Chapter 15
Poppy
Marina’s number sits on the screen, but I can’t bring myself to call her.
There’s so much I want to tell her and so many things I would love her advice on. But since we’re on the verge of losing electricity, I turn it off to save my battery, dedicating the next twenty-four hours or more to being alone with Laird.
It’s not a burden.
The connection with Laird is intense. It hit me sideways when I least expected it, a lot like our beginning the other night.
I never would have thought the man who pretty much gave me a hard time about everything would also be the first person I’m attracted to in recent memory.
Certainly well before the accident happened.
Sure, he knows how to look sexy cosplaying a lumberjack in the woods, but as comfortable as he is, I’m daydreaming about him on the beaches of San Diego.
This place is fun for the weekend, a trip down memory lane, a quick escape if he wants to get out of LA but not have to catch a flight.
Some people go to Palm Springs. He comes to Deer Lake.
We don’t know how long we’ll be stuck up here, but I sure hope I get to see that other side of him.
The thought of him running around half naked on beaches instead of bundled up in flannel might have something to do with it.
Though I can’t imagine him looking bad in anything, and I really want to see that tattoo again.
The lights flicker, causing me to sit up and release a dreaded sigh.
Laird was right about the generator going out. I look around the room and regret not grabbing a flashlight. Fortunately, the sun hasn’t fully set, so light still feeds through the trees. The bedroom is bathed in the perfect shade of golden peach sunlight, so I’m not stuck in the dark yet.
Ticking through my list of to-dos to make sure we’re prepared, I’m glad I researched to verify how to manage the food in the fridge.
Keeping the door closed is key. It’s cold enough outside to keep some things fresh if we’re worried.
If it can’t be saved, I’ll throw it away.
We won’t starve. I bought plenty and whipped up a pasta dish for tonight, something easy to reheat near a fire or on the gas stove since we won’t be able to ignite the oven.
A loud crack startles me, choking my breath. I swear my heart skips a beat or ten. I’ll chalk it up to old wiring in the cabin, though this place is hardly rustic. I get up, not wanting to be alone.
From the few sounds I heard earlier—the creak of a door, heavy footsteps to the kitchen and back—I’m not sure where he is—the bedroom where Laird sleeps or in the living room by the fire. I open the door and peek into the dark hallway. “Laird?”
“In here,” he replies. I find him slipping his boots back on by the front door. “I’m going to check the generator again.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean against the corner of the kitchen area. “Do you think it’s done for good?”
Mulling the question, he straightens back, plucking his coat from the hook. “It might be out, or it could be a fluke. It’s worth trying to get it started again if I can, but maintaining a cabin isn’t one of my marketable skills.”
I still have no idea what his last name is, much less what he does for a living. He zips his coat and grabs a flashlight from the floor. “Are you okay?”
“I’m good,” I reply, reaching the couch and holding the back of it. “Power outages don’t scare me.”
Testing the flashlight, he asks, “What does?”
“Bears,” I reply with a knowing grin. “Good thing you rescued me.”
“Eh, you didn’t need me.” Grabbing the door, he swings a smirk in my direction. “You had it handled.”
“I can give credit where it’s due. The bed here is a lot more comfortable than the back seat of my car. And warmer. Thank you for letting me stay the night.”
“Hopefully, it stays that way.” Something sparks in his expression.
“I got the fire going, and we have plenty of dry wood.” Rubbing the heel of his shoe on a mat, he keeps his eyes trained on the action.
But then he looks up. “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out by the fire when I return?” He’s quick to add, “If you don’t have other plans, that is. ”
How can I resist the sweet suggestion? “As appealing as it is to sit in a dark room with nothing to do but lie there, I’ll be here when you return.”
“Yeah?” The smile I receive has me glad I’m holding the couch. As if I made his entire day, he nods and pulls the door open. “I’ll see you soon, Poppy.”
“See you soon, Laird.”
I’m given one great look at his handsome face and flashed a smile that feels personal and one the whole world should see. “Bye.” As soon as he leaves, I rush on my jelly knees to the bedroom to freshen up.
Glancing into the mirror, I grab my toiletries and my makeup bag from the top of the dresser and move to the windowsill.
