by B. E. Baker
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t want to impose. Trig says you’re making dinner.”
“Oh, it’s done, but if you’re okay with his help, that’s probably easier.”
I nod. “Thank you again. I’m sure it’s weird having a stranger invade your home.”
Brekka glances slyly at Trig. “I was shocked when my brother suggested it. He never brings anyone here. I think he’s afraid of what I might say to them. I don’t filter what I’m thinking.” Her eyes widen purposefully.
Trig leans over and scoops me up again carefully, like I’m the china doll lookalike instead of his sister. “Let’s get you changed.”
“Don’t change her too much,” Brekka says. “I like her the way she is.”
“Very funny,” Trig says. “Always with a little quip.”
“I like her,” I whisper in his ear as he carries me up a stunning, curved, floating staircase that wraps around a piece of blown glass installation art that must have been custom made for this space. “And this cabin, I don’t even have words.” I’m not exaggerating in the slightest. The blend of modern and rustic in the home is staggeringly well done.
“You study design?” Trig’s eyebrows raise.
I duck my head against his collarbone. “Not really. I love watching home makeover shows and look at a lot of magazines. I might even spend an unhealthy amount of time on Zillow, peeking into other people’s houses.”
His chest shakes as he laughs. “Well, my mom and dad have made some ghastly purchases in other locations, but they listened to me and Brekka on this one. We helped design it a decade ago. It’s one of my favorites.”
His words sunk in. One of his favorites. “How many cabins do you have?”
“Cabins?” He looks upward as though he’s counting in his head. “If you mean cabins, just four. But if you meant all vacation homes, sixteen.”
“All your parents?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I have two, Brekka has two, and we own one together. The others are Mom and Dad’s. But we sort of all use them interchangeably. That and the house in Denver. I have my own place downtown, but I still kind of think of Ivy Court as home.”
I have no idea how to respond to that, so I don’t. He bumps a door open with his foot and pushes through. He sets me gently on a thickly cushioned mattress with a bright ivory duvet. The room could have been featured in a Pottery Barn catalog on a page titled Neutrals that Shine.
“I could put you down the hall in a nicer room, but this one’s a lot smaller, which means the bed’s closer to the bathroom.”
“This is perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”
He sets my backpack down next to me and straightens up. “You think you can manage from here?”
I shake my head and stare at him for a moment before saying, “I was hoping you’d strip my ski suit off. It might be awkward. I’m only wearing underwear beneath it.”
His jaw drops satisfyingly.
I can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of my chest then. “I’m kidding, Trig. I’ll manage.”
He gulps and nods quickly. “Right.” He backs up toward the door. “If you shout for me when you’re changed, I can come get you and take you down for dinner.”
I smile at him. He may be a spoiled rich trust fund baby, but I get why Luke likes him. He really does resemble an exuberant puppy dog at his core. I shouldn’t have teased him like that. It was beneath me.
“I really appreciate your help today. You may have bullied me into skiing, but you’ve certainly taken care of me in the aftermath.”
“Math always has been my strong suit.” He closes the door behind him.
I sink back against the fluffy linens. They smell like cotton and lilacs. I close my eyes, relieved for a moment that my knee isn’t throbbing, I’m warm, and I’m safe.
But eventually I have to move. I strip my ski suit off, and I wasn’t lying. I peel it off slowly, shifting as minimally as I can manage to avoid jarring my knee. Eventually I’m sitting in my underwear, staring at the black backpack. I lean forward and pull out my pajamas, which are perfectly respectable. Purple plaid button down top, and plaid pants with a drawstring and pockets.
I really wish I’d brought something nicer. Silk, or maybe even a cute girl cut t-shirt and yoga pants. Anything that didn’t remind me of something my mother would wear. Oh well, nothing I can do about it now. I tug the pants on first, slowly, only banging my bad knee once. The shirt buttons on easily.
