Once the text was out, there was no turning back. So I spent my weekend researching weather patterns for this time of year in Washington state, then packing accordingly, putting self-waterers into my plants, even though I asked my mom to drop in to check them. I had a particularly problematic Fiddle Leaf Fig that I was worried about, and had put too much work into to let die over the five-day trip. I cooked what was left of the perishables, freezing what I couldn't eat. Growing up with a single mom on a tight budget, I learned not to waste anything. And then I'd watched video after video online about traveling by plane. I'd done it once or twice as a kid, back when we used to travel to visit my grandparents, but back then, I'd had none of the anxiety that came with when to arrive, how to get through security, what to expect.
I liked being prepared. Overly so, if at all possible.
But it was bright and early Monday morning, the sun nothing but a wish and a promise on the horizon, and my mom was waiting for me down in her car, being nice enough to drop me at the airport just so I could avoid having to get a car to drive me on top of everything else.
That was one of the things I appreciated most about my mom. She would push me in some ways, like encouraging me to take this trip—but also ease the transition—like she was doing by driving me.
I grabbed one extra book-a romance, but not one of the ones with the half-naked men or embracing couples on the cover, shoving it into my carry-on, then grabbing my suitcases, and heading down.
My mother had always been lovely. There was no other word that seemed to adequately describe her. She wasn't stunning or stop-you-in-your-tracks beautiful, but there had always been something about her warm brown eyes, her generous mouth prone to smiling, about the honey highlights in her brown hair, in the subtle curves of her thin body. She looked, dressed, and acted as the sweet, caring, loving kindergarten teacher that she was.
Today, she was dressed in a floor-skirting off-white linen skirt with a subtle pattern of birds in a golden brown color that matched her roomy sweater she wore up top.
I didn't get much of my mother's loveliness, her open, animated nature, or her fashion sense. Clearly. Since I was wearing wide-leg black pants and a graphic tee under an oversize white cardigan.
"Dressing in layers was smart," she told me as she helped me get my luggage in the trunk of her hatchback. "You can never tell if you are going to be too hot or too cold on a flight."
Though, to be fair, I was always cold. As was she. It was one of the few traits I had inherited from her.
"You ready?" she asked, slamming the trunk.
"Yes. No. I don't know."
"Hey, but you're doing it. That's the important thing. I think this is the perfect kind of vacation for you. Calm, quiet, with only people you are close with around. It's going to be great. I'm kind of envious. If you like it, maybe we can go back for a vacation together someday. Though, let's face it, neither of us are all that outdoorsy, so if it entails cutting our own firewood or something like that, I think we can find somewhere else just as cozy."
The hour-long ride was full of small talk which was my mother's somewhat obvious attempt to keep my mind from racing in too many directions, that would eventually leave me begging her to turn the car around and take me home instead.
In the end, she got me to the airport, and I managed to get myself through security and into my seat—by the window, thank goodness—without any problems or any more anxiety than I'd already anticipated.
I made the next seven hours slip away by my book, before resorting to daydreaming, thinking about what might be in store for all of us when we got there.
Would we do cheesy trust-falls like I'd seen in the movies? Blindfold each other and be led through the woods in blindness? Would someone set up hundreds of cups filled with liquid on the ground, cover our eyes, and have our teams navigate us through the makeshift minefield?
And after all those trust-building exercises were completed, how would everyone want to spend their time? Would there be group activities? Canoeing on the lake? Long hikes through the woods? Binge-drinking and getting crazy?
I had no idea.
Usually the not-knowing was enough to send me into a tailspin, leaving me fidgety and anxious.
But, I reminded myself as the plane descended, I wasn't going to let my mind run away with itself. This was going to be a fun trip with people I already knew I liked and was comfortable with. Whatever we all ended up doing, I was sure it would be fun. And I could always fake some sort of injury to prevent myself from being dragged to do something truly torturous like group exercise.
I navigated my way through the airport after arriving, getting my bags, and making my way to the car rental area where I picked up the car Fiona had reserved for me.
After I got the car loaded and sat down in the driver's seat, I took my first real, deep breath since I left New Jersey.
The hard part was over.
Judging by my GPS, it was a solid two and a half to two-hour drive, depending on traffic to get from the airport to the cabin. Which gave me just enough time to decompress from the whole flying thing.
Once I was outside of the city where the airport was located, the landscape got more and more rural until all there was to be seen were trees and hills and a narrow two-lane road leading out to the middle of nowhere.
About twenty minutes from the actual destination, my wifi cut out, making me really thankful I had taken a second to glance at all the directions, or else I would be stranded in the woods with no way to reach anyone, just praying someone would come along and find me.
The days were getting shorter, so by the time I found the turnoff- a simple gravel road with a set of reflective markers stationed at each side—the sun had already set low.
I thought I would find it scenic, cozy. Instead, as I drove along, white-knuckling the steering wheel, I felt an odd sort of creepy dread settling upon me.
