5. Barrett
BARRETT
Ithought my cabin was exactly how I wanted it. Quiet. Secluded. Built for my own needs with my own hands. Every board where I wanted it, every tool hanging where it belonged, every morning the same as the one before it. I figured that meant I’d built a good life.
Turns out I didn’t know a damn thing.
Rosalyn is standing in my yard, her hair pulled into a high ponytail, wearing one of my flannel shirts even though it’s massively oversized on her.
Back in the cabin, there’s a mug with lipstick on the kitchen counter.
Her suitcase is sitting beside my bed. I heard her humming to herself while she unpacked this morning.
My cabin has never felt more like home.
“You keep staring at me,” she says, planting the axe upright in the chopping block.
“I’m supervising.”
“You’ve been supervising for ten minutes.”
“You’ve been pretending to chop wood for ten minutes.”
She plants both hands on her hips. “I’m trying.”
“I know.”
“And you’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Little bit.”
She laughs, shakes her head, and picks the axe up again. Last night when our flight came in from Hawaii, she took one deep breath of mountain air, turned in a slow circle to take in the trees, then looked at me and said, “Okay. I get it now.”
I’ve been riding that sentence ever since.
She insisted that if she was getting the full mountain experience, she wanted to earn it. That apparently includes learning to split firewood.
It also apparently includes ignoring every bit of advice I give her.
“Feet farther apart,” I tell her.
“They are apart.”
“They’re city apart.”
She snorts. “Is that an official measurement?”
“It is now.”
She adjusts her stance, tongue caught between her teeth while she concentrates. The sight of it makes me grin before I can stop myself.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t a nothing smile.”
I walk over, stopping close enough that I can smell the scent of my shampoo in her hair.
“Here,” I say, reaching for the handle. “You’ve got too much of your strength in your arms.”
“My arms are doing all the work.”
“That’s the problem.”
She lets me take the axe without protest. I move behind her, guiding her feet apart with the toe of my boot.
“Better.”
“You really are bossy out here.”
“My mountain.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
I chuckle under my breath and step in closer. My hands settle over hers on the handle.
“You use your whole body,” I tell her. “Raise it straight up. Let the weight do most of the work on the way down. You’re guiding it more than forcing it.”
She glances back over her shoulder. “You’ve thought about this before.”
“I’ve split a lot of wood.”
“I meant the teaching part.”
I look down at her. “No.”
She studies me. “I’m your first student?”
“You’re my first anything.”
She doesn’t tease me. Instead, she turns just enough to meet my eyes, and whatever joke she’d been planning disappears.
“Really?” she says softly. “I’m honored.”
Fuck.
“Watch,” I mutter, stepping away before I do something that’ll end this lesson for completely different reasons.
I set another log on the block, raise the axe overhead, and bring it down cleanly. The wood splits in one strike, both pieces falling neatly to either side.
When I look up, Rosalyn isn’t watching the log. She’s watching me.
Very slowly, her gaze travels from my boots to my jeans, then over my arms where my sleeves are rolled to my elbows.
“I think,” she says carefully, “I understand why people read romance novels about mountain men.”
I bark out a laugh. “Is that right?”
She nods with complete seriousness. “I’ve learned something about myself today.”
“What’s that?”
“Watching you chop wood is…extremely distracting.”
I set the axe aside.
“Yeah?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She bites her lip, clearly trying not to smile too broadly. “I was trying to pay attention to your technique.”
“And?”
“I failed.”
I close the distance between us. “You failed?”
“Completely.”
My hand reaches for her waist. “Bad student.”
“The worst.”
“I might have to take you inside for remedial lessons.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
She reaches up, curls her fingers around the front of my shirt, and kisses me before I can say another word.
The wood can wait.
Everything else can too.
The smell of garlic fills the kitchen. Rosalyn stands beside the stove stirring onions in my cast-iron skillet while I slice carrots on the counter.
After disappearing into my bedroom for most of the afternoon, we eventually remembered that people need lunch, and showered and changed into clean clothes.
“I’ve got to admit,” she says, glancing over at me, “I thought mountain men lived on jerky and canned beans.”
“I’ve got canned beans.”
“I knew it.”
“I also know how to cook.”
“I can see that.”
She reaches over to steal a slice of carrot from my cutting board.
