Cabin Fever (Lost and Found Book 1)

by Elizabeth Lynx

  "Yes! Money. I'm rich once again." She sighed.

  "You're rich? I hadn't noticed." I slid my eyes to the side.

  She slapped my good arm and snorted. You would think someone snorting would be unappealing, but my chest warmed at the sound.

  "Hardy har-har. So what if I'm a little spoiled?"

  "No, the milk two days ago was a little spoiled. You're Imelda Marcos spoiled."

  "I can't believe you said that. I'm not a criminal, and I know for a fact that owning more than one hundred pairs of shoes is tacky."

  I chuckled and she joined me. My father had always warned me against people like her. I was young when we left DC, but I knew what he meant—the way the rich and powerful used each other. Even as a boy, I knew some of the people my dad met weren't good people.

  But Olivia wasn't like that. She was funny and didn't take life or herself too seriously. I loved my father, but his strict thinking made it hard sometimes to enjoy life.

  "What did your sister write?"

  She folded the letter and shoved it into her pocket. "The usual. That she doesn't trust Derrick and that she's worried about me. But the important thing is, she left me my emergency credit card. We switched cards a few years ago. In case either one of us was in trouble, the other could send the card via mail or leave with a consulate."

  "Now you can get a plane ticket and head home." I glanced over to the front counter, wondering what was taking our food so long.

  Everything was set. She had money. Her sister knew something was wrong and left her everything she needed. All Olivia had to do was take me home and call a cab. Nothing was stopping her.

  Why had it felt sudden? It'd been eleven days.

  "Who's going to help you with the sheep?"

  Luckily, I didn't have to answer that as Debbie came back with our food. She placed the dishes in front of us and my stomach growled at the aroma. Breaking an arm could really make a man hungry.

  "You haven't answered me, Carter. Who's going to help with the farm?" Olivia lifted the cocoa to her lips. I watched her eyes roll back into her head and a whipped cream mustache appeared above her mouth.

  I wanted to lick it off so badly.

  "I don't need help. I'll be fine. You worry about getting a plane ticket. It's a good thing the phone lines are back up. You were able to call for an ambulance for me this morning, and now you can call the airport."

  Cutting into the pancake with my fork, I shoved a large piece into my mouth.

  "I think before I go, I'll contact someone to help you. Who should I call?" She stabbed a piece of melon with her fork, lifting the green fruit to her lips.

  "It's okay. I got this."

  Just before she bit down on her melon, Olivia pulled the fork away. "What do you mean you got this? Carter, the nurse said someone had to help you on the farm. Most of the time I'm sure you can handle things alone, but this isn't one of those times. This is when you need your friends and family to help." She held up her black credit card. "I have Bea to help me. She knew something was wrong because we're twins, and it's a twins thing. But my point is, when someone knows you—like really understands you—they are willing to reach out to help."

  "He's dead," I said and took a bite of the sausage.

  "Who?"

  "My dad. He knew me. He helped me, and I repaid him by not being there for him when he died. I'm sure there are many wonderful people in this area who would be great as friends, but I'm the one who wouldn't be helpful. What happens when they need me? I may be good at farming and making potatoes, but being someone that others can depend on . . . I wouldn't know the first thing about that."

  She sat back staring at me. I'd seen that same look on my father's face many times—disappointment. I was a grown man who didn't even understand the basic concept of friendship.

  "I depended on you for over a week."

  "That was different. We were stuck together."

  She nodded and turned her head toward the window. I watched as Olivia tilted up her head, warming her face. "I was also hurt when you found me. You could have left me on the floor. A stranger broke into your home and stole your food. You didn't have to help me." Olivia turned to face me with a soft smile.

  "I couldn't do that. Of course, I'm going to help someone in need." I shrugged at the obviousness of it all.

  "But you just said you weren't good at having people depend on you. A person in a life-threatening situation depended on you for help. It seems to me that you know how to be my friend."