It only intensified as I got to the cabin, and found no other cars around.
Granted, I had set out early, always preferring to be early rather than late. The others might not have been so keen on getting up at three in the morning to get their days going.
It was fine.
Fine.
There had to be a host or something inside. At least, that was what I was telling myself as I took a deep breath, parking as close to the front walk as possible, and cutting off the engine.
Mentally, I took a second to scan my belongings and the contents of the car, trying to decide if there was anything to use to defend myself on the walk up to the front door. From what, I wasn't sure. Bears, coyotes, crazy mountain people, all toothless gums and stringy hair.
But there was nothing.
"You're being ridiculous," I decided, looking at the lamppost near the edge of the walk. It didn't light the whole thing, but it wasn't a long walkway either. I was just being a baby.
So on that thought, I grabbed my carry-on bag and my rental key, and threw open the car, trying to walk deliberately toward the front door, but breaking into a dead run when there was some sort of rustling in a nearby bush.
I grasped the doorknob with a sort of horror-movie-style desperation, heart lodged so far up my throat I felt like I was choking on it before the knob turned in my hand, and I could throw myself inside.
Into complete and utter darkness.
Chest heaving, my hand groped at the wall to my side, finding a switch, flicking it on, making a hideous antler chandelier brighten above my head.
It was right about then, too, that a new, horrifying thought flashed across my mind.
The door was unlocked.
I could walk right in.
So could anyone else.
You know... like the toothless mountain people I had imagined earlier.
Taking a deep breath, I crept along the front wall, glancing into the room to the left—a spacious dining room with a massive table meant to seat twenty, and sideboards that spanned the entire far wall. There was a doorway that I imagi
ned led to the kitchen.
Steeling my nerves, trying to remind myself how absurd I was being, I moved around the dining room, reaching in to flick on the kitchen light, feeling my chest loosen a bit to find it empty.
It was another oversize space with its light cabinets that matched the log walls, its stainless steel countertops and appliances, and the island that made all other islands feel inferior.
I moved into the kitchen, opening and closing drawers until I found the one I was looking for. The knife drawer. I grabbed the biggest one, hand tightening on the handle.
Overreacting? Yes.
But as the house groaned around me, I decided it was always better to be ridiculous than ambushed and murdered.
And because I had seen more than a few horror movies in my day, I decided not to be the idiot girl who went down into the basement—inexplicably in her underwear—to investigate strange noises.
Nope.
I held onto my phone.
And I sat and waited for someone to rescue me from my neurosis.
The minutes turned into hours, marked by a cuckoo clock somewhere in the house, a sound that would normally have made me smile, but given that I was alone and creeped out, I went ahead and decided it was freaky.
Then I heard it.
Crunching.
Like shoes on the gravel driveway. Followed by silence as, I imagined, those same feet made their way up the front path. Right up to the door I'd stupidly left unlocked behind me.
Taking a deep breath, I stayed exactly where I was, knife raised, waiting as the sound of clunky feet moved through the foyer, then the dining room, following the path of light I'd stupidly left.
Big, male feet.
When I worked at an almost exclusively female company.
I was seconds from darting through the blackened part of the rest of the house, hoping I could make my way outside and into the relative safety of my rental car when the footsteps came into the kitchen.
And there he was.
Our sole male employee.
Rush Rivers.
The best looking man the entire world had to offer, if you asked me, anyway.
Tall and fit in a way that said he definitely hit the gym on occasion, with dark hair and these velvety smooth dark eyes that were framed with impressive lashes, he was in jeans and a black thermal, hair disheveled from travel.
His gaze fell on me, going almost immediately to the knife in my hand, making me drop it as though it was suddenly burning me.
"Little creeped out, huh, Katie?" he asked, giving me that boyish smile that made all the women in the office fawn over him.
Katie.
He was the only person in the whole world who called me Katie.
My hand went to my heart, and I couldn't be sure if it was from the fear or the excitement that filled my body when I was around him. Which was rare. And it had been a while since I'd seen him. Working the night shift, he and I rarely had cause to run across each other.
"I, ah, it's very, you know, empty," I mumbled, words tripping over one another. "And there could have been like... bears or cannibalistic mountain people."
"Cannibalistic mountain people, huh?" he asked, eyes dancing.
"I well, no, I guess not. Since, clearly, they would be toothless."
"Clearly," he agreed, lips tipping up.
"So maybe just... murder-happy. I watch too much true crime," I rushed to add even though I typically didn't, save for the occasional new documentary on Netflix that was too hyped up to ignore.
"It's a little creepy out here," he agreed, shrugging. "Especially if you are alone. I thought there would be a host or something. Someone to show us to our rooms and shit."
"Yeah, um, no. I don't think so anyway."
"Looks like we are the early birds then. Want to give ourselves a tour?" he suggested. "We can pick out the best rooms then," he added, giving me a conspiratorial smirk. "Do you want to grab your knife?" he asked, nodding down to it on the floor, all but forgotten since he turned my mind to mush by, you know, existing. "In case of toothless predators hopping out of closets or something," he added, smiling.