Only then do I drag myself into the bathroom, hopping inelegantly on my good leg. I brush my teeth too, for good measure. Not because I plan to kiss Trig again. Because that’s not going to happen. I check my phone to see if I have reception, which of course I don’t. Brekka must have a different service provider than I do.
I hope Paisley’s not worried. It’s not like my mom would worry about me. She doesn’t worry about anything.
I yell. “I’m ready Trig.”
I hear footsteps in the hall, and then the door opens. Trig was almost disgustingly handsome the first time I saw him. Mussed hair, a roguish smile, impeccably dressed, and devil-may-care glint in his eyes. But tonight, in plaid pajama pants and a black t-shirt, I could eat him with a spoon. Like one of those huge serving spoons. I think about putting a dollop of canned whipped cream on top, and then my thoughts really go downhill.
“You okay?” Trig asks. “You’re kind of staring.”
I clear my throat. “You got here really fast is all.”
“I took the room next door to you so I’d be close if you need anything later.”
It’s thoughtful, but a tiny shiver runs up my spine, knowing he’ll be sleeping a few feet away from me. I squish that idea fast. Loving someone just gives you another way to hurt. I terminated that line of thinking years ago.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother. Seriously, you were right, this is embarrassing.”
He turns around slowly. “How about a piggyback ride, then. We can make it a game.”
He can’t see my smile when I lean toward him. He’s careful with my right knee, his hand wrapping under my thigh carefully. My chest tingles where it presses against his back and I’m glad I brushed my teeth, since my breath puffs out right next to his cheek.
This might have been a mistake. It feels much more intimate than having him carry me in his arms.
Before I can protest, he leaps to his feet and shoots through the door, tearing down the hall like a very spry father, bouncing me along like a little kid. He spins around the corner and flies down the stairs, my heart in my throat.
“Slow down,” I say. “I don’t want to break my neck!”
He slams on the brakes and takes the last ten stairs so slowly that I finally thump him on the shoulder. “Idiot man. I didn’t mean you should crawl down.”
He shakes his head and I can tell he’s grinning when he looks back at me. “You just can’t make some women happy, no matter what you do.”
I squeeze his back and can’t help noticing the lean muscle in his shoulders and arms. He may not feel like a Marine, but he’s bulkier than a runner, with defined muscle. I like that he feels solid enough I know he’s not going to break, without looking like an underwear model.
I enjoy the feel of his back under my fingers enough that I’m reluctant to let go when we reach the kitchen, but when I take a good look around, I’m amazed. I’ve never seen a kitchen like this outside of a magazine. The cabinets look like one huge slab of wood that’s been expertly sliced into individual compartments. The counters are a smooth grey marble that is six inches thick, everywhere but on the island. The huge central island counter only has a two-inch thick marble slab, and it sits almost a foot lower than the rest of the kitchen. I haven’t seen rooms with such differing counter heights in any magazines, but the color of the lower marble contrasts well with the high counter and bar across from it.
The cabinets on the back wall of the kitchen are formed the same, seemingly from one slab of wood, but it’s a much darker wood
. The dark outer ring and lighter, lower inner ring were clearly expertly designed. And the cabinetry is so fine that the refrigerator and freezer almost disappear into the wall. The entire home is a study in color—a careful mixture of deep browns, warm golden tones, slate greys and frosty whites that should clash, but thanks to the colors in the stone accent walls, blend seamlessly. Watching such striking styles mix elegantly is freeing, somehow.
The dining table’s actually one huge granite slab that’s raw around the edges. Brekka’s already seated in one of the tall leather dining chairs. I’m still clinging to Trig’s broad shoulders, almost dreamily, like none of this is real and I’m in a storybook.
Brekka’s knowing smile when she glances at us brings me back to reality.
This isn’t a fairy tale, even though Trig really is probably the closest thing to a prince that exists in America.
I will never marry this prince. Happily Ever After has never been my destination, at least not since my huge detour years ago.
“Dinner looks amazing,” I say.
Trig sets me in a chair, arranging my injured knee so it’s up on the chair next to me.