  I turned my full attention to her. She reached over, tickling the tips of my fingers on my good arm. "I'll help you. In return, you can teach me about the farm."

  I straightened, not understanding what I heard. "But you have to go home. Your family . . . Don't you have a job?"

  Olivia took a deep breath and folded her arms on the table. "My family won't miss me. My parents, my brothers, my sisters, they have their own lives. Bea will miss me, but she'll understand. And do you really think I have a job? Remember, I'm Imelda Marcos spoiled."

  It was wrong what I was doing, but something in my heart was happy. I was being selfish and almost said no, but then she brought up the sheep.

  "The sheep and Kitty need someone to take care of them. You'll only be able to do so much. If you won't think of yourself, think of them."

  Reluctantly, selfishly, and with a tiny curve of my lips, I nodded. "Okay. But only until the doctor gives me the all clear."

  She held up her finger. "Pinky swear."

  "And you called me a child." I twisted my finger to hers and we shook on it.

  "No, you think I called you a kid. I was actually calling you a—"

  "Never mind. Let's get back to eating. I'm hungry."

  She nodded and pointed to my hot chocolate and wouldn't stop staring until I drank some. I played it off as if it wasn't that great, but she was right—hot cocoa on a cold day was amazing.

  When the bill came, she tried to pay, but I refused. I snuck up to the cash register with the check before she realized that was how to pay here at Fire and Ice.

  As she pretended to be offended by not letting her pay, I realized it felt good to have a friend.

  ELEVEN

  Olivia

  "YOU WANT MONEY?" I stared at Carter as we stood in line.

  He did his usual shrug when he didn't want to discuss something.

  "How do you think I pay for groceries? Or gas for the truck?" he asked, staring straight ahead.

  After having lunch at the diner, he mentioned that he needed to stop by the bank. I offered to drive him, but he pointed to the bank right across the street. He fell silent as we walked, which hadn't surprised me. It gave me a good opportunity to study the town.

  It was cute, like something out of a movie. Snow heaps where people had shoveled bracketed the salt-covered sidewalk. Every twenty feet a brown tree free of leaves and dusted white separated the sidewalk from the street.

  The row of shops and businesses looked like they had been here for two hundred years. Everything was brick with white-framed windows. Green wreaths were everywhere. Over shop doors, in display windows and a few places had them in each window of each floor.

  It made me wish to come back here for Christmas.

  "I assumed you had a credit card like everyone else."

  "My father warned me that credit cards made it too easy to spend money. A person would think twice about buying something if he had to go to the bank to get the cash for it."

  "Your dad was full of helpful advice." I rolled my eyes and was thankful that Carter couldn't see me.

  I may not have known Carter very long, but I picked up on his admiration for his father. While I never met the man, there were some things he told Carter bordered on conspiracy theory nut talk.

  Two days ago, as Carter was cooking breakfast, he mentioned that his father explained to him the less the government knew about him, the better. I asked if he paid taxes. He said he did . . . with a money order—he never used check
s.

  With Carter not having friends, his father passed, and the crazy ideas he had been taught growing up, I worried about him.

  "He was the best father a kid could have."

  The last person in front of us stepped up to the teller. I watched them interact, hoping it wouldn't take long. That cocoa was going right through me.

  "Do you know where the restroom is around here?"

  Carter pointed toward a hallway at the end of the teller window.

  "I'll be right back," I said and made my way toward the hall. The entire back was dark wood paneling. I wondered if the designer was attempting to create a retro feel or if the bank hadn't been updated since the 1970s. I assumed it was the latter.

  Once I had found the bathroom, emptied my bladder, and washed my hands, I took a look at myself in the mirror. For the first time in almost two weeks, I saw what everyone else was seeing—a haggard twenty-eight-year-old with tangled blond hair in a dirty pink coat.

  I missed my hair serum and my cozy cashmere sweater—my signature winter piece. I looked ridiculous. Damn Carter's bathroom mirror for being so faded; I couldn't tell if my hair needed to be combed.

