by Tawna Fenske
“It was the right move for me at the time,” he says. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve been considering a change.”
“Career change?” I bite my lip. “Do you know what you’d want to do?”
He shakes his head. “Not a clue. That’s scary as hell, to be honest.”
There’s a vulnerability in his eyes that takes my breath away. If I’m not careful, I’ll lose myself in this man’s eyes. “I’ve been volunteering in the career center at the college,” I tell him. “If you want, I could pull up some of the career quizzes we give to students.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “This isn’t an online thing, is it?”
Right. No internet. “I think I might have a printed copy. Or something I’ve downloaded onto my laptop.”
“Steve.”
“Right.” I smile. “Steve can help you out.”
I love that he remembers my appliance names. There were moments I’m not sure Alastair remembered my name, like that time he called me Bridget. That was my first clue something wasn’t right in our relationship.
I glance out the window. The snow is falling harder, the toppled tree’s branches sagging under the weight of the sparkly blanket of white. I wonder if we should go clear off the cars. Or shovel the roof to prevent ice dams. Or—
“Does your family still live around California?” I ask.
He nods, and I wait for the flash of wariness. For him to divert the question back to me. “All of them,” he answers slowly. “My siblings, my parents. Even my grandma who’s still alive.” He smiles, and there’s a flash of vulnerability in his eyes. “Mustard grandma. We’re all within a ten-mile radius of each other.”
“Wow.” Talk about family closeness. “Do any of your siblings do set design?”
Gabe blinks. “What?”
“With you. I wasn’t sure if it was a family business or—”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess we’re all sort of in the business.” He stands up fast, nearly knocking over his chair. “More coffee?”
“I’m good, thanks.” I polish off the last bite of eggs and stand up to wash my plate, but Gabe beats me to it.
“I’ve got it.” He takes the plate from my hands and sets to work scrubbing the pan and all the utensils in the sink. “You can dry.”
“Deal.”
We chat as we tidy up, glancing out the window every now and then to watch the snow piling up. I check my phone once in case there’s a signal, but nope. “I wonder if they’re getting this much snow back in Bend?” I ask.
“Could be.” Gabe’s eyes scan the massive drifts piling up at the edge of the porch. “It’s sure beautiful.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Maybe I should stop worrying about getting out or getting home or getting busy shoveling. So what if we’re stuck here for a day or two? It’s not like Gabe is lousy company. Quite the opposite.
The thought of being all alone with him sends a shiver down my arms that’s not entirely unpleasant. It should be. I’m doing it again, getting wrapped up in the idea of a sexy, smart, attractive guy without really knowing him at all. Taking a deep breath, I order myself to get a grip.
“What’s that about?” he asks.
“What?”
He smiles. “You looked at me for a second like you thought about grabbing that butcher knife behind you and driving it into my spleen.”
I laugh in spite of myself. “I’m really not that violent,” I assure him. “I’m the one who should be afraid of you.”
His eyes darken. Just a little, barely enough to register. But we’re standing close together, so I see it.
“Why do you say that?” he asks softly.
Heat floods my body, but it’s not a rush of danger. It’s warmth from his closeness, from the electricity in his eyes. I try to remember what he just asked me. “I said I should be afraid of you,” I answer. “I’m not, though.”
“Why should you?”
I hesitate. How much should I share? “I just got out of a pretty bad relationship. I’m in kind of a vulnerable place.”
The words sound raw and silly, and I instantly want to take them back. For crying out loud, I just implied he’s liable to pounce on me.
But Gabe just smiles. “I won’t pretend I’m not attracted to you,” he says. “I think that’s kind of obvious.”
A flush creeps into my cheeks, and I force myself to hold it together. “You’re also…not hideous.”
He laughs and reaches for my hand. “Look, I won’t claim to be a good guy. I’m about the furthest thing in the world from a good guy, but I can promise you one thing.”
