Chapter 3 Annabelle
Annabelle
Of all the names in the universe—of all the possible human options—I had to get stuck in a double-booked rental with a man named Maverick.
Maverick.
Not Mark. Not Paul. Not Ben or Tyler or something normal.
No. I get a shirtless, towel-wrapped linebacker with a name that sounds like he should ride a motorcycle, sell overpriced tequila, or crash fighter jets for a living.
His name is written on duct tape and stuck to the duffel next to the kitchen island, as if he were going to summer camp.
The worst part?
It suits him.
He’s massive. Like, disturbingly massive. The kind of man who probably broke his crib as a toddler by shaking it too hard. Broad shoulders, towering height, abs that need to calm the fuck down, and Lord forgive me, but I’m dying to touch them—for research purposes, of course.
Please don’t get me started on the voice.
Deep. Rumbling. The kind of voice that could probably read the ingredients from a lotion bottle and make it sound hot. No human man needs a voice that sounds like mountain man and spice, who looks like he’s going to come rushing out of the forest with an axe over his shoulder.
A real man like Paul Bunyan.
Way hotter than the men I had to hire for the Fall Festival, Harris Bennett included.
His knee is busted, his ego is intact, and he’s chewing at his leftover steak like he’s auditioning for the role in a movie called Neanderthals Take the Lake, Part Deux.
And now—thanks to a discount rental app with zero customer service—I am trapped in a lake cottage with him for God knows how long.
With one bed and no callback from the property manager or the owner.
Nope. Just an email reply following my phone call: Thank you for contacting LakeStay.
We value your rental experience. A team member will be in touch within 24 hours.
Please do not reply to this message, as this inbox is not monitored.
If your matter is urgent, we encourage you to visit our Help Center, where you’ll find frequently asked questions.
Sit back, relax, and enjoy your stay. LakeStay: Where the view is serene, and your comfort is our top priority.
Which, translated from Customer Service to Human, means: Good luck, sucker. You’re on your own.
This is how murder mysteries start. Or enemies-to-lovers romance novels. Frankly, I don’t trust myself not to fall into either category because I’ve already caught myself wondering if I actually find his grumpiness sexy or if I’m high from the change of scenery.
Probably both.
He’s limped to the living room, white T-shirt straining over his back when he lowers himself into the leather chair.
I try not to watch.
Apparently, though, my hormones have zero survival instincts and think now is the perfect time to notice how his arms are unfairly veiny and that his neck is thick. That his jawline is strong and cut and shadowed with dark stubble I would find droolworthy under normal circumstances.
Maverick exhales, flips open a magazine he absolutely doesn’t care about reading, and proceeds to pretend I don’t exist. Which, of course, only makes me want to exist louder.
The silence stretches.
Not peaceful silence. No. It’s the kind of silence that hums with unresolved energy, making me shift on my heels and rack my brain for something to say, or do.
You should text Lucy. She’ll know how to handle this.
But if you text her, she’ll call freaking out, and that beast over there is going to overhear everything you say.
Go outside, then.
Outside? Hell no, the bugs are coming out!
I casually stroll past him toward the large floor-to-ceiling windows, pretending to stare out at the lake while he flips page after page.
I cross my arms.
Uncross them.
Check my phone for the sixth time in ten minutes, as if LakeStay is suddenly going to wake up and realize they’ve turned my staycation into a hostage situation.
I look at him over my shoulder, only to find him actively ignoring me.
“I know you’re not reading that,” I declare.
He doesn’t look up.
“I’m serious,” I say, louder this time. “You’ve been on that same dumb page for at least two minutes.”
His lips barely twitch. He is a master of self-control.
Unlike me.
“Blink twice if you’re conscious,” I mumble.
Nothing.
“You’re not impressing anyone, you know.”
Still nothing.
I throw my arms up. “Do you even know what that freaking magazine is about?”
“Fly-fishing,” he replies, without missing a beat. “With a feature on how to properly build a firepit without losing your eyebrows.”
Huh? “It does not have an article about losing your eyebrows.”
Maverick shrugs as if he doesn’t care that I don’t believe him.
Which I don’t.
Not that he cares.
UGH!
The only thing worse than being trapped in this cabin with a total stranger is being trapped with a stranger who’s good looking and completely disregarding me. He hasn’t even asked what I do for a living, or where I’m from! I might as well be here alone, which was the original plan.
I am blaming Lucy for this. This was her idea. Her bright suggestion that I unplug and recharge for a few days after my job imploded and my situationship imploded and my sourdough starter died all in the same week! Close and cozy. Silent.
No cell phone, no computer, no planning committee, no brides.
Far be it from me to point out that my apartment is literally across the lake—a mere forty-five-minute drive through winding roads and overly picturesque trees.
I could’ve stayed home. I could’ve taken a bath, lit a candle, watched a documentary and chilled the fuck out.
But I live in Star Lake, let’s be real; everyone knows everyone, and it’s a town so small that one is never truly alone.
Ever.
Even the barista at Loon Landing Café knows that I recently dumped my boyfriend because we were barely sleeping together and I was sick and tired of being more friend than lover.
Not to mention, dating the mayor’s son was a drag—I always had to be on my best behavior, when in reality, I’m kind of a brat.
“So do you live in Arizona year-round?”
Flip.
I sigh, louder this time. “I’m being incredibly generous by not calling the cops on you and filing a report.”
The report: Too hot to handle. Too stubborn to leave.
He flips a page.
“Do you talk? Is that part of the knee injury?”
Honestly, it’s impressive. I’ve never met anyone so aggressively uninterested in conversation that it borders on being fascinating.