I catch her wrist before she gets away. “Thief.”
“I was quality testing.”
“I grew them. They’re good.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles before letting her go. She blinks, visibly caught off guard.
“You keep doing that,” she murmurs.
“Doing what?”
“Being unexpectedly sweet.”
“I kissed your hand.”
“Exactly.”
I shrug. “Felt natural.”
She looks at me for another moment before turning back to the stove, but I catch a smile she can’t quite hide.
We fall into a comfortable rhythm after that. I check on the meat while she stirs the vegetables. We move around each other easily, our bodies coming into contact in ways that feel as natural as breathing.
“So,” I say, drying my hands on a towel. “Tell me about the bartending.”
She leans casually against the counter. “It pays the bills.”
“You enjoy it?”
“Sometimes. I like talking to people. I like hearing their stories. Friday nights can be fun.” She smiles faintly. “But I don’t think it’s forever.”
“What else do you want to do?”
She lets out a thoughtful breath. “I honestly don’t know.”
“You’ve never known?”
“I always thought I’d figure it out by now.”
She reaches for the wooden spoon, absently tracing circles through the vegetables. “I’ve had jobs I liked. Trips I loved. Apartments that felt good for a while. Every time I think I’ve found the thing, another opportunity comes along and I chase that instead.”
“Do you regret it?”
“No.” She answers quickly, then slows. “I just wonder whether I’ve been so busy looking for the next adventure that I forgot to build a home.”
I look around the cabin. “I did exactly the opposite.”
“What do you mean?”
“I built the home first. Never really chased anything after that.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Do you ever get lonely?”
I think about the winters. The long evenings. The silence that never bothered me until now. “I didn’t think I did.”
“And now?”
I meet her eyes. “Now I’ve got something to compare it to.”
She goes quiet. I can almost see the thought settling inside her, turning over, finding its place.
She smiles to break the weight of it. “When I get back home, my friends are never going to believe this trip.”
There it is. When I get back home. The words hit so fucking sharp. I keep my face steady and grab a couple plates from an upper cabinet.
“What’ll you tell them?” I ask.
“That I met a giant mountain man who actually chops wood.”
“I do other exciting things too.”
“Oh?”
“I fix fences.”
She gasps dramatically.
“The glamour.”
“I clean gutters.”
“I don’t know if my heart can take any more.”
I laugh, but the ache stays put. She’s going home.
Of course she is. This trip was just an adventure for her.
A story she’ll tell over drinks. I invited her here because I couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye, but I never actually told her how long I wanted her to stay.
But to her, this is just a few days, maybe a week at most.
I shove that thought down where it belongs. She deserves these days without me getting inside my own damn head.
The food finishes cooking, and we eat at the table beside the front window overlooking the trees. Rosalyn closes her eyes after the first bite.
“This is really good.”
“I told you I could cook.”
“You undersold yourself.”
“I don’t brag.”
“You really don’t.”
She reaches across the table and steals another bite from my plate.
“There you go again,” I say.
“What?”
“Stealing.”
“I prefer ‘sharing.’”
I let her have it. Hell, she can have the whole plate if she wants.
After lunch we carry everything to the sink together. She washes while I dry, and when everything is put away, I lean back against the counter.
“So.”
“So?”
“You’ve had the wood-chopping lesson.”
“I survived.”
“Barely.”
She laughs. “What happens in mountain school next?”
I consider her question. “We could hike up to the overlook.”
“I’d love that.”
“Or I could show you the creek.”
“I definitely want to see the creek.”
“I’ve got an old rope swing down there.”
Her eyes light up. “You have a rope swing?”
“I built it years ago.”
“We’re absolutely doing that.”
I can’t help smiling. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“I want all of it, Barrett.”
“All of what?”
“The mountain. The trails. The creek. Every place that’s important to you.”
For one reckless second, I have the insane urge to drop to one knee.
She kisses me once, soft and unhurried. “I’m going to get ready. Be back in a few.” Then she disappears down the hallway, humming to herself.
I remain standing alone in my kitchen after she’s gone.
I should be careful.
I know that.
Rosalyn talks about home as if it’s waiting for her. She talks about going back, and maybe she should. Maybe it’s what’s best for her.
But if she leaves, this cabin is going to feel empty in a way it never has before.
And that’s going to fucking wreck me.