Chapter Four
There’s a steaming latte in my hands, and I’m fairly confident that Boone has ruined coffee for me.
There isn’t a coffee shop, no matter how elevated and bougie it is, that makes a better latte than Boone.
And I’d know. One year I’d decided to try every coffee shop within a ten-mile radius of my apartment.
I didn’t exactly succeed in trying all of them.
There are thousands. I’m not the only New Yorker who exists off espresso.
“So, what’s with the cat? You don’t exactly strike me as a cat guy,” I say before taking another glorious gulp of my gingerbread latte as I look down at the scraggly black feline snuggled up on Boone’s feet.
“Dog,” Boone answers simply.
I nod my head. “Yes, I think you’re better suited as a dog man.”
“No, the cat’s name is Dog,” Boone clarifies.
“What?” I cradle my coffee with my legs, freeing my hands so I can pull the knitted blanket more securely around me.
“The cat’s name is Dog,” he repeats.
“Why?” I question, tilting my head to the side as my eyes scrunch together.
Boone shrugs his shoulders. “It’s comical when I call for Dog and a cat appears.”
I feel my eyebrows raise in both surprise and concern. Concern because I’m beginning to wonder just how lonely this man is out here in the woods all by himself. Or is he lonely? I suspect he is. Nothing around the cabin looks as if a feminine touch has infected it.
In fact, not only is it lacking feminine touch but any signs of Christmas. There isn’t a tree, a stocking hung by the fire, or even a Christmas card to be seen.
“So, what’s up with the Scrooge vibe going on in here?” I ask, skating away from the subject of a cat named Dog.
I catch what seems to be a flicker of a memory dancing in Boone’s blue eyes before he replies. “I’ve got gingerbread creamer. And last I checked, Scrooge didn’t keep a full log burning. He only kept enough burning to warm himself. I’m warming you, aren’t I?”
“Fair points,” I admit. “But where’s the tree? The lights? The Oh Holy Night spirit?”
“Maybe it’s wherever you were headed for Christmas?
” Boone shoots back, and I can’t tell if his tone is grumpy or just deflective.
In his defense, I did kind of force my way into his lack of holiday cheer.
Choices were made, and with choices came consequences, which he was now partaking in whether he wanted to or not.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, there’s a tree and lights for sure, but definitely no Oh Holy Night spirit.”
“Not concerned with getting back?” he questions, taking a sip of his own latte.
“Besides the part where I almost died, having a legitimate reason for not making it home for Christmas seems like the best gift I could receive this year,” I answer honestly. “The only thing I’ll miss is seeing my brother and his family, but I’ll make plans to see them soon.”
“You did almost die, you know,” Boone states as if my mind hasn’t been replaying every single thing I did wrong leading up to the near-deadly disaster. I am an expert level overthinker, constantly assessing every word or move I make or don’t make, so I don’t make the same mistake twice.
I laugh nervously. “I guess I would have proved my mother wrong by showing her that the grim reaper didn’t think I was a bother at all.”
Boone’s left eyebrow raises. “You really don’t like your mom, do you?”
I chug the rest of my coffee before stretching back on the couch.
“Listen, Boone. My mother is not cut from the same cloth as most mothers. Her fabric is starched and prefers the dry cleaner’s over being line dried.
She’s all sharp edges and no soft curves.
I can’t even remember the last time my mother hugged me or said anything to me that wasn’t a carefully crafted insult.
And by said, I mean by email, because my mother never calls me.
So, I’m not exactly her biggest fan, but she’s not mine either.
She’s made that abundantly clear every day of my thirty-seven years. ”
His eyes widen as his lips pull together in a straight line. “So, you really aren’t upset you’re missing Christmas?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“Got it,” he mutters.
And then, because I’m never afraid to poke at a bear, even though maybe I should be a little more cautious because it appears he’s not either, since there is one hanging up on his wall, I ask, “So, is there a woman in your life? A girlfriend? A Mrs. Paul Bunyan?”
“A Mrs. Paul Bunyan?”
I shrug my shoulders. “If you don’t want people to assume you are a lumberjack, you probably should stop looking like one.
I mean, really. Lumberjacks wear flannel and jeans.
Usually have beards. Appear as if they’ve swung an axe or two.
Don’t get mad at the messenger. You should really take it up with whatever association lumberjacks hail from. ”
“Right,” he mutters as he glances down at his red flannel shirt. “I just like the color red.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t look good in it,” I admit. “It’s just, you kind of look the part. You got a blue ox corralled around here somewhere?”
“Afraid not,” he replies, a crack of a smile finally appearing before he swallows it back down. “What about you?”
“No, I’m afraid my apartment complex doesn’t allow pets of any kind. Especially giant blue oxen,” I answer, allowing the right side of my mouth to curve up in an easy smile.
“I meant a boyfriend.”
“Oh, one of those.” I sigh as my mind pulls up a Rolodex of men that have run away from trouble as soon as they see it in me.
Usually by the fourth date. Although one time, a man named Andrew was ignorant enough for six months, and I thought maybe, just maybe, someone other than my dad actually saw my light instead of my darkness.
“It would be more probable for me to have a blue ox than a boyfriend.”
Even under his thick beard, I can see Boone’s edges soften a bit, like a stick of butter that’s been sitting out on the counter for a while. “So, where exactly were you headed?”