I must work fast with the last bit of day casting a blueish haze.
It's not the most flattering light, but it will do. I had only bothered with the lightest of applications this morning since I didn’t know what I was in for, but now I’m quick to dab a little concealer in the corners of my eyes, swipe on some rose gold eye shadow that I know flatters me in normal circumstances since everything is by memory because of the light I’m quickly losing.
I add a little blush, though I probably didn’t need it since he makes me blush quite a bit. I skip the more involved processes like eyeliner and just add a few coats of mascara before dragging a brush through the mess on my head.
Up or down?
I lift my hair and then let it fall again. Down.
Deodorant and a light spritz of perfume are the final touches.
Although I would have preferred to wear something more flattering, I thought I would be cooking today, so I went with my usual—a T-shirt I don’t mind if it gets ruined by stains and a pair of leggings.
Sometimes I wear jeans if I know I’ll run into the clients.
I wish I could wear one of the cute dresses I stupidly packed for a week in the woods, but it’s too late.
Laird has already seen me today. A lot. If I’m wearing something different, he’ll think I changed clothes for him, and I could ruin it by adding pressure where neither of us needs it.
I pull the shirt toward the light, humiliated that I’m stuck wearing a shirt with a marinara stain on the front. Should I call Marina?
No. It’s fine. It’s fine. I got most of it out with soap. He’s a guy and won’t care anyway. He probably won’t even notice.
“You got a little something.” Laird’s eyes are directed at my chest. “On your shirt.” And now I shall die of embarrassment in front of him. His eyes only reach my chest once before returning to the higher ground of my eyes. Thank God.
I knew I should have changed. If he was going to be staring at my breasts, at least it could have been with a little fanfare to celebrate them. A cute little ruffle trim or a V where the dress dips.
Any change now would be too much in both our faces, so I ask, “Are we drinking tonight?” I sound like someone who buries their troubles at the bottom of a bottle of wine nightly.
Sitting forward as if he’s been called to duty, he asks, “What are you drinking?” Bartender in a former life?
“I brought beer, whiskey, and wine. Those were on the dossier.”
“I don’t remember requesting wine.” Surprise infiltrates his words, but his expression remains neutral.
“No, that’s for me. I brought it just in case.”
Easing into a smile, he chuckles. “In case of?”
“Not all jobs are created equal. I never know what I’m walking into.
A client obsessed with Principle One racing or one who sunbathes in the nude for everyone to see.
I get requests for obscure meats from the jungles of the , which is a no from me or to cook wearing nothing but an apron.
So yeah, I bring wine to have on hand because it’s necessary some days. ”
“You, in nothing but an apron. I didn’t know that was an option.”
I burst out laughing. “It’s not.” Though Laird is making me reconsider my stance on the matter.
“Doesn’t stop some from requesting it anyway.
Call me boring or run-of-the-mill, but I just want to cook innovative foods or even traditional meals with a twist. I like feeding families, impressing industry titans, and sometimes I even work with elusive celebrities. ”
“How did I end up here?” I ask.
He shakes his head, glancing toward the kitchen. Rubbing the back of his neck, he’s unsettled in his composure as if I’ve hit a nerve. “I’m going to have something stronger. What can I get you?” He leaves, causing me to question what I said wrong.
I angle myself to watch him for any signs that might clue me in. Since I’ve already crossed many lines with him, stronger doesn’t sound so bad right now. “Whatever you’re drinking.”
“I didn’t plan the trip, but things were put in place to make it easier for me to agree.”
“Things like me.”
With the bottle of whiskey in his hand, he pauses with his back to me. The light from the fire doesn’t extend that far, so I can’t make out his expression, but I have a feeling it’s not full of the welcoming fuzzies I was given when I first came out here.
“I didn’t mean it—”
“I know,” I say, believing him. I turn back around, keeping my eyes on the fire. “I’m not offended. I’m part of the staff, though, and you keep making me forget that.”
“I prefer it that way,” he says, not missing a beat. “I don’t need staff. I rarely have it at home. If I’m not traveling, I occasionally get my place cleaned because I’m a fucking mess and don’t do a great job at it. Sometimes I pay someone to stock my fridge. Otherwise, I’m on my own.”