“What?” I ask, even though I’m dying to ask about the rest of that. Why doesn’t he think he’s a good guy?
“I promise I won’t take advantage of you,” he says. “I won’t pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do, and I won’t ask you questions you don’t want to answer. If anything gets physical between us, I will stop the instant you say stop. I won’t promise anything I can’t promise, but I will treat you with respect and kindness and honor.”
All of that sounds amazing. His words, the sincerity in his eyes, all of it. They’re exactly the words I wished Alastair would have said to me, the intention I wish he’d set.
But it’s because of Alastair that I hear what’s missing.
I won’t lie to you
I’ll let you in.
I’ll be truthful about who I am and what I stand for.
It’s dumb, because who says that? No one, not within twenty-four hours of knowing someone. Not while holding hands with a virtual stranger when you’re trapped in a remote cabin.
Even so, I force myself to push my guard up. To acknowledge the good in what he said while steeling my heart against what wasn’t said. “Thank you,” I tell him. “I can promise you all the same. Kindness and respect and honor—I’m down with that.”
He smiles, and all the uncertainty vanishes from his eyes. “And fresh-brewed coffee. But not ice cream.”
“Can’t have it all.” I smile, grateful he’s still touching me. That we’re connecting on this level. And deep down, grateful we’re stuck here with this time together.
“There’s one more thing,” he says.
“What’s that?”
He grins and everything inside me goes molten and floods straight to my girl parts. “I promise to make you the best damn blanket fort you’ve ever seen.”
I squeeze his hands and smile up into those brown eyes, hopeful I can hold on to my heart. “Deal.”
Chapter 5
Gable
“There.” I pull one last clothespin out of my pocket and hand it to her. “Just tack up that corner and I think we’re done.”
Gretchen stares at me with a look I’m hoping is awe. It’s either that or she’s realized she’s trapped in a cabin with a grown man who builds blanket forts.
Which is true, but I’m hoping that’s a good thing.
“This is incredible.” She pinches the clothespin into place, then sits back on her heels to admire the finished structure. Quilts swoop above us like magic carpets in flight. The floor is lined with couch cushions and another stash of blankets we unearthed from a closet beside the bathroom. There’s even a string of Christmas lights Gretchen found in her car.
As she studies my handiwork, I study her. She’s got her hair tied up again in one of those loopy topknots, which makes my fingers itch to touch it. The flannel overshirt is gone, leaving her in jeans and a white T-shirt I’m positive isn’t meant to be sexy, but is hands down the most mouthwatering piece of clothing I’ve ever seen. Her cheeks are flushed, or maybe that’s the Christmas lights flickering from green to red. When they go blue, her sea glass eyes become lit from within, and my heart balls up tight in my chest.
She turns and smiles at me, and the rest of my insides follow suit. Even my spleen clenches like a warm fist. “You were right,” she says. “This puts my childhood blanket forts to shame.”
“No shame here.” I grin and dump a bag of
Cheetos in a bowl, then set it on the shelf I made from a tray and two hunks of firewood. “It’s a snow day. No feeling guilty about your dissertation or how we should be out shoveling. Everyone deserves a play day.”
She closes her eyes and blows out a sharp breath, making wisps of hair flutter around her face. “I can’t remember the last time I had one.”
“Maybe getting stuck here isn’t such a bad thing.”
“Maybe.” She smiles and flops onto her back on the nest of pillows. It’s all I can do not to stare at her breasts moving under that T-shirt. I start to look away, but she speaks again. “Thank you for this, Gabe. It really is amazing.” Her eyes twinkle as they sweep over the ceiling. “Seriously the coolest blanket fort ever.”
“It’s my proudest achievement.” I’m only half joking as I shove past the voices in my head, reminding me of the litany of career achievements listed on my Wikipedia page.
What would it be like to leave all of that behind?
“Root beer?” I fish a hand into the mixing bowl I’ve filled with fresh snow and pluck out a can of A&W. Gretchen accepts it with a grin.