The food really does look phenomenal. Chicken parmesan with fresh marinara sauce if I’m not mistaken, sautéed green beans, spaghetti noodles twisted into a knot and topped with more marinara and parmesan.
“You don’t have any allergies, do you?” Brekka asks from her seat at the head of the table, twisting her napkin between her hands frenetically. “I’m a little late asking that. Sorry.”
I bite my lip. “Actually, I’m gluten free, vegan and I prefer low sodium.”
Brekka’s face falls and I can’t suppress my smile any longer. Not that I should, with as little as I know her.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “No allergies and I love gluten. You?”
She shakes her head. “Trig and I can eat anything. And Trig frequently eats everything.”
“Hey, now. I have standards.”
“No fish sticks,” I say. “I know that one already.”
Brekka glances from Trig to me and back again. “Fish sticks?”
“Never mind,” I say. “Just a dumb joke.”
“You two already have inside jokes?” Brekka picks up her fork. “That’s promising.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not like that. Really. Trig and I just had a business lunch the other day and I mentioned that I love fish sticks.”
Which I actually don’t, but that’s not the point.
“I might have to give them a try then.” Trig takes the seat between Brekka and me. “But I promise you, no matter how delicious they are, they can’t top Brekka’s chicken parm. It’s to die for. I can’t even order this at restaurants anymore, because it’s never as good as hers.”
I pick up my knife and fork with relish and slice off the edge of my chicken. Trig’s assessment is spot on. The chicken’s warm, crunchy on the edges, and tender simultaneously somehow. Not at all chewy. It falls apart in my mouth, and there’s just the right amount of salt in the sauce. No acidic after taste.
“Oh man, you’re right. Although, I’m not sure whether to say thanks or be annoyed.”
“Annoyed?” Brekka asks. “Why?”
I shake my head slowly, solemnly. “What am I going to order at Olive Garden now?”
“Stick with me kid,” Trig says, “and your Olive Garden days may be numbered.”
My heart stutters in my chest. Danger Will Robinson. Danger. I shake my head. “But I love Olive Garden. I don’t want those days to be numbered. And this chicken endangers my future satisfaction. That makes it a liability.”
“Are we still talking about chicken here?” Brekka arches one eyebrow.
“Of course we are.” I gobble the rest of it down.
“Tell me about Luke’s new bride,” Brekka says. “I can’t wait to meet her. I absolutely adore Luke. No one deserves happiness more than he does. And those kids get cuter every time I see them.”
I slurp down a mouthful of noodles. “Mary is. . .” I pause. What can I say? I’ve only been around her four or five times. Which I suppose is four or five more times than these people, and they clearly care about Luke. “Mary’s defining trait is that she cares about her people deeply. She takes care of everyone in her life. When we met, one of the times was on her lunch break, and she had a meeting directly after ours with the head of her new charity.”
“She runs a charity?” Brekka groans. “Don’t tell me she’s one of those people.”
Brekka hates people who are charitable? I think for a moment. She’s mega rich. Maybe she’s opposed to generosity, but I doubt that. Perhaps she hates the Natalies of the world, people who use charity as part of their act to show how great they are. “Do you mean one of the people who pretends to care so everyone thinks she’s amazing?”
Brekka smirks. “I guess that’s what I mean. I didn’t realize quite how cynical I’ve become.”
I shake my head. “Mary’s not a do-gooder for show. She runs a charity for kids at Christmas, kids who have nothing. She substitutes for Santa Claus for them and she’s run something like it since college. She loves everything about her program and pores over the details, if the few moments I saw are any indication.”
Brekka bobs her head back and forth. “That’s admirable, I guess.”
“Luke mentioned she was a recipient of that charity when she was young,” Trig says.
Brekka leans back in her chair. “So she’s a self-made woman, just like Luke.”
“Something like that,” I say, “although not quite on the same magnitude. But she takes care of the people in her life pretty carefully, monetarily and emotionally. Like her little sister. And my best friend Paisley. Mary’s always putting other people first. And if that doesn’t make her sound odd enough. . .she loves doing taxes.”
