Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
This isn’t the first time I’ve dreamt of baked goods, but the scent of warm, sugary goodness is too realistic and tantalizing to ignore.
It’s also suspect, since my roommate can’t follow the directions on a tube of cookie dough and once set fire to our kitchen due to a midnight hot dog craving. Seriously, how do you ruin hot dogs?
That last thought drags me fully into consciousness, though I’m still weighing my desire to remain in bed like a slug versus my need to investigate and possibly call the fire department.
It doesn’t smell like anything’s burning.
Maybe Connor brought something home from our favorite bakery after practice. Did he have practice today?
I start to stretch, wiggling my toes experimentally, and flinch at the surprise stab of pain.
Ski lodge. Twisted ankle. Gorgeous-but-suspicious rescuer I almost had sex with once.
“Not his Yeti cousin,” I rasp, my throat dry and raw. As I rush to a sitting position, three blankets and two tiny creatures tumble off my chest and into my lap. “What the…?”
Big mistake. Way too soon. I cradle my throbbing head in my hands and try to make sense of my new situation.
This isn’t my bed; it’s an oddly comfortable sleeper sofa. And those aren’t my dogs. I’m not even sure they are dogs, but it doesn’t matter because they’re zooming around on the mountain of blankets, looking like over-caffeinated Ewoks or teddy bears, and I need them to be mine.
Have I mentioned teddy bears recently?
I couldn’t have, because that didn’t happen. I remember imagining it happening, which is the only thing that makes any sense now that I’m room temperature and back in my right mind.
My dreams about him are usually more sexual and rarely plausible, but not even my subconscious would expect me to believe that the guy whose cock I sucked one night just happened to rescue me in a snowstorm this far away from the city two months later.
There’s coincidence, and then there’s that. The plot line would be laughed out of my survival tragicomedy. Too contrived, they’d say, whoever they are. And they’d be right.
It’s not that much of a coincidence if he’s dating someone at the lodge.
Right. I close my eyes on a silent groan, because my almost-hookup being someone else’s plus-one at this event would be on brand for me. But the longer I consider that possibility, the more I have my doubts.
No, it’s not just wishful thinking. Bex works for Tanaka, and he’s very involved in the personal business of his fiancé’s family, which means I’ve heard all the gossip.
And what I’ve heard is that there are only a few single members left.
People actually make bets on who’ll be the next to fall to Tanaka’s machinations, but no one is holding their breath with the final three.
One moved back from Florida and, instead of rejoining the police force, got a construction job and just received his six-year sobriety chip.
He never dates. Another is focused on his son and counseling firefighters recovering from injuries.
The writer who hangs out at the pub just wrote a fantasy novel based on him, which I can’t wait to read.
Maybe it will tell me why people still whisper about his handsome manny disappearing so abruptly a few years ago.
And then there’s Kate, who used to go through men and women like it was her job, but has shut down her social media accounts and been swearing since that awful night that those days are over if Bex would only give her a second chance. A real one this time.
I might be too emotionally invested in that last one to offer my opinion.
The point is, I can’t see my guy with any of them.
Can’t or won’t?
It doesn’t matter. It isn’t my business who he is or why he’s here with these two adorable teddy bear dogs.
Right now, I need to focus on where I am and how quickly I can get back to the lodge, quit in a dramatic huff and head home to be with my friends.
Can a person cancel their sabbatical mid-sabbatical?
I imagine it’s a lot of paperwork and a pain in the butt for scheduling.
What would they think if I showed back up after two months away?
And what are the odds that the assistant principal suddenly comes down with a raging case of something horrible with boils that has him using all his sick days and vacation time until summer so I never have to see him again?
Not great, Winnie.
With my head still pounding and the dogs still frolicking on the bed, I cautiously survey the room for clues and exit routes.
It’s not like I’m expecting bloody chains or terrifying taxidermy, but with the way this weekend is going for me so far, anything is possible.
What I see instead is photo-spread-ready furniture and…
wood. So much wood. Wood is the word of the day.
Even in my pants, though it’s not quite hardwood yet. It must be one of those life-affirming reactions to a near-death experience.