  Carter needed my help, so I had to stay with him. Maybe when I called Bea, I could ask her to ship me my things. Oh, and my faux Ermine throw. It's the softest, warmest blanket in the world. It had better be for what I paid for it.

  I gasped. Never in my life had I concerned myself with how much something cost. I didn't even look at the price tag when I was in that quaint shop in Milan. The only reason I knew how much it cost was because my maid, Ellen, couldn't find scissors to remove the tag. I gave her my Gucci nail clippers and she finally got the tag off.

  This wasn't me. Being trapped in a cabin all this time was screwing with my head. The longer I stayed with Carter, the more I worried about paying him back. I had stayed over at friend's villas or chalets during vacations, and never had I concerned myself with paying for anything. I was the guest. And when I invited them to vacation at my parents' chateau in France or the beach house in Maui, I made sure they were taken care of.

  Carter was different, I guess. He didn't have the financial security that my friends and I had. Every cent was accounted for. Maybe his father's crazy advice wasn't so silly after all.

  I stepped out of the bathroom and heard a man mentioning Carter's name.

  "Carter Fitzwilliam is here?" the man said, and I stepped closer toward the sliver in the doorway across from the restrooms.

  A woman's voice filtered through the door. "Yes. He wants to remove five hundred dollars."

  Oh, no. I bet he doesn't have enough money. That must be the teller talking to her manager. I had a credit card if Carter needed something—I would make sure he had it.

  "That's it? Did you mention the paperwork?" the man asked.

  "I have, Mr. Goode. Perhaps if you speak with him—"

  "No. That's not possible. Uh, I have to . . . um, take a call. I mean, I have a phone meeting," the man stuttered and coughed.

  "Okay, then I'll give him what he asked for and do my best to get him to sign the paperwork."

  My eyes widened as I heard the woman move closer to the door. I scurried back into the lobby and found Carter standing in front of the bank partition with no one helping him.

  "Where's the bank person?" I smiled, slightly out of breath.

  "She's a teller, and she went to the back." Carter lowered his voice and leaned toward me. "I asked for a lot of money. I think they had to go into the safe to get it."

  I bit my bottom lip and nodded.

  "Well, Mr. Fitzwilliam, here is your money." The woman appeared, and I recognized her voice as the same one I heard in the back. "Now, if I could just get you to sign the paperwork for your father's account."

  "No. I tell you every time I come in here, I will not sign it."

  The woman's red-painted lips thinned. "But it's nothing serious. Your father left his money to you. Therefore, his account needs to be signed over—"

  Carter slapped the tan laminate counter. "You just want to take a cut. My father gave blood, sweat, and tears for that money. Don't think for a second that you're getting any of it."

  I took a step back as Carter grabbed the yellow envelope of cash and walked off. His strapping body swift and out the door before I could catch up.

  "What was that about?" I could barely get the words out as I ran to his side.

  "None of your business. We got what you wanted—your hot chocolate—and I got enough money to last me a while. Let's head home. Who knows what intruders have rummaged through my things since we've been gone."

  He walked up to the driver's side of his truck and awkwardly searched his pockets one-handed for his keys.

  I held them up. "Searching for these?"

  "Yes, now hand them over."

  "I think hand is the important word in that statement. As in you have only one hand to drive . . ."

  Carter gritted his teeth and stared at the snow-packed street. If he were a timed bomb, I'd say he was at five and about to count down to four.

  "I can drive," he spit out.

  Whatever was on that paperwork from the bank didn't sit well with Carter. The whole day had been one bad experience after the other, and it was getting to him. For a hermit, he's done enough socializing for the day. I needed to get him home as soon as possible. But to do that, I had to get him to let me drive.

  "No, Carter, you can't. Not yet. You are in pain. Whatever they gave you at the hospital might still be affecting you. Your left arm is broken. The doctor advised against it until the cast comes off in a few weeks."