“Sedona,” I reply. “I was supposed to have a layover in Denver, but the storms grounded my flight in what felt like the middle of nowhere, which then prompted the deadly dance with a blizzard because, well, coffee. The most consistent relationship I’ve ever had in my life.”
He nods his head. “Makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” I question, looking down at my empty coffee cup.
“What you were wearing,” he mutters.
“Excuse me? What do my clothes have to do with my flight plans?” And now I’m wondering where my clothes are. They’d practically embedded their threads into my flesh as they froze around my almost-corpse.
“A lot, actually,” he answers even though he doesn’t say a lot. In fact, he says very little. Not enough to give me any indication of what he meant.
“Well?” I prompt. “Go on.”
He leans over, his elbows finding his knees. “You sure you want me to say?”
I match his movements, leaning over so there are only a few feet and Dog, the cat, between us. “I dare you. Be honest.”
He sucks at his bottom lip before saying, “All right. First of all, stilettos? You’re lucky I found you and you didn’t lose your toes.”
I nod my head in agreement, because I do agree. Not my best footwear moment. I wiggle my toes, which are now covered in large wool socks, to make sure they are still intact. They are. Thank goodness.
“Secondly, what kind of jeans were those that you had on? I swear they were tattooed to your skin. It took some serious gymnastics to get those things off you, and this might surprise you, but I’m not exactly the most flexible guy.
Lumberjacks aren’t out here in the woods pommel-horsing.
” He’s picking up word speed, and even though I flinch mildly as embarrassment begins to engulf me, slowly thinking about how I was as lifeless as a Barbie doll as he attempted to pull off his very poetic description of skinny jeans, I’m equally as excited, because along with his word speed, he’s revealing his wit, and I appreciate it.
“Then your blouse was…interesting. Very sheer for zero-degree temperatures. I mean, I’ve listened to you talk enough that I know you don’t lack any depth of intelligence, but that thing was practically as useless as a bikini top.”
“I had a coat on,” I argue.
“It was cotton, which is breathable, and not exactly what you want up here. You need wool, fleece, or anything that is meant to trap your body heat and keep you warm. You were becoming a human popsicle at a very rapid rate,” Boone contends. This man truly is a great sport at some word banter.
My grin is splitting my face in two, maybe not literally, but it feels as if the corners of my mouth are touching my ears.
“What’s so funny? You were in the worst clothes to even attempt survival in a blizzard,” Boone lectures.
“I’m just enjoying someone talking more than me. I’ve been told no one else can do it. That my words are kind of like the equivalent to a lumberjack’s axe. Cutting everyone else down,” I laugh.
And then it’s there. A real smile, one that slowly crawls across his face into a full grin, and my stomach involuntarily swirls.
“I’m not so bad, you know. It’s just, I didn’t know if I’d be able to save you when I found you.
I apologize that you’re wearing my clothes, but your own were not helping with your battle against hypothermia.
I honestly didn’t know if you were going to make it at first. Your clothes were practically useless.
I’m assuming you’d gotten out of the car? ”
I nod my head and gulp, thinking about how it would feel to find someone almost dead, and you were the one that had to save them.
I’m also slightly infuriated with myself that I couldn’t save myself, something I’ve been doing for years and haven’t yet failed at.
But I’d failed this time. In fact, it could have been the biggest mistake of my life, since I’d almost ended it.
“I’m sorry about that.” And I am. Really sorry. Sometimes the worst part about taking risks is you risk hurting others, which is why I prefer taking risks that only involve me. I just didn’t know to calculate Boone into this one since, well, I didn’t even know him.
“I’m just glad I found you and that you’re okay,” Boone says softly. He stands from his chair. “Need another cup?”
“I can get it,” I say, standing up from the couch for the first time, thankful that my feet have finally found their balance.
“I’m happy to get it for you,” Boone insists, reaching out for my mug that I’m just now noticing how beautiful it is. It’s pottery. Terracotta colored but with flecks of something that sparkles thrown in. The glaze on it is fantastic, too. Smooth.
“This is a gorgeous mug,” I comment as I turn it around in my hands. “Locally made?”
“About as local as you can get,” Boone replies.
I notice his coffee cup is similar but subtly different, only adding to the artisan flair. “Don’t tell me you make your coffee mugs and your coffee creamer?”
He runs his hand through his hair, pushing it back away from his face, which I can now see is slightly freckled and worn from the elements outside. “It’s just a hobby.”
I tilt my head, looking at the mug and then at Boone. “Well, you’re very good.”
“Thanks,” he replies before slipping his hand beneath my own to grab the mug from me. “I’ll get you another cup. Gingerbread?”
And even though he’s already begun walking toward what I assume is the kitchen, my hand is still tingling as if it has just woken up from being numb. I hate that touch affects me like this, but it’s something my skin isn’t used to. “Yes, please.”
“On it,” he replies.
“Oh!” I cry out, needing my hand to do something other than think about Boone’s hand. “My phone. Did you happen to grab my phone when you found me?”
“It’s on my nightstand charging!” he shouts back.
“And that is?” I question loudly.
“Through the only other door inside the house,” he replies just as loudly.
Right. Of course. This is a small cabin. It’s not like I exactly need directions.