy.”
A clap of thunder shook the shed, and I yelped and shrank back, away from the opening.
Gunnar never flinched. “You don’t like thunder,” he said.
I shook my head. “Bad things happen during thunderstorms,” I whispered.
“Like what?”
I had only hazy memories of my time in the orphanage, but I had a clear memory of one of the older boys taking things from the little kids during storms. He often hit or pinched them, timing their cries with the claps of thunder, which allowed him to get away with his cruelty.
That wasn’t something I would share, though. “My dad was injured during a thunderstorm,” I said instead.
“You mentioned the car accident. I’m sorry, Zaila.”
I shrank from another crack of thunder, my eyes fixed on the sky. Gunnar moved closer, shielding me from the spits of rain that splashed up from the growing puddle in the doorway.
As another bolt of lightning seared across the thick, roiling mass of clouds, Gunnar asked, “What do clouds have on?”
I stared at him, my mind blank. “I do not know, and frankly, I don’t want to know.”
“Thunder wear.”
I stared at him. “That’s…terrible.”
“I know!” he said, his grin widening.
Gunnar’s brain operated on a different frequency than mine. “You actually like those jokes?”
“Love them,” he confessed, his eyes twinkling. “The cheesier, the better.”
“Why?”
His smile slipped a little. “Karl.” He turned wistful. “My brother used to tell them when I was scared—and I was scared of a lot when I was young.”
I tried and failed to picture Gunnar cowering. A moment later, another thunderclap boomed overhead, even closer this time. I wrapped my arms around myself. “Tell me another joke.”
“Why are piggy banks so wise?”
I sighed even as my mood lightened a little. “Why?”
“They’re full of common cents.”
My lips tipped upward. “Okay, that one was marginally better.”
“What do you call a hot dog on wheels?”
Thunder rumbled, but I ignored it. “What?”
“Fast food!”
I couldn’t hold back the giggles. “You are ridiculous.”
“Guilty,” he said. “One more? I promise this is a good one.”
“Fine,” I said. “But if it’s a knock-knock joke, I’m walking out into the storm to let the lightning end my misery.”
“What did the ocean say to the beach?”
“No clue.”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Nothing. It just waved.”
I groaned even as I chuckled. Was a groan-chuckle even a thing? “These comments—I won’t call them jokes—are so awful that they’re hilarious.”
“Exactly.” Gunnar clapped, his blue eyes warm with humor. He was gorgeous—completely open and engaged. I knew instinctively that few people saw him like this. “I knew you’d come around.”
The rain showed no signs of stopping, but I wasn’t as miserable as I’d thought I’d be. In fact, I was having fun.
“Okay, your turn,” Gunnar said. “Tell me your best joke.”
I hesitated. I wasn’t known for my comedic timing or my karaoke. “I don’t really do jokes.”
“Everyone has a joke inside them,” he insisted. “You just have to find it. Come on, I shared some of my best material with you.”
“Oh, wow,” I retorted, but my smile grew. “All right, all right. I’ll try. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I took a deep breath as I remembered something my daddy used to tell his buddies. “Why did the scarecrow get an award?” I asked.
Gunnar raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “I don’t know, why?”
“Because he was outstanding in his field!” I said even as I cringed.
Gunnar stared at me for a moment, and that grin—that gorgeous, carefree smile—broke out across his face once more. I caught my breath, shocked by how beautiful he looked in this moment. I’d never tire of seeing him like this. Never.
“That’s surprisingly good,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
While the storm continued to rage outside, we became two people sharing a moment of unexpected connection, bonded by the unending number of dad jokes in Gunnar’s arsenal.
Somewhere in there I realized that when this retreat ended, I would miss this version of the Wildcatters owner, the unguarded, real Gunnar Evaldson, the most.