  I noticed too late that what I said didn't help. If anything, it made it worse. His chest rose up and down rapidly. I worried for a moment that he might blow up. Like, actually blow up. I had heard of people spontaneously catching fire but never heard of someone physically self-destructing in seconds. But with how Carter was acting, I wouldn't be surprised if it happened.

  "Ms. Love, it's nice to see you. How do you like the town?" I turned to find Dr. Ferguson walking toward the truck. His gaze darted to Carter and his smile quickly turned into a frown. "Ah, Carter, how's that arm?"

  Carter hadn't been pleasant to the doctor in the hospital, and I suspected he would be less than gracious now.

  "I'm right handed," Carter yelled.

  The doctor stopped in his tracks and I stared at Carter. He was exploding. Luckily, it didn't involve blood and guts flying everywhere. Just a man next to his truck, turning the same color as his truck, spouting out nonsense.

  "That's not what I asked." Dr. Ferguson slid his eyes to me before turning them back to Carter.

  "You know what I didn't ask for? People! Or a broken arm. Or my father to die." Carter waved his good hand in the air.

  "Carter, why don't we head home? You want to check on the sheep, and I'm sure Kitty is hungry," I said in hopes of calming him.

  "I can stop by tomorrow. Let you rest a bit before giving them a check-up." The vet nodded and began to back away.

  Carter didn't say a word. He stared at his fist as it clenched the envelope. I went up to him, concerned he'd been pushed too far, and placed my hand on his good arm. His breathing slowed and I risked something that I feared might not work.

  I took a step forward, placed my arms around him, and gave him a hug. No words, only an embrace. His body tensed and I feared I'd gone too far. But then I felt his hand on my back and he squeezed me close.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered, his body shuddered as he released a breath. He was warm and everything felt right. That was the thing about Carter—he was gruff and stubborn and had weird ideas on life, but there was something about his touch that made everything bad melt away.

  "It's all a part of your hermit image. I understand. Can't have the town folk thinking you're social or they might start hitting you up to volunteer at the annual apple festival."

  He pulled back to gaze down at me. "What apple festival?"

  I smiled. "See.
You don't even know about it. The hermit act of yours works wonders."

  His right hand lifted, and he brushed some strands of hair from my cheek. "You're a beautiful person, Olivia. Don't ever change." He pulled me back into the embrace. Then he whispered something that sounded like, "Don't let me destroy you, too."

  TWELVE

  Carter

  "LIKE THIS?" OLIVIA bent over, the new jeans she bought yesterday were glued to her rear like maple syrup on a pancake. I stood behind her watching her cheeks shift behind the blue fabric.

  "Carter? Are you watching?" she spoke again, but I barely heard as all the blood was rushing to my dick. My poor, sore dick. It had been pulled a lot over the past two weeks, almost as much as when I was in my teens.

  If only I could use a pair of sweet, pouty lips instead.

  "If I don't learn how to do this, the sheep might get cut."

  The buzzing sound began, and I switched my gaze to Olivia's hand. She was attempting to shear a sheep. Not one of my sheep, not even a real ewe. It was a practice sheep my dad had made to teach me when I was young.

  Even with being only several days away from March, it was still too cold for shearing. But I promised Olivia yesterday that I'd teach her all about raising sheep.

  "You're going to cut one anyway," I said as my eyes flipped between the shears and her butt.

  "Okay, Truck Butt, show me what I need to do."

  Her new nickname for me. I was no longer Mr. Grumpington. After she noticed my license plate said TRK BUTT, there was no going back.

  After the meltdown I had following the bank two days ago, she noticed the tank was low driving home. We stopped to get gas, and she insisted on filling the tank herself, which turned into me walking her through the entire process. She performed a bizarre dance after and told me that would be going on her list of talents.

  Walking back to the driver's side, she glanced at the plate. There were many jokes about my truck butt on the ride home, all of them from her.

  My dad said I would regret that custom plate, but I was eighteen and thought it was funny. He was right . . .