CHAPTER 22
Frankie
Good. He’s leaving. Finally, he’s doing what I’ve asked him to do.
I watch MacLaine turn on the ATV ignition. It takes some maneuvering, but eventually, he gets the four-wheeler facing back the way he came, and he pulls it forward. But instead of driving off, he backs the trailer as close to the cabin as he can get it, cuts the engine, and starts unloading.
I jump to my feet, infuriated. “I said go!”
He kicks open the cabin door and brings in a plastic garbage bag, broom, and dustpan.
With disbelief, I watch him begin sweeping up about forty years’ worth of dead leaves and dirt from the old wooden floor.
He fills the garbage bag in silence, as if I’m not even there, ties it up, and tucks it into the trailer.
The whole time I’m breathing hard, fighting back tears.
I feel hopelessly out of control of my own life. And I fucking hate it.
I hate what Niko has done to me, and I hate myself for falling into his trap.
MacLaine keeps moving. He shoves the couch against the wall and drags in what looks like a rolled-up mattress.
“Stop this,” I say, hands balling into fists at my sides.
He ignores me and uses a utility knife to cut open the plastic wrap. The package pops like a can of crescent rolls, then begins to unfold and plump itself up.
No doubt this thing would be way more comfortable beneath my sleeping bag than the rickety old couch, but it doesn’t matter. It may take a few more days to plan my next steps, but I’m definitely moving on. And even if I were to stay, I couldn’t accept all these gifts from a stranger.
Even a stranger who’s kissed the living hell out of me. And left me wanting more—so much more.
“Load it up and haul it away.” I step into the doorway, Pussy in my arms.
“It’s memory foam.”
I laugh at his superhuman pigheadedness. “I don’t care if it’s made of rainbows and angel wings. I don’t want it.”
He turns to face me. I see that he’s quite pleased with himself.
“I also brought a portable solar generator and a solar-powered water heater, two comfortable camp chairs, thirty gallons of drinking water, a battery-operated heater, and a cellphone you can use in an emergency. I’ve programmed in my numbers if you need to reach me.
There’s coverage up here, believe it or not. ”
“Again, no. To everything.” I point a shaking index finger at him and then the trailer. “Dump it all back and get moving. I’m done with this shit.”
He takes two steps closer to me, and I take two steps back.
“I brought more shelf-stable food, too, and a cooler with other things,” he continues. “Plus, pillows and flannel sheets and some canned cat food, though I don’t know what he likes.”
“She. Her name’s Pussy, remember? Who would name a male cat Pussy?”
“Oh. Right.” He pauses, as if he’s giving the matter serious thought. “I’ve known my share of men who were complete pussies, though. My brother Declan, for example.”
I stare at him, my mind suddenly blank. I don’t understand this. What the hell is he even doing? Why is he bringing me all this shit? Did he just tell a joke? And…
I glance down at the slowly expanding crescent roll. MacLaine just dragged a mattress up the mountainside with him. He’s delivered a damn bed.
“You have a lot of nerve, cowboy,” I mutter, turning away and walking toward the firepit.
“Right. Of course. Your Pussy is definitely a she. Wait. That didn’t come out right.”
With my back still to him, I roll my eyes. If I weren’t in survival mode, this might even be comical. I might even enjoy this guy.
I know I would, and that’s the hell of it.
Right now, I’m just trying to stay alive. I don’t have time for hopeless attraction or flirting. I can’t be making friends, and I don’t need a hot stranger pushing me up against the wall and kissing the holy fuck out of me.
There’s no time for any of it. No point.
“I sincerely apologize for that kiss. I had no right—”
“Just go, Kevin.”
“I can’t do that.”
I spin around to find him standing close behind me. He’s not wearing his poker face. Instead, he looks absolutely tortured. Unsure of himself. Worried, even. It’s not what I expect from a man who’s mastered the art of being stone-faced.
I’m not sure what exactly I expect, but it isn’t this.
“Hold up,” he says, racing off to the trailer. MacLaine grabs a folding chair and some kind of carrying case and comes back to me.
“Please. Have a seat.” He snaps open the camp chair with one hand and pats the nylon seat to ensure it’s stable. Then he places the insulated case on the flat stump. The arrangement looks a lot like an armchair and side table.
I don’t move.
“Come on, Boots. I brought you a comfort food sampler. You’ve got to be starving.”
“You don’t know me well enough to give me a nickname.”
He shrugs and uses his pointer finger to tip his cowboy hat back away from his eyes. When he looks down at me, I swear I see those eyes sparkle.
“You’re right. I don’t know you well, but I want to. That’s why I can’t walk away.”
I shake my head slowly.
“Here’s the thing—I don’t know your real name. But it ain’t Fawn, that’s for damn sure. And anyway, Boots fits you.”
I cross my arms tight over my chest, hugging myself. I can’t let this happen. I can’t let him continue to flirt with me, try to seduce me with supplies and food and beds and those unearthly eyes.
I can’t tell him my name or anything about my predicament. The best thing for me to do is to keep my mouth shut.
“When I saw you standing here trying to chop wood in your Daisy Dukes and your white thigh-high boots, I thought I was having a stroke. Some sort of custom-made, out-of-body experience.” He produces a lopsided grin. His lone dimple appears.
And I’m toast.
Things would have been so much easier if he’d stayed silent and kept frowning.
“Mrrraooow!” I glance down to see Pussy at my ankle, glaring at me with a warning. A warning not to be stupid. But what exactly does she mean by that?
Don’t be stupid enough to give him any information about myself?
Or don’t be so stupid that I end up pushing away an unusually good man?
“Trust your gut, Frank.” I hear Dad’s voice in my head.
I take a deep breath and study MacLaine’s face. The nose that’s met one fist too many. The eyes the color of wild violets. The unshaven chin. The sweet smile and the dimple.
I notice the gentle way he holds himself as he stands in front of me. Like he’s aware of how big and imposing he is, and he’s tamping it down.
Not because he wants to deceive.
But because he wants to reassure.
Toast.