Chapter 8
GINNY
Iput on my parka and head back out into the snow, crossing my fingers it’s really well. The service doesn’t slip up as a general rule, but there’s always a first time.
If I had known I’d have a fancy man as my guest, I would have ordered Champagne and caviar.
Smiling to myself, I reach into the locker and pull out the basics—eggs, milk, butter, flour. frozen meat, and a few of my usual favorites.
Then I sling the bags over my shoulder and head back to the cabin.
In the short time I've been gone, Dylan has decorated the edge of the tin tub with pine cones that I had collected and stored in the bedroom from a previous visit.
The old tin tub looks inviting, now that I see it framed by the crackling fire.
“Nice touch with the pine cones,” I say, finding him in the kitchen pulling out pots and pans. “Looks great.”
“Least I can do to return the favor, Nurse Nancy.”
“That’s not my name,” I laugh.
“Sorry. Firewoman Fanny,”
“I told you I’m Ginny.”
“Ginny … ,” he says, rolling the name around on his tongue. “You don’t look like a gin-loving lush. Or a card shark …”
“Very funny. It’s short for Virginia.”
“Ah. Secret code for virgin,, yes?”
I force a serious countenance. “It’s not polite to discuss persona issues with one’s medical team.”
“Hey, medical team,” he says, gesturing his fingers at the bags I hold. “Let’s see what’s for dinner.”
I bring them to the counter, and watch as he unpacks them. He looks at each with studied concentration, like one of those TV chefs that have to make a gourmet meal from odd ingredients.
“This will do,” he says. “Are you a real firewoman? Or just a volunteer?”
“Real. Just like my dad. He was FMO for the Glacier View Ranger District.:
“What’s FMO?”
“Fire Management Officer. He died last month.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s better this way. It was a long illness. I left college in my sophomore year to take care of him.”
“No man of your own?”
"Nope. My dad was everything to me. Just him and me, ever since I could remember.”
We fall silent. Then he takes a knife and moves to cut the vegetables.
“So, what happens for you now?” he asks. “You don’t have anything tied to Whitefish.”
“No,” I say. “But my house is mortgage-free. I’ve got a job for life here. And Charlie Boy fulfills most of my needs.”
Charlie Boy tilts his head—just slightly—as if to say, “Are you two talking about me?”
“Okay, Charlie Boy, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room.”
He barks violently.
“Just kidding,” I say quickly, ruffling his ears and giving him a hug. “You know you’re my man.”
Dylan’s eyes rest on me as I embrace my dog. Is the wounded man jealous?
I sense that he is. And strangely I get the sense that Charlie Boy is jealous of Dylan.
“Ginny, it’s time for you to take a bath. These vegetables need to simmer in private.”
At the sound of the word ‘dinner’, Charlie Boy lets forth a yip. He must be hungry.
When I remain standing, Dylan moves behind me to remove my parka, his warmth radiating against my back. The way his fingers brush at the nape of my neck sends pleasant shivers through my body.
"Shall I bathe you the same way you did me?"
“I’m not the patient,” I say, my voice is breathy.
"All right, then. Enjoy.”