“Thank you.” She rolls to her side and pops the top, throat moving as she swallows.
I take a sip of my own, hoping to cool my libido. She’s getting over a breakup, and I’m hardly in a position to start anything romantic. We’re friends, that’s all. Friends trapped together in a snowy cabin. We can do this.
I stretch out beside her, careful to keep some distance between us. I heard what she said about feeling vulnerable. About reeling from a bad split. God knows I’m not in a place to go starting anything either.
Still, I can’t help feeling drawn to her. Can’t help noticing the click of electricity as my elbow grazes hers. “I’m glad you had all that laundry stuff in your car,” I tell her. “The clothespins were handy.”
“And the lava lamp.” She reaches over and switches it on, giggling. “For the record, it was a gag gift. I wasn’t even planning to keep it.”
“I’m glad you did.” I’m glad about a lot of things, starting with the fact that we’re both here. I know it’s nuts. I know I should be out shoveling or chopping wood or training courier pigeons to get a message to the outside world. But is there really a rush?
Gretchen takes another sip of root beer. “I didn’t realize how much pressure I’ve been putting on myself,” she says softly. “This dissertation’s been dragging, so I tell myself I just need to work harder. To dig in deeper.”
“And maybe what you really needed was a break?”
“Yeah.” She smiles. “Maybe so. I’m not always awesome at knowing what I need.”
My gut clenches at her words, and I’m not sure if it’s another warning or if I’m reading too much into it. “So you’re researching the foxes, plus your dissertation, plus you mentioned volunteering?”
“Yeah.” Her expression’s mildly sheepish. “Plus, I’m teaching a full load of classes.” She turns her face to look up at the quilts that make our ceiling. “I was doing fine handling it all until the breakup.” She shrugs, offering a weak smile. “I guess I’m still finding my feet. Finding the right balance between school stuff and personal.”
There’s something she’s not saying. Something that just made her forehead crease, her eyes dim just a little. It’s not my place to push, but I wonder if she’d feel better unburdening herself.
“I’m obviously not a college grad,” I offer. “But from where I stand, you’re doing a great job balancing things.”
She laughs and sets her root beer on the shelf. “You’re lying down, so I’m not sure whether to believe you.”
My chest tightens, which is dumb. It’s just an expression, not an indication she knows I’m an asshole liar. When she sits up, I’m half afraid she’s leaving. “Time to color,” she says. “Ready to find your creative muse?”
I roll onto my stomach to grab the Crayola box she hands me. “This is really a thing at the career counseling center?”
“Sort of.” She flips open the crayon box and surveys the 64-pack with built-in sharpener. “We have coloring books instead of magazines in the waiting area. It’s supposed to stimulate creativity.”
I stare down at the book she’s laid on the pillow between us. The cover is a cheerful kaleidoscope of bright flowers and swirls, with a happy little bird swooping across the top.
The Sweary Coloring Book for Adults.
“Your family’s Christmas presents beat the hell out of mine,” I say as she flips it open.
She laughs and flips the page. “This one was from Lily,” she says. “She got one for Bree as a baby shower gift called Mommy’s Fucking Tired.”
“Impressive.” I flip through the pages, admiring the flourishes of leaves and flowers and frolicking puppies. “Cocklump,” I read off. “Bullshit is a nice one with those little bunnies.”
Gretchen turns another page. “I like the hearts and kitties for Fuckwit.”
“Whorebag looks like it requires more artistic talent than I have.”
“Same with Twatwaffle.” Gretchen frowns. “Is that a hedgehog on the Clusterfuck page?”
I peer at the black and white image. “Either that or an aardvark.”
Gretchen flips back to the beginning. “How about Cum dumpster? You can work on one end and I’ll do the other.”
“Deal.”
She turns the book sideways and presses the heel of her hand along the spine to flatten it open. I select a green crayon before grabbing the bowl of Cheetos off the shelf and offering it to Gretchen.
