by Lane Parker
That was low. He was still a jerk.
I folded my arms across my chest. This is ridiculous.
This is why I never should have left the Los Angeles metropolitan area. I was so far out of my element that my usual confidence in my abilities was nearly nonexistent.
“So, now what?” My teeth were grinding against each other.
“So,” he said, stuffing one of his errant loose curls back into confinement, “you can sit your ass right there. I'm going back to work. I’m not on vacation.”
Just like that, he didn’t care about me at all. The guy who had gently bandaged my wound was completely gone, replaced by a darker, more selfish type of man.
His eye color had morphed into a very chilly ice-blue, and they were emotionless.
He paused at the door and pointed to a dresser near the bed. “There are some pants in that bottom drawer. Too big for you, but at least you'll have something.”
The door creaked open and he disappeared past it, letting it slam behind him.
“Wait!”
He didn’t wait.
“You want me to sleep… here?” I mumbled, looking around nervously.
The cabin was all one room, plus something that might be a bathroom. Open kitchen, if by that you meant beat up counters and a rusty stovetop that should have been hidden away. Dusty bookshelves. A lumpy-looking, threadbare couch.
This place was not going on Instagram!
James could live however he wanted to live. I wasn’t judging. Well, not much. It was just kind of funny—he was every bit the mountain fantasy, but this place was nowhere near it.
And what is his work, anyway? I peered through a dusty window and found him in the back yard.
He was bent over a table, strapping on a pair of safety glasses and scratching his beard. He lifted up something large, and metal, and very sharp-looking.
I was really trying to take his word for it that he wasn’t some kind of backwoods killer, but whatever he was holding sure as hell looked like a murder weapon.
I lay back on the bed and sighed before panic hit me. My bag, my stuff. Where is it?
I looked from left to right before I spotted the purple strap of my backpack beside the bed, and the fuzzy pink keychain attached to it. It definitely stood out among all that… brown.
I reached out and pulled my backpack onto the mattress, rifling through it quickly. I found my wallet, my keys, my phone, an extra hoodie, and a pair of shorts. All the important things. Including a few good sheet masks for my face.
Hey, I was trying to relax, after all. Although, I must have been brain dead when I’d tossed them into a hiking backpack.
My phone was half-charged, and I opened the settings to check for wi-fi. I should have known—nothing. Of course there was no signal.
Who lives like this? Does he even have a plug for me to charge my phone?
Does he have electricity? Plumbing?
I let out a frustrated sigh of resignation. It was no use. I really was stuck with the surly asshole who may or may not be a serial killer.
I started to think that maybe if I closed my eyes for a while, I would wake up back in my glossy, clean cabin. I would be in soft bamboo sheets, an essential oil diffuser beside the bed. Then I could wash the day away, use one of those sheet masks, and make one more attempt to enjoy the silence.
There were no bamboo sheets in this cabin. But the bed was comfortably scratchy, and warm. It smelled like fresh pine, like campfires.
Like…him.
I felt worn out, and beaten up, my entire body aching from every rock that had pounded into me during the slide.
I closed my eyes, allowing my mind to rest.
After a few moments, I was asleep.
******
When I woke up, chilly and sore, it was already dark outside.
There were lights on in the cabin. So he does have electricity, small mercies. The lights were dim and soft, small lanterns and lamps. The corners of the cabin were dark.
I could hear water running, so the place obviously had plumbing of some kind. Someone was taking a shower. I really hoped it was James, and not some creepy roommate he failed to mention. Or a bear he keeps as a pet.
I got up slowly and reached for the drawer he told me about. I yanked out a pair of black sweatpants.
These are fine. I am not interested in going through a strange man’s drawers.
I pulled them on, minding my bandages, and pulled the waist cord as tight as it could go. They still sunk to my hips.
I knew James was a… large guy. Tall, and broad. That, I couldn’t miss. Obviously, I hadn’t known precisely how large until now.
It made me more than a little nervous to be cooped up with him, but deep down, I was also thankful. Grateful he had been kind to me during some of the short time we’d spent together. Kind being very relative.
Yes, he was a jerk, but he had helped me. He saved me. He hadn't done anything to me that even hinted at something… truly frightening.
Someone else, someone with nastier intentions and less scruples, could have found me, right?
If there was anyone else out there in the woods.
That thought made me nervous, too.
Pretty isolated, the woman on the radio had said.
Why do you live like this, James? Out here, all alone?
The pressure in my leg stung, but it didn’t make me want to squeal ouch-ouch-help-me. Definitely an improvement.
I pulled the sweatpants up and reached for my hoodie. It was getting a little colder in the cabin now that it was dark.
I limped around, putting most of my weight on my good leg, and took a longer look around the cabin.
Over the old wooden desk with the radio, there was a large map, better than the one I had. I moved closer to look at it.
Clearer routes, even I could see that. The hiking paths were marked with little flags, and handwritten notes. One read: beautiful area - hawk’s nest. Another said: sunset here is unreal. The tags on various areas went on and on, and I had to wonder whether those brief notes on the map had been written while he was first exploring the area.
