Chapter 10
GINNY
Charlie Boy swings by to watch as I step from the bath into the freezing air.
Concerned about how Dylan is holding up, I make quick work of drying myself off and changing back to my jeans and shirt.
I imagine he might be lying dead on the floor.
But instead, he stands there, alive and focused, tearing crisp leaves of Iceberg.
Dylan works with surprising dexterity for someone who had seemed so close to death hours before.
Now, I smell bacon frying in the cast-iron pan, the fat popping and sizzling, filling the cabin with a comforting aroma that makes my stomach growl in anticipation.
The simple pinewood dining table has been set with care, the plates arranged just so.
He's found the nice plates—the ones Dad and I bought to celebrate Christmas years ago.
In the table’s center, he's placed one of those thick white emergency candles kept for power outages before personal electronics. The flame casts a warm glow across the table, making the cabin feel almost festive.
"Well," I say, taking it all in, "this is a fine Christmas dinner. All we need now is a Christmas tree and Santa Claus to come down the chimney. Think you can arrange that?"
"Maybe," he replies with a hint of a smile. "I have a good relationship with Santa. Got him into one of my sold-out concerts."
I look at him more carefully, confused. "What do you mean?"
"You didn't know I'm Dylan?" He seems genuinely surprised.
"Yes," I say, studying his face. "You told me your name."
"No, I mean I'm Dylan. The musician." He watches my reaction. "Do you listen to music?"
"Mostly country stations."
He shakes his head slightly. "Well, I don't play country. I play rock music. Have for years. Dylan—like Madonna, just one name.”
"You were popular when I was in high school," I say, watching his face for a reaction.
He winces slightly. "Rub salt in the wounds, why don't you?"
"I didn't mean—"
"It's fine. Just did a show in Missoula last week."
He looks down at the food he's preparing, his fingers moving deftly with the knife. "Sold out, actually."
"So why come through Whitefish?” i ask. “It's not exactly on the way to anywhere."
Dylan’s shoulder brushes mine as he reaches for the pepper grinder.
“Right. I’ve played this area dozens of times. But I hadn’t known my great-great-grandfather founded a lumber company here in 1904 until recently. My plan was to spend the night in Whitefish and see it.
“The year of the railroad. So you’re practically a native.,” I say walking closer.
We stand there, neither of us moving away. Then he clears his throat. "Let’s sit down to dinner. You too, Charlie Boy."
My dog perks up at his name. Dylan smiles at him. "I've fixed you something special, buddy."
Charlie Boy follows me to the table, settling by my feet as Dylan brings over our plates.
First course," he announces with an exaggerated bow, "iceberg salad with ranch and bacon crumbles."
Charlie Boy makes a whining sound at the mention of bacon. I laugh. "He's obsessed with bacon."
"Smart fellow." Dylan places a small plate of crispy bacon pieces on the plate he’s set for my canine on the floor. Charlie Boy devours it instantly.
"You cooked for my dog," I say, oddly touched by the gesture.
"Second course is ribeye with my special marinade," he continues, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles.
"I didn't see any marinade in the cabin."
He taps his jacket pocket. "Homemade. I always carry my spice blend. Old habit."
"What kind of man carries spice in his pocket?" I ask, watching Dylan's hands as he settles into the chair across from me.
His fingers are long, nimble—a musician's hands, but there's something else there too.
"The kind who worked his way through culinary school before hitting it big," His eyes crinkle at the corners as he speaks, showing his age.
"I wasn't always playing sold-out venues. I was chopping vegetables and getting yelled at by French chefs for years."
I raise an eyebrow. "I always pictured rock stars working in dive bars in their early days, not fine dining."
"My dad was a slip and fall attorney," he explains, cutting into his steak with precision. "Represented an upscale restaurant chain.”
"Rich city boy, huh. Lucky your dad could pull the right strings.”
“My old man didn’t do a thing. I made it a point to meet the chefs. Weaseled my way into a part time job as soon as I was old enough to work. I worked hard. Proved myself. Chefs liked me, most gave me flexible hours for auditions."
As I think about my own dad, how different Dylan’s life was from my own.
I look out the window. The wall of white snow whizzes outside the glass. From the sound of the howling wind, the storm’s intensifying.
Turning back to Dylan, I smile. “I never learned to cook properly. Just opened cans for dinner most nights."
Dylan makes a face.
“Don’t judge! You're a rock star with pocket spices. I’m just a simple Whitefish girl grateful when spiced pumpkin latte comes to our local Starbucks.”
Charlie Boy whines at our feet, his eyes fixed on Dylan's plate.
