4. Anika
ANIKA
T his is the stupidest idea I’ve ever had. I clutch the plate of homemade Chr?beli, which is balancing on the pack of Goldeimer toilet paper. It’s a practical peace offering, I think. After I made a fool of myself last week.
The cookies are still warm from the oven, and the sweet anise scent wafts up, reminding me why I’m here. To apologize. That’s all. Nothing more.
The door knocker echoes through the cabin, but no answer comes. My knuckles rap against the wood.
Still nothing.
My shoulders slump with relief and maybe a little disappointment.
Just as I’m about to leave the gifts by the door, a rhythmic thunking sound draws my attention around the corner of the cabin. I follow it, my boots crunching through fallen leaves, until…
Oh. Mein. Guete!
Griffin stands in a clearing, wielding an axe. Sunlight streams through the autumn leaves, catching the beads of sweat on his bare shoulders and back. His muscles ripple and flex as he brings the axe down, splitting a log effortlessly.
I freeze mid-step, cookies and toilet paper almost forgotten in my suddenly slack grip. I’ve seen shirtless men at the lake in summer, but none like…this.
My mouth goes dry as I watch him work, time seeming to slow down. Each powerful swing showcases the play of muscles across his back, his biceps flexing as he positions another log.
What am I even doing here? The cookies were just an excuse, if I’m being honest. A pitiful attempt to make up for breaking into his bathroom and threatening him with a fish.
But now I can’t tear my eyes away from the way his wavy hair curls damply at his neck, or how his jeans hang low on his hips as he bends to gather more wood.
He pauses to wipe his brow with the back of his hand, and I duck behind a tree like some creepy forest stalker. What am I doing? Ogling him like he’s the star of a lumberjack calendar?
But I can’t stop watching. The way his shoulders bunch and release. The pure strength in his movements that somehow still holds a dancer’s grace.
“Enjoying the show?”
I jump, nearly dropping the cookies. Griffin turns around, propping the axe casually on one shoulder. His smile shows off those dimples that should be illegal.
Heat floods my face as I realize I’ve been caught staring. “I…brought cookies.”
I straighten, shaking off the embarrassment. I’m just going to set the offering on the ground and back away like I’m at the mouth of a volcano leaving a sacrifice to the angry volcano gods.
“You came all this way to bring me cookies?” His voice holds warm amusement that makes my insides flutter. He sets down the axe and steps closer, still gloriously shirtless.
I nod mutely, wondering if it’s possible to spontaneously combust from proximity to male perfection. He’s just a man, I remind myself. Just. A. Man.
“These are Chr?beli,” I blurt, still holding the plate and toilet paper like a complete idiot. “And…toilet paper. For breaking in. To use your toilet.”
I freeze as the implications hit me. “Oh no. Not that the cookies will make you need to…I mean, they’re perfectly safe. The toilet paper is separate. Not related. Just practical.” I clamp my mouth shut. Why can’t I stop babbling?
Griffin’s eyes dance with amusement as he crosses his arms, making his muscles do…interesting things. “So, to summarize, your apology gifts are questionably edible cookies and emergency toilet paper?”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“I should’ve just brought a fruit basket,” I mumble.
He reaches for a cookie, his fingers brushing mine. My skin tingles at the contact. With exaggerated caution, he takes a dramatic bite, his eyes never leaving mine. “Guess we’ll see if I have to make a run for it.”
I’m about to make a run for it. Down to the village and away from this man.
The way he’s looking at me makes my stomach do backflips. I watch his face, holding my breath. The Chr?beli are my Oma’s recipe. Crisp, sweet anise cookies shaped like tree branches. I’ve made them a hundred times, but suddenly they seem inadequate. Also, the toilet paper isn’t helping.
“Delicious,” he says around a mouthful of cookie.
I lift my chin, thrusting the plate and toilet paper at him. “Now we’re even.”
“Even?” Griffin’s dimples deepen as he rakes his eyes down my body and back up. “For what, exactly?
“Never mind. And you can stop looking at me like that, mister.”
“Like what?”
I force the items into his hands. “Just take these. I need to go.”
“If you need to go that badly, I have a fish-themed bathroom you can use.”
“I need to go to WORK.”
“Oh? Where do you work? I could walk you down.”
“No thanks.”
I spin on my heel, ready to bolt, but his voice stops me. “You know what Wayne Gretzky says?”
“Who?” I turn back despite myself. I know perfectly well who Wayne Gretzky is.