I noticed that there were lots of notes that just had one short word: wood.
Wood. There was a ton of wood around the cabin. Not just outside—inside, too. Even for a cabin in the middle of the forest, it seemed like a lot.
There were carvings on the desk, on the shelves. The smaller ones were about the length of my forearm. They sat on round bases and stretched and spun upward, in spirals and strange shapes. Smooth curves were polished to a gleam. The woodgrain seemed to match the shape they took.
All of them were unique. Like little totems to some spirit I had never heard of.
A taller version stood in a corner, just shorter than I was, near a bookshelf stuffed with well-read books. It seemed like it was reaching up, like a living thing. Like a tree still growing. The wood seemed to glow, even in the dim light.
I went and rested my hand on it, marveling over the fact that it still felt…alive. Obviously, it was an illusion. It didn’t look like it was still capable of growing, but my heart beat a little faster as I ran my hand over the surface, staring at the way the lines and swirls somehow spoke to me.
It was beautiful. Breathtaking, really.
The door opened behind me and I turned.
James had come out of the shower wearing a faded blue towel wrapped around his waist, and nothing else.
My heart tripped, and I knew I was gawking at him, but I couldn’t look away.
Up close, the guy was stunning. Just as gorgeous as the sculpture.
There was a dusting of dark curls all over his broad chest, and they trailed down his stomach. Water glistened in the soft lines of muscle along his torso. His tanned skin was warm and flushed from the heat of the shower.
His wavy, wet hair dripped onto the round muscles of his shoulders, and his arms flexed as he tried to keep the towel wrapped tight.
Too tight, really, to hide t
he outline of a significant endowment.
I couldn’t look away. Whether he was a jerk, or my hero, or both—whatever he was, he was so damn gorgeous.
His brow furrowed, and for a moment I thought I saw a blush across those model-perfect cheeks.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I, uh… just a habit. I’ll—”
“It’s fine.” I actually squeaked. I forced myself to turn back to his shelves. Oh, how fascinating, what excellent books, I thought, much more interesting than a wet, naked man. The flush on my face was definitely real, and it took a hell of a lot to make me blush.
I heard him shuffle behind me. I was embarrassed to admit, even to myself, that I wanted to remember what he looked like. And that I would think about it later. Much later.
“All right,” he said roughly, his embarrassed tone gone.
I almost didn’t want to turn around, but I did.
He was dressed, though, and that was best for everyone. In another flannel. It had to be the uniform out here.
But the gray sweatpants weren’t doing a much better job than the towel at hiding anything.
I jerked my eyes away from his groin.
For God’s sake, don’t think about that.
Chapter Five
Keeley
James made me dinner. Well, if you could call it that.
Ham sandwiches and beer. I didn’t want to be picky. It was a decent beer, and really anything was welcome at that point.
The sandwiches, though?
Strictly college food.
And that was okay. I was a takeout queen—I could hardly criticize. It had been way too long since I cooked something good. Something for myself. If I could just get a little more time in my day… which was probably impossible.
I looked around at his kitchen while we ate. The counters were clear, the stove looked functional. It was decent enough, the closer I got.
I could work with it, if it came to that. And I really hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but it seemed like I was stuck here.
He sat across from me at his table. It was… rustic, I guess. It looked like he’d stolen it from a picnic area. He chewed his sandwich quietly, looking anywhere but at me.
I figured he probably felt pretty awkward, having someone just land in his lap like this. Especially someone like me. I hadn’t been the most gracious guest so far.
Also, I nearly saw him naked, so there was that, too. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I had to wonder what was going on in his head. Unfortunately, I’d discovered that James wasn’t much of a talker.
I took a swig of beer. “Thanks. For dinner.” I held up what was left of my sandwich.
He shrugged. “I don’t have guests. Or cook. So…” He seemed apologetic. For him, anyway.
“No, it’s good. You don’t cook for yourself?” Out here it seemed like if you didn’t cook, you didn’t get to eat.
The area wasn’t exactly crowded with restaurants.
Forget delivery.
“I just eat when I need to. Don’t really think about it, otherwise.” He took a big bite of his sandwich.
Oh, God. One of those people. Can’t relate. I love my food, even if it is takeout. “I like to cook. I just wish I had more time for it,” I answered wistfully.
He looked at me for a minute, confused, like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t want to say it. “What, uh… why don’t you have time?”
Now I was confused. Was this an attempt at human conversation?
If so, I would take it.
“I work in film production.” When he stared at me blankly, I didn’t know what to do. “Movies and TV.”
He rolled his eyes. “I know what film production is. I just…” He shook his head at me and chuckled. It was like I’d said I jumped on a pogo stick for a living. Which was kind of an apt metaphor.
“Is that weird to you?” I asked.
“No.” He took a long drink and looked at me over the bottle. “Well, yeah, to me it’s weird. Being around so many people. Making fake things all day.”
Now that was a criticism I hadn’t heard in a while. It was always these artsy guys who said it. Working in Hollywood was low art, if it was art at all. They had no idea.