"I, ah, no. It's... I'll just hide behind you," I admitted, making a little laugh rumble out of him, way too sexy a sound in such a creepy place.
"It would be an honor to be a human shield for you, baby," he said. It was a throwaway endearment. From what I could tell, he called everyone by them. Honey. Sweetheart. Babe. It meant nothing.
To him.
My body, though, it had a mind of its own. It damn near melted.
"You alright?" he asked, brows furrowing when, I imagined, I stood there, gap-mouthed, wide-eyed.
"I, ah, yeah. It's just been a long day," I told him, it being partly true.
"Yeah. That ride in was a bitch. Especially without the directions. It was a guessing game most of the way," he said, shrugging. "Come on. Let's check this place out. Then I will brave the threat of bears and cannibals to fetch your bags," he told me, holding an arm out, waiting for me to fall into step beside him.
I'd had more than my fair share of fantasies about Rush Rivers.
Not one of them included him touring a creepy woodland cottage with me.
I had no mental script prepared.
This was going to be a complete and utter disaster.
TWO
Rush
I liked the outdoors.
Some of my favorite parts about being on the run with my siblings, hiding out after jobs, were all the places Kingston had managed to snag for us, usually in the middle of nowhere in rustic cabins while we recharged, planned our next moves.
After settling permanently in Navesink Bank, getting a job, setting up roots, spending time with my ever-growing family, I hadn't had time for things like going to the woods, enjoying the outdoors as much as I once had.
So when I got the invite from Fee about the retreat, I had pounced. Normally, the idea of a work retreat that would likely involve shit like trust-building exercises would have had me rolling my eyes, looking for any possible excuse not to go. But because of the location, and the fact that it was a free trip I was getting paid to go on, I saw no reason to miss out.
Besides, the work shit would likely only take a couple hours out of each day, leaving me free to wander around, enjoy the outdoors.
It was a sweet deal.
Traveling by plane had been a new experience for me. We'd always moved by car. And me, especially, I was the car guy. In particular, I had been the getaway car driver for the others in our old life. So planes had never been a part of my life before.
The next time I took a vacation, I promised myself it would be a road trip of some sort, giving me some much-missed time behind the wheel, seeing sights, going on my own schedule instead of along with one with hundreds of other people.
But, for now, this retreat would do.
I'd pulled up to find one car parked, not being overly surprised. I tended to be someone who got places early. The women I worked with were always perpetually on time or often late, rushing in talking about their kids or their spouses or running errands. Fee didn't exactly run a tight ship about things like that, so it wasn't unusual that the others had chosen to be on later flights to coincide with whatever they had on their schedules for the day.
Me, I always liked being early.
As did whoever had the rental car I parked beside.
Or it was a host or the owner of the lodge.
I was half-surprised to walk in and not be greeted.
But I followed the lights until I found Katie standing there in the kitchen, eyes wide, looking like she was ready to plunge the knife into my heart.
She was maybe the last person I expected to see there.
She'd never been at any of the events around the office. Not the Christmas parties or the times everyone went out for food and drinks.
Bookish, quiet, I figured she wasn't the social sort.
I guess I thought she would have come up with some excuse no
t to be with all of us for five days in the woods, away from all her creature comforts.
But there she was, ready to gut a mountain cannibal in her retro MTV t-shirt and big sweater that swallowed up her whole body.
She was a short and very slight thing, looking damn near breakable most days, with light brown hair, brown eyes, and oversized glasses on her soft-featured face.
I overheard Angela, one of the women at the office, refer to her as "mousy" before, which was a shitty comment both then and now, since it was clearly not meant as a compliment in any way.
One thing I learned about working with women was they could be catty as fuck even when they had no reason to be.
And there was no reason for the name-calling. Katie was cute in a very understated way. Actually, now that I was really looking at her—without her flitting around like she did at the office—it was actually fair to say she was pretty.
It was almost as though she covered up in baggy clothes and big glasses and by never staying still for a few moments as a way to somehow mask that fact about her.
Typically, she was on her way out of the office when I was making my way in, making it so we rarely were around each other for more than a few minutes. Even when we were, though, she was always on the move, always doing something, rarely stopping to talk to anyone that I could see. Then, quietly, saying goodbye so low that only the people nearest to her could hear, then rushing out of the building.
It would be interesting to spend a little time with her actually. We'd worked at the same place for years. I'd maybe only spoken a handful of sentences to her. And she, even fewer to me.
I imagined once everyone else showed up, she would cling to her closer friends, and we wouldn't speak again.
So I was going to go ahead and take advantage of the couple of minutes of privacy.
"Alright," I said, nodding, when we made it into the great room where the walls were decorated with the heads of hunted animals. "You're right," I added, looking over at her. "It's creepy," I concluded.
Pull You In (Rivers Brothers Book 3) Page 2