"Looks like someone wants a second portion. It’ll be right up, Charlie Boy,” Dylan says, rising, before turning to me. “That mongrel saved my life tonight."
"Don't call my professionally trained, Belgium Shepherd a mongrel!" I protest, covering Charlie Boy's tall ears. "He understands English."
Charlie Boy barks, making us both laugh.
"I'll fetch his meal,” Dylan says, his hand briefly touching my shoulder as he passes. The contact sends warmth spreading through me.
I watch, half-smiling, as Dylan plates another ribeye for Charlie Boy.
My dog doesn't wait for permission. He just dives in with complete abandon, chomping loudly while grease forms a shiny film across his muzzle.
"Charlie Boy," I scold, "you look like a mess. Have some manners."
"You're a strict mistress, you know that?" Dylan says.
Though Dylan’s voice is warm with amusement, I feel a jolt of deja vu. Big Bruce had said something similar to me just a few hours ago.
"I have to be," I reply, more firmly than I meant. "Charlie Boy is more than just my dog. He's my responsibility. The department gave him to me as a pup, and I was tasked with training him."
I run my fingers along the edge of my plate. "As incredible as it sounds, the department has every right to take him away if they see fit."
"What?" Dylan looks genuinely shocked, his fork pausing midway to his mouth. "But he's your dog."
"Yes, he's my dog," I say, watching Charlie Boy lick his chops, "but legally, he belongs to the Department."
Dylan nods and takes a thoughtful bite of his meat, chewing slowly.
The candlelight catches in his eyes as he swallows. "Interesting twist of fate," he says finally. “If I didn’t decide to swing through Whitefish, I would not have crashed. And met you.”
He meets my eyes. Our gaze is almost too intense, so I look away.
“Right. But then if you stayed with your band, you would have partied with your band. Groupies, all that. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”
“Maybe. It was fun back in the day. When my bandmates were all with me.”
"Why did they leave?”
"Some have passed on. Others moved on. Forty is a hard time in a man's life."
I'm quiet for a minute, watching him. The cabin feels smaller suddenly, more intimate. I know it would be rude to ask for details, but something in his vulnerability makes me want to know more.
"Can you explain?" I ask quietly, leaning forward.
"I guess you have to be forty to explain forty," he says finally. "It's when you've made all the mistakes a man can make and decide to spend the next forty years learning from them."
"That sounds like something a forty-year-old would say."
"You think I'm full of it."
"No," I say, meeting his gaze. "I think you're right. I probably won't understand until I'm there myself."
"Damn right," he says, and we chuckle. Charlie Boy joins with a happy bark that has us laughing all over again.
We finish our meal, talking about small things. Favorite movies, places we've been. But one thing is clear.
He’s lonely. Just like me.
After dinner, I gather our plates. "Please lay down and rest. I'll clean up."
When I finish washing dishes, I find him wearing my dad's old terrycloth robe. It had been my Christmas gift to him when I was seven.
I lean against the doorframe, fond memories of happy times washing over me.
Soon after that, he got busy at work.
Then I went off to college, only to be called back after freshmen year to tend him after he was diagnosed.
Those two years I spent caring for him were challenging. Watching him suffer was unbearable. I'm glad those painful days are over.
Standing here now, seeing Dylan in Dad's robe, brings it all rushing back with unexpected tenderness.
"Hey nurse Nancy," Dylan says, his voice low and playful. "Want to come into bed and keep me warm?"
I remember the promise I made to myself in the bathtub earlier. My throat tightens. "I want to," I admit, the honesty surprising me. "But I can't."
"Why can't you?" he asks, shifting on the bed. The movement causes the robe to slide open further, revealing more of his muscular thigh.
I can't help but stare at the way the terrycloth drapes over his body, at once concealing and highlighting every curve and plane.
"I just..."
My words trail off as I take in the sight of him. His chest rises and falls with each breath, the robe parting just enough to show a glimpse of tanned skin and the definition of muscles beneath.
It's like someone plucked my most private fantasy straight from my dreams and placed it right here in my cabin.
"Well, if you can't, you can't," he concedes with a small smile. "But come closer. At least give me a small kiss."
"All right." I walk toward him slowly, drawn by an invisible thread. The scent of him grows stronger with each step—clean skin, a hint of cologne, and something uniquely male that makes my pulse quicken.
When I reach the edge of the bed, he reaches up and gently pulls me closer, his fingers warm against my wrist.
His eyes lock with mine, dark and intense. I feel the heat of his body, hear the soft catch in his breathing.
I have a decision to make, and every cell in my body knows exactly what it wants. What will I do?