4. Chapter 4
Beck
Two weeks of daily texting. Sunny works herself into my routine so seamlessly that checking my phone becomes as automatic as feeding Rex or banking the fire.
Sunny: Attempted blueberry muffins. They look like sad little alien heads but taste amazing. Success or failure?
The muffin looks unfortunate, lumpy and blackened on one side, but something about her pride in the disaster makes me smile before I’m fully awake.
Me: Edible disasters are still victories in my book.
Sunny: This is why we're friends. You appreciate my very low standards for success.
Friends. Right. That’s what this is.
Rex watches me grin at my phone like I’ve lost my mind, which maybe I have. The old Beck would’ve deleted her number after the first night. The old Beck didn’t have time for complications or distractions from his ordered existence.
The new Beck photographs his morning coffee to send to a woman he has never met because she mentioned liking the steam patterns. Who pays attention to steam patterns? But I’m surprising myself for wanting to do things to make her happy.
Me: Coffee's ready. Steam looks like a tree today.
Sunny: Ooh, send a pic! I love your mountain morning updates. Makes me feel less jealous of your peaceful life.
I angle the mug just right to catch the light streaming through the kitchen window. Since when have I cared about lighting? Or take multiple shots of the same cup of coffee to get the best one?
Since Sunny started saying things like, "Your cabin sounds like a dream," and, "I bet the sunrises are incredible up there."
The photo uploads, and her response comes back almost immediately.
Sunny: Gorgeous! Also, your hands are in the shot, and now I'm distracted by your fingers. This isn’t helping my concentration at work.
Heat spreads through my chest. She has been getting bolder with comments like that, little remarks blurring the line between friendly and something else entirely. Something that makes my pulse kick up and my brain go to places it shouldn’t.
"We’re in trouble, boy," I mutter to Rex, but I’m already typing back.
Me: Distracted how?
Three dots appear and disappear several times before she responds.
Sunny: Let's just say I'm having very unprofessional thoughts about what those hands might feel like and leave it at that.
My coffee cup hits the counter harder than intended. Rex's ears perk up at the sound.
The flirting has been escalating for days now. Started innocent enough, comments about my voice when she called to hear what a "mountain man" sounded like. Progressed to compliments about the photos I sent, then observations about my hands, my arms when I sent a picture of fence repairs.
She has a way of making everything sound like an invitation without crossing any lines. Yet.
The phone stays quiet for a while, probably because she has to work, unlike me with my flexible schedule and no boss breathing down my neck.
I use the time to check the fence line, boots crunching through frost-covered pine needles.
The bear hasn’t made another appearance, but I replace two loose boards anyway.
My thoughts drift to her messages, wondering what she’s doing, if she’s thinking about me.
When did I become this person?
When the mail-order brides started flooding the mountain, I stayed far away from any of that nonsense. Lone mountain man all the way for me. Now who knows?
"Got neighbors who married mail-order brides they never met," I tell Rex as we walk the property line, our breath visible in the crisp air. "Thought they were crazy. Now I’m falling for a wrong number. Maybe I’m the crazy one."
Rex gives me a look that says, "Took you long enough to figure it out."
The day flies by and drags all at the same time. It doesn’t help that I keep checking my phone for messages. And little responses are sporadic, but they fuel me.
The sun has set, and I do one last walk around when my phone buzzes just as we circle back toward the cabin. I pull off my work gloves and check the screen.
Sunny: Do you always respond to random women this late? Because I'm noticing a pattern in your response times.
I check the timestamp. 9:43 PM. When did it get so late?
Me: Only the ones who send interesting pictures.
Sunny: Ah, so I have competition? Should I be worried about other women accidentally texting you their personal emergencies?
Me: You're the first wrong number I've gotten in two years. And the most memorable.
Sunny: Most memorable how? Because of my sparkling personality or because of my boobs?
Direct as always. Another thing I appreciate about her, the way she doesn’t dance around subjects or play games.
Me: Both. But mostly because you make me laugh when I didn't think I remembered how.
The dots come and go several times before her response comes, and it’s softer than her usual banter.
Sunny: That makes me happy and sad at the same time. Happy because I love making people laugh. Sad, because it sounds like you haven't had much to laugh about lately.
She isn’t wrong. The past couple of years have been about survival, not joy. Getting through each day, maintaining the cabin, existing without really living. Her messages have become the highlight of days that used to blend together in unremarkable sameness.
I settle into my chair by the fire, Rex curled up at my feet.
Me: Things have been quiet up here.
Sunny: Quiet can be good. But so can laughter. I'm glad I could bring some of that back to your mountain.
Me: What about you? What brings you joy besides tormenting mountain hermits with muffin photos?
Sunny: Music. Really terrible reality TV that I pretend not to watch. The smell of bread baking. Planning my food truck business that may never happen. And texting inappropriate things to men I've never met.
Me: How inappropriate are we talking?
Sunny: Well, right now I'm standing in my kitchen wearing nothing but an apron because I was baking cookies and spilled flour everywhere. And I may have thought about taking a picture to send you, but I figured you've seen enough of my impromptu photography skills.
The image hits me like a punch to the gut. Sunny in her kitchen, flour-dusted and barely covered, thinking about me while she bakes. My grip tightens on the phone.
Me: That's quite an image.
Sunny: Is it? What are you imagining exactly?
This is dangerous territory. The kind of conversation that leads to expectations and complications and all the things I moved up here to avoid. But I cannot seem to stop myself from responding.
Me: You in that apron. Flour in your hair. Wondering what you'd do if I walked into that kitchen right now.
Sunny: Oh. OH. Well now I'm not getting any sleep tonight.
Me: Because of the cookies keeping you awake?
Sunny: Because of thoughts about mountain men in my kitchen doing very un-neighborly things to women in aprons.
The heat that spreads through me has nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth. Everything to do with the images her words create, the way she makes everything sound like a promise.
Me: Sunny.
Sunny: Beck?
Me: You're killing me here.
Sunny: Good killing or bad killing?
Me: The kind that makes me want to drive down this mountain and find out if you taste as sweet as you sound.
The three dots appear immediately, then disappear. Appear again. Disappear. When her response comes, it is just one word.
Sunny: When?
Everything changes. We both know this has moved beyond friendly texting and into something neither of us expected. Something that feels real despite the distance and the circumstances and the fact that we are essentially strangers.
Something that scares me almost as much as it excites me.
Me: Soon.
Sunny: Promise?
Me: Promise.
I stare at the phone long after she says goodnight, wondering what the hell I’m doing and whether I’m about to make the best or worst decision of my life.
Rex settles beside my chair with a heavy sigh, and I scratch behind his ears.
"What do you think, boy? Ready for some company?"
His tail thumps once against the floor, which I’m choosing to interpret as approval.
Because ready or not, everything is about to change.