I ignore it and take in what I suppose most people would call “rustic chic” instead of “We only had one building material, so we utilized the hell out of it.” It’s actually not that bad.
I mean, wood , yes, but not that dark seventies paneling that makes every room feel three times smaller and a smidge more murdery.
This room is big and bright and attractive, with those rounded-pine-log walls and colorful mismatched throw rugs on the distressed wood floors.
A staircase with steps that look like halved logs rises up to an open loft above, highlighting the knotty wood beams that cross the vaulted ceiling.
Wood. Wood. Wood.
Thankfully, the large modern kitchen to my right, with its quartz countertops and tiled floor, breaks up the motif. Beside me, tall bay windows and a glass door reveal the snowstorm still raging beyond the covered porch outside. It looks like it’s gotten a lot worse out there.
I could still be lost in that, which is a scary thought. But now I’m here, safe and snug in what I can only assume is “the cabin.”
I shiver with remembered cold, despite the wood-burning stove in the center of the living room that’s radiating heat. It’s huge, just as tall and twice as wide as I am, and I’ve never been so thankful for anything in my life. Being warm is not something I’ll be taking for granted ever again.
I’m also damn thankful not to be naked—and I’m tacking that on because I’m pretty sure I was undressed after I got here.
Stripped, toweled brusquely and redressed in a buttery-soft baggy T-shirt and sweatpants.
Then I was wrapped in blankets and held while being urged to sip a cup of broth before being carried into the bathroom to pee.
The hands holding my head slide down to cup my flaming cheeks. Oh good. I survived the freeze, so now I’ll get my chance to discover whether or not someone can die of mortification, right here in this tree graveyard of a mountain getaway.
I’m not sure if it’s better or worse that I was only partially conscious for the most embarrassingly intimate relationship of my life. Let’s go with worse. There’s no coming back from that. All the mystery is gone now. A man helps you sit down to pee one time and that’s it. Sex is off the table.
Sex is still on the table. Don’t lie.
There has to be something wrong with me if thinking about his hands on me, even in a caretaking capacity, is turning my semi into a full-on sequoia. I’m shocked at myself.
Are you really?
Truth? It’s not even the weirdest sexual experience on my resume.
Getting turned on by being taken care of while suffering from hypothermia isn’t in the same realm as, for example, continuing to have sex with a guy when you realize halfway through what he meant when he said he felt a kinship with horses.
He neighed, Winnie. Whinnied, if you will.
I won’t. Never again. I’m open to a lot of things, but pony play isn’t one of them. Still, perspective is a good thing. And so are fuzzy distractions. As soon as I make eye contact, I’m rewarded with two matching yips, as if the dogs are chiding me for taking so long to greet them.
There’s no stopping the “Awww” that escapes my lips.
How can anyone be upset around those faces?
Covered in silky curls—one auburn and the other a pure golden brown—they watch me with bright, curious eyes, like my favorite stuffed animals come to life.
“You’re both so cute and this cabin smells like candy. Is it a trap?”
When I reach out, they sniff my hands and shiver with delight instead of answering. What are these teacup terrors doing here instead of inside some reality housewife’s giant purse?
Are they his ? They can’t be. He looks more like the big-dog type, maybe a mastiff or an Irish wolfhound or something. Maybe they got lost in the woods too, only they don’t look like they’ve suffered a day of their teeny tiny lives.
I never had a pet. Our apartment is too small and Connor and I both have after-school activities that make our schedules too complicated to add a dog to the equation.
But if I could choose, these two would be perfect for me.
They’d keep each other company while I graded papers, and I can imagine carrying them to class in a backpack or dressing them up as robber barons and revolutionaries for Halloween.
Aren’t there studies about animals in classrooms promoting positive attitudes toward learning and decreasing test anxiety?
My school would never okay something like that, but it would be amazing if they did.
“You both need to stop being precious right now, or I’m going to talk myself into taking you home with me, and that would be stealing.” I scrub their tummies and they squirm in ecstasy. “Not to bring up a sore subject for me, but have either of you seen the bathroom?”
My teeth feel about as fuzzy as my head, and I really do need to stand up and aim for myself now. It’s a pride thing.
“Win?”