“Fake is pretty subjective,” I replied. “For example, all those novels you have on your shelf are fake. Fiction. It’s all expression. It all elicits feelings. Right?”
He nodded in acknowledgment. “True enough.” There was a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Keep you pretty busy?”
Busy. It was a never-ending parade of demands and dumpster fires. I remembered when it was fun, but that was years ago. “Constantly. I’m pretty sick of it. I guess… I wanted to get away from it for a while.”
He looked at me, his brow tensed. I didn’t know what he was thinking. Part of me didn’t care. I wasn’t here to justify my life to him.
I wasn’t here in his cabin for any reason now, except to wait until I could leave. Shit.
“Sorry you got hurt.” He brushed the long, loose hair back behind his ears. “Doing okay?”
Somehow he had the ability to be human one moment, a grumpy robot the next, and jumped between the two at will.
I liked the human side. Maybe a little too much.
“I am. Thanks.” I smiled at him.
What if the human side just needed a little encouragement?
I wondered what happened to him. Something must have happened. That’s how most of these mountain man stories always go, right? Of course, that’s not the kind of thing you just ask.
He drained the last of his beer, and then went to open the ancient fridge in the corner. “Shit. No more,” he grumbled. He let the door fall shut and turned to face me. “Whiskey?”
“Huh?”
“Do you like whiskey? Do you want some?” That almost-smile was back. Maybe the encouragement was working.
However, I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to drink at the moment. My nerves were still shot, I had no clue where I was, or when I would really get home, and my leg was still throbbing, despite the ibuprofen James had given me before dinner.
“You know, you’re not supposed to drink liquor after beer,” I informed him.
He smirked at me, his eyes dark blue now, and sparkling mischievously. It hadn’t escaped my notice that it looked good on him. “One beer. I think we’ll live.”
That smirk sent a very different throb through me. I hated the fact that I couldn’t stop my physical reaction to this man. One look, and heat flowed between my thighs, and my body hummed with a need that was completely foreign to me.
He turned to one of the cabinets and rummaged through the bottles. I supposed there were worse ways to spend a night than drinking whiskey with a devastatingly attractive man.
It’s not like there was anything else to do.
I’d already concluded that if he was a serial killer, he would have offed me by now.
When he returned with two shot glasses, I took one and sipped it. The whiskey bit at my tongue, sharp and sweet.
James tossed his back in one gulp and smirked again.
Well, I always hated to be outdone. I drained my glass, smacked it down on the table, and shot him a satisfied smile of my own.
I got a laugh out of him. A short, guarded laugh. But I would take it. Even if it did sound rusty, like he hadn’t made that sound in a very long time.
A couple more glasses, and the night did go by faster. We drifted toward the bookshelves, and I ran my fingers over one of the small totems.
“So… you made all these?” There were so many of them, in so many variations, I figured they must be his.
He simply nodded.
I turned one over in my hands, and I could feel him watching me, almost like he was nervous about how I felt about his work.
Honestly, I’d only seen a piece from one of his equals—once. Several years ago. James’s sculptures were superb, and it wasn’t just his technique. It was his ability to make the wood come to l
ife.
I smoothed my hand over the piece I was holding, marveling over the perceived warmth of the carving.
“I saw something like this several years ago at an art exhibit,” I mused aloud. “I’d desperately wanted to buy it, but it was way out of my price range.” I was putting it mildly. The beautiful carving had been tens of thousand of dollars. And when I’d gone back to see it one more time before leaving the exhibit, it had already sold.
“In Los Angeles?” he asked huskily.
I nodded absently. “I wasn’t even allowed to touch it unless I was ready to buy.”
“You can have that one,” he said gruffly. “Touch it all you want.”
I shook my head regretfully. “I can’t take it unless you let me pay for it. It’s a beautiful work of art. How much do you charge for your work?”
He shrugged. “Not an issue since it’s mine to give. Take it. I have a ton of them around, as you can see.”
I carefully put the carving back. “Your work is just as good as that piece I saw at the exhibit,” I replied. “I can’t take it. But thank you for offering.”
“I insist,” he persisted. “Take it when you…go.”
“We’ll see,” I said vaguely, knowing I’d never take something that incredible without paying for it. It was obvious he put his entire soul into his creations. “They’re all amazing. Every sculpture. Tell me about them.”
He scratched the back of his neck, and he almost seemed bashful. The blue of his eyes darkened and glittered when he told me about his process, how he found the shapes in the wood.
James was magnetic when he talked about his craft. I hadn’t even realized my hand was on his arm as I listened to him, until I stumbled. My foot caught on a knot of wood in the floor, and I fell forward, but he was already there to catch me.
His arms wrapped around me and pulled me close. He was warm, and he smelled like his bed—pine and fire and something deeper, wilder. I gripped his arm and looked up at him.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
Lips parted, he stared at me. It felt like he stared into me.
“Better sit down,” he said. His arms still holding me close, he guided me to that old couch in the corner. I limped along beside him and fell onto the cushions.