“The Great One. Hockey legend.” He sets the gifts on a nearby stump. “He says you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“It means maybe you breaking into my bathroom was the universe’s way of making sure we met. And here you are again. It’s fate.”
I snort. “I don’t believe in those sorts of woo-woo things.”
“Another hockey quote then. ‘It’s not whether you get knocked down, it’s whether you get back up.’”
I blink at this strange man and his oddly optimistic way of seeing things. Most people would be annoyed about finding someone using their bathroom without permission. But he seems…amused? Even pleased? He’s treating it like some cosmic matchmaking service.
“Are you always this…” I wave my hand, searching for the right word. “Friendly to people who break into your house?”
His grin widens. “Only the cute ones who serenade me with Blondie songs.”
“No! Don’t remind me of that!”
“One wayyyyy da da da da,” he sings, badly off-key, butchering the words. “I’m gonna gonna gonna gonna.”
“Stop.” I press my lips together to hide a smile. “That’s terrible.”
“I never claimed to be a singer.”
“Shouldn’t you put a shirt on? It’s October.” My voice comes out higher than intended.
Griffin stretches lazily. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“ Nein . I mean no. I just…wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”
Real smooth, Anika.
He reaches for his T-shirt draped over a nearby log, but instead of putting it on, he dangles it from one finger. “You sure? Because I’m actually quite warm from all the wood chopping.”
My eyes betray me, tracking a bead of sweat as it trails down his chest. I snap my gaze back to his face, finding him watching me with that infuriating dimpled smile.
“Fine. Freeze to death. See if I care.” I cross my arms.
“Well, if you insist…” He unfolds the shirt with deliberate slowness, making a show of sliding one arm through, then the other. The fabric clings to his damp skin as he works it down his chest, somehow managing to make getting dressed look like a scene from Magic Mike .
“Better?” He smooths the shirt over his stomach, his movements deliberate.
I tilt my head, studying him more carefully. Years of bartending have given me a sixth sense about people—the way they carry themselves, the stories behind their eyes. But this guy? He’s throwing me off balance.
“What are you even doing here?” I wave my hand at the cabin. “A Canadian, renting in Gr?chen of all places?”
He runs a hand through his damp hair, tossing me a flirty look. “Playing hockey for Visp, actually. There’s this whole lockout situation back home.”
“Hockey?” I roll my eyes dismissively, even though my heart skips. “That’s the one with the little white ball?”
His jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”
“Oh wait, no. That’s golf.” I tap my chin, playing dumb. “It is the one with the sticks, ja ? Like golf, but chasing the ball around the ice.”
“It’s nothing like golf,” Griffin corrects, looking personally wounded. “And it’s not a ball. It’s a puck. Hockey is an art form. The speed, the skill, the strategy…”
I bite back a smile, remembering how I’d won a lot of money last season betting on my favorite teams. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Sounds boring.” I examine my nails.
“Boring?” The poor man seems to be gasping for air, the way he’s sputtering. Yeesh, you’d think I’d just insulted his mother.
“I prefer real sports,” I say. “Like skiing.”
“Real sports?” He clutches his chest. “Maybe you should come see a game, let me change your mind.”
“Shouldn’t you be splitting more wood or something?”
“Come on, I’ll get you tickets.” He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of pine and fresh sweat. “Front row, right behind the goal. Best seats in the house.”
“So I can watch sweaty men slam each other into walls? No thanks.”
“Hey, some of those sweaty men are quite charming.” He winks. “One in particular.”
“Let me guess. You?”
“I’ve been told I clean up nice.”
“Are you trying to get me to come to your game, or ask me out?”
“Can’t it be both?” He grins. “Come watch me play. If you still think it’s boring, I’ll buy you dinner to make up for wasting your time.”
Such a smooth talker.
“And if I like it?”
“Then I’ll definitely buy you dinner.” His eyes sparkle with mischief. “But you’ll have to admit you were wrong about hockey.”
“Not happening.”
“Oh I think it’s happening. We have a home game this Friday. I’ll leave your ticket at will-call.”
“I work Friday.” Thank goodness for that convenient truth.
“Saturday then.”
“I work every night.”
“How is it you work every night? I think I need to have a word with your boss.”
I stare him down, hands on my hips. “I am the boss.”
“Well then it’s settled.”
I turn to leave, fighting a smile. “Some of us have to work for a living instead of playing games on ice.”
“So you’re coming Friday?”
“Definitely not.”
“I’ll take that as a maybe.”
I don’t look back as I head toward the trail. “Just eat your cookies, Wayne Gretzky.”