With a dramatic exhale that’s mostly for me, I grab the blanket off the couch and stalk over to the sliding glass door on the far side of the room, throwing it around my shoulders like a cape of resignation.
The sun’s starting to dip below the edge of the trees, casting this syrupy orange glow over the water. One of those sunsets that looks fake, like someone turned up the saturation on the entire forest.
It’s gorgeous.
I slide the door open and step outside onto the deck, the cool wood pressing against my bare feet as I pull the blanket tighter around me.
Breathing in deeply, I will my brain to stop spinning, inhaling the campfire from the resort, a smell I’m all too familiar with, having grown up in a resort town.
Out here, it’s only me and the water and the kind of quiet you could lose yourself in.
Or find yourself in.
I settle into one of the deck chairs, tucking my knees up and resting my chin on them, watching the orange melt into pink and then purple across the lake. The surface glows like glass, and for a second, everything is calm, including my inner thoughts.
Mostly.
This is what Lucy meant when she said I needed to “reset.” Fewer people. Less noise. Less constantly trying to prove I have it all under control when I absolutely do not.
The sky keeps changing. The bugs start humming. My ears strain as I listen for the door of the cottage to open, but so far, nothing. Of course not.
Maverick whatever-his-last-name-is probably doesn’t do sunsets. Or feelings. Or human connection.
I roll my eyes at the horizon and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, settling deeper into the chair as the breeze picks up. It’s nice, though. Chilly, but nice. And for the first time all day, I feel like I’m not on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Not gonna lie, today has been stressful. Seeing a mountain of a man standing over me earlier when I’d woken from the hammock not only scared the ever-loving shit out of me—but for a brief second, I genuinely thought I was about to die.
Like, this is it. This is how it ends.
This is how I—
Click.
I freeze.
The soft slide of the door opening behind me cuts through the quiet like a dropped pin in a library.
I don’t turn around. I don’t breathe. Because now I’m very aware that the caveman has exited the cave. And I swear, if he ruins my moment with some kind of smug, sarcastic—
“You’re gonna get eaten alive out here.”
So? Pfft. What does he care? He hasn’t cared about a single thing I’ve said all afternoon—why start now?
“You’re gonna get eaten alive out here,” he says again, as if I hadn’t heard him the first damn time, that low rumble of his sounding mildly amused.
“Mosquitoes are the least tragic part of my day.” I don’t turn around. “I’ll take my chances.”
Behind me, the deck creaks under his weight as he lowers himself into the chair beside mine.
Not directly next to me, thank God, but close enough that I can feel the gravity of him.
He radiates heat and intensity in ways the men of Star Lake do not.
The guys back home mostly wear khakis, sell insurance, and talk about trout season, blech.
Annoying.
“Suit yourself,” he grumbles, settling in with a grunt. “I read somewhere mosquitoes like sweet blood.”
“Oh yeah? Where’d you read that?”
“Magazine.”
I scoff.
He turns his head so I can catch the smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “Sounds legit, though, doesn’t it?”
“Um—no.” It most certainly does not.
“You wound me,” he says, moving the ice pack against his knee to a new spot. “Here I am, offering mosquito trivia, and all I get is attitude.”
I roll my eyes again, this time at him. “You also kicked me out of the only bed. You don’t get points for bug facts. This is war.”
War.
That’s what this is, and I am not losing.
“I hate to break it to you, Annabelle, but possession is nine-tenths of the law, and I was here first. You’re lucky I don’t call the cops for breaking in entering.”
“It’s breaking and entering,” I correct. Then I can’t resist adding, “You know, most hostages develop sympathy for their captors over time. Stockholm syndrome, it’s called.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You think I’m your captor?”
“Well, I didn’t rent this place intending to share it with a linebacker and an insufferable personality, so yes. I think I qualify.”
“‘Insufferable,’” he echoes proudly. “I like it.”
“Of course you do. Fits you better than ‘smug shithead.’”
“I like that too.” He laughs, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “You talk a lot when you’re uncomfortable.”
False. “I talk a lot when I’m annoyed.”
“There’s no difference.”
This was supposed to be a break. A mental detox. A quiet, soul-reviving staycation filled with tea, face masks, and perhaps one or two melodramatic cries.
He leans back in the chair, adjusting the ice pack like the conversation is physically draining him. “Look. I’m not trying to be rude, but neither of us rented this place to host. I rented it to be alone. You’re not part of the itinerary and could have left when you found out it was double-booked.”
“Leave and go where?” I throw my hand toward the trees. “Pitch a tent and hope a bear helps me set it up?” Because trust me, they’re in there by the dozens. I’ve woken up plenty of mornings with them digging through the dumpsters of my apartment complex.
Maverick raises his brows and cocks his head toward the opposite direction, toward Moonrise at Star Lake.
“If I could spend thousands of dollars for several nights of silence, I would have. Okay, pal? We’ve already covered this topic. Move on from it.” Not all of us have NFL money—not that I have a clue about the balance of his bank account.
“Which—by the way,” I go on, totally triggered. “I don’t actually know for sure you play professional football. You could be lying.”
His mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. “Sure. I blew out my knee for shits and giggles.” His exhale is sharp and long as he adjusts his ice pack. “I’m just saying—if it were me? And I showed up to a rental and someone was already here? I’d leave.”
“Well, congratulations,” I say brightly. “You’re a better person than I am.”
“I didn’t say I was a better person.”
“It’s definitely what you meant.”
His gaze flicks over to me again, heavy and unamused. “I meant I wouldn’t stick around where I clearly wasn’t wanted.”
Ouch. Direct hit.
I suck in a sharp breath and look away, pretending to admire the lake again so he doesn’t see the pain behind my eyes.
He’s not wrong.
He just didn’t have to say it. Period.