The horror and disbelief on their faces matches my own.
“Why would anyone…what could she… I don’t even know what to say to that,” Brekka mutters.
“To clarify,” I say, “I don’t think she likes paying them. She likes getting the liability for her clients as low as possible.”
“Still,” Trig says.
I nod. “I know, right?”
“Not to be shallow, but what does she look like?” Brekka asks in a small voice.
“She’s adorable in a ‘girl next door’ kind of way. She has a lovely smile that fills her whole face. And she smiles a lot.”
“What does Paul think about her?” Brekka asks.
“You’ve met Paul?” I ask. “I hear he’s great. I haven’t even seen him yet. I’m supposed to meet him for lunch next week to go over some details for the wedding. I guess I’ll be working with him a lot in the next few months if Vail doesn’t work out. His back yard is our fallback for the reception.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Trig says.
“His back yard?” I ask. “Why? Is it swampy?”
He clears his throat. “I just meant that Paul is super busy right now. He and Luke are launching a huge new tech project—“
“They are?” Brekka asks. “What is it?”
Trig sighs. “It’s confidential, obviously. But if you guys won’t say anything.” He glances at each of us, and I nod right along with Brekka.
Who would I even tell?
“It’s a five pound car battery,” he says. “It will be small and manageable, which means this will be huge.”
Brekka slaps the table and I jump, bumping my knee on the tabletop. “That’s amazing. Paul has talked about that for years. How’d they finally work that out?”
I check out for a minute while the two of them geek out in nerd speak. I poke at my tender knee and shudder.
Trig slaps his forehead. “I forgot to get you ice. I’m such a dunce.” He hops up and jogs from the dining room into the kitchen, opening drawers and banging around until he comes up with a Ziploc bag for me full of little frozen blocks. “Sorry I spaced it.”
I reach up and tug on the
bag. “No big deal, really.”
He doesn’t release it. “It is a big deal. It’s the second letter in RICE.”
“Ah, good old RICE,” Brekka says. “My old friend. I had to rest, ice, compress and elevate almost twice a year for a decade or more.”
“Well, here’s to hoping the ice part helps,” I say. “Because I need to fly home tomorrow.”
“Right, you have that big meeting Monday,” Trig says. “Is that with Paul?”
And we’re back to Paul. “No, that’s not until late in the week, and his secretary hasn’t confirmed. She’s moved it twice already.”
“Then what’s Monday?” Trig asks.
“A recurring thing. I have the same meeting every Monday with a long term event planning client. My bread and butter.”
“That’s right,” Trig says. “I heard you don’t normally do weddings.”
“Is that because brides are just awful?” Brekka asks. “Because I secretly love that show, Bridezilla. Probably because I’ll never. . . Well, anyway. I can imagine it would be horrible dealing with overwrought women who are entirely focused on one day going perfectly.” Her eyes are round and her lips slightly parted.
“Emotions do seem to run high around weddings,” I say, “but that can be true of lots of events, especially family gatherings like reunions. I still plan those.” Why did I say that? I’m opening myself up here like an amateur. I should have agreed, regaled them with a few of my friends’ more absurd bride stories and moved on.
“Then why don’t you plan them?” Trig asks, his eyes curious. “Are you opposed to marriage as an institution? Because that I can understand.”
“Not everyone’s parents are like ours,” Brekka says, a note of reproof in her tone.
“I’m surrounded with successful marriages actually,” I say. “My Aunt and Uncle are going strong after twenty-three years together, and both sets of grandparents. Or well, one set. The other stayed married until death did them part. And my parents were happily married for thirty-two years.”
“Were?” Trig asks. “But not now?”
“My dad passed two Christmases back now. Esophageal cancer.”
“Yikes, I’m sorry to hear that,” Brekka says. “I wish we could just cure cancer already. But if your parents were so happy, you’d think you’d love watching others who have found the same.”