She waves it off. “Pass. I’m more of a sweet tooth snacker.”
“Sorry about Sarah.” I take a handful of Cheetos and set the bowl back on the shelf. “You going to survive without ice cream?”
“Maybe.” She’s using a purple crayon to outline the edge of the R at the end of dumpster, and I get mesmerized watching her long, graceful fingers.
“I brought Oreos, but I’ll need to ration those,” she says. “And I might have to take straight shots of the Hershey’s syrup that was supposed to go on the ice cream.”
I finish coloring the leaves around the edge of the C, then reach for the red crayon. “I might need you to give me the signs of sugar withdrawal and any first aid required.”
“I’ll draw you some instructions.”
We color in silence for a bit, pages lit by the twinkling Christmas lights and the glow of the lava lamp. A log rolls over in the woodstove behind us, and I remind myself to stoke the fire soon.
But for now, I just enjoy the warmth of Gretchen stretched out beside me on the cushions, the sweet scent of her hair. I could get used to this.
“Tell me something, Gabe.”
The seriousness of her tone sends a ripple of panic down my spine.
She knows.
She knows who I am and what I’ve done.
“What’s that?” I manage to keep my voice light, despite the tension crackling up my spine.
“What’s your last name?”
That’s it. She suspects something. Maybe she googled before leaving town.
I glance at her, expecting to see those blue eyes boring into mine. But she’s focused on the page in front of her, coloring like this isn’t the single most crucial question she’s asked me.
“Judson,” I say softly. “My last name is Judson.”
I could stop there. I should stop there.
But part of me wants her to know more. Know the whole me. “Actually, my first name isn’t Gabe. It’s Gable.”
Something in my voice must catch her attention because she looks up from the page.
There’s no trace of suspicion in her eyes. “Gable Judson.” She says it with a lilt that’s almost musical. It’s so different from how TV announcers say my name that I almost don’t recognize it as my own.
“Gable Judson,” she repeats, smiling. “I get it.”
I force myself to hold her gaze. Not to look away, though I urgently want to. “What do you get?�
�
“You said your parents are movie buffs, and you’ve got Lana and Lauren and Marilyn,” she says. “So you must be Gable after Clark Gable.”
My breath comes out in a slow leak. “Yeah,” I murmur. “That’s right.”
“I’ve never seen a Clark Gable movie.” She goes back to coloring, blue crayon tracing the edges of the P. “How about your brothers?”
I lick my lips, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For some of this to ring a bell. My whole family’s been spread across headlines for generations. “Dean,” I say slowly. “That’s my older brother. And Cooper’s younger.”
She frowns, replacing the blue crayon in the box before selecting yellow. “Gary Cooper, right? From the song ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz.’”
“Right.” I can’t believe none of this is ringing a bell. Cooper Judson. Dean Judson. Lauren Judson. Our names have blazed across TV screens since we were babies.
But Gretchen keeps coloring, not alarmed in the least. “Do you prefer Gabe or Gable?”
I hold my breath. Hundreds of times, I’ve corrected reporters.
It’s Gable, not Gabe.
“Gabe,” I tell her. “I like how you say my name.”
She smiles and blows the hair off her forehead. “It’s a fun name to say. Gabe. So strong and unassuming.”
My heart balls up tight again. God, I could love this woman.
She doesn’t even know you. Not the asshole you really are.
“I like the name Gretchen, too. Gretchen—”
“Laslo,” she supplies. “It’s Hungarian.”
“That’s a nice name,” I tell her. “I worked with a guy with the last name Laslo last year.”
“Yeah? Was he a set builder, too?”
He wasn’t. Not even close. He was a spoiled actor with overbleached teeth and a steroid habit.
But what’s one more white lie?
“Yes.” I hate myself instantly. More, I mean. “Actually, I’m thinking of leaving California.” That’s true. At least I can give her some shreds of the real me.
Gretchen looks up and cocks her head. “Where would you go?”
