Cabin Fever Read online

  He uncrosses his arms, sighs, and throws the blanket back off his legs. “Fine. I’ll sleep in there. You take the couch.”

  As he walks past me, I move as far back away from him as I can and hold my breath, not letting it out until he’s at the bedroom door. Earlier I had a whiff of body odor, and normally it would repulse me, but with him, it just makes me feel like he’s been working hard, getting sweaty. Obviously the wine is still working its crazy voodoo on me when I realize that’s turning me on a little.

  “I don’t smell that bad,” he grumbles, opening the door. I guess he noticed me flinching.

  I could say a lot of things right now in response, but I won’t. It’s better if he just goes his way while I go mine. I take the couch and settle Jaws in next to me. He’s finally given up the growling baloney, which is a good thing, because I’m not in the mood for it at all. I already have enough man-garbage to deal with.

  “Do I?” he asks from the darkness of the bedroom. Bed springs squeak.

  “Do you what?” I ask, kind of holding my breath after. This feels like flirting, and I don’t want to be flirting with this dummy. He’s leaving tomorrow and I’ll never see him again.

  “Do I smell that bad?”

  I have a two-second war with myself about how to respond and then the answer flies out of my mouth without any filter.

  “Do bears poop in the woods?” I smother my giggle in the blanket.

  Chapter Fourteen

  WAKING UP IN A CABIN whose temperature has to be near zero is one of the worst things I’ve ever had to do. It’s almost as bad as having to walk over and open the front door to let a dog out and the swirling snow-cold wind in. Jaws bolts for the driveway and disappears into the vast whiteness, hopping like a rabbit to get over the drifts.

  I shut the door and lock it behind him. “Fine. Leave. See if I care.” I can’t keep the sadness from my voice. I thought Jaws and I had bonded over my horrible wine-breath, but I guess not. Fuzzy little punk. He kept my feet warm all night, though. I probably shouldn’t complain about our short-lived relationship.

  I’m in the kitchen, but my eyes keep darting over to the bedroom. The door is half open, but I can’t see him. Jeremy. He slept here last night, and as far as I know, he hasn’t left yet. Surely Jaws would have barked if he’d heard him moving around, right?

  Just in case he is still here, I make enough eggs and bacon for two. He’ll need extra calories to get through the snow to his car, so I add some toast to his plate. Just as I’m finishing up with the buttering part, the bedroom door opens and Jeremy comes out. He stops and stares at me in the kitchen.

  “Hey,” I say, feeling shy. He looks even frumpier than he did last night, but by no means does he look ugly. If anything, he looks better with a bad case of bedhead. How is that possible or fair?

  “Hey.” He takes two steps towards the bathroom.

  “I made breakfast.” I hold up the plate in his direction so he can see the results of my culinary prowess. No one can crisp up a strip of bacon like I can.

  He looks over at me again and then at the plate, his expression going dark. “No thanks.”

  I blink a few times, not sure I understand. “No thanks?”

  “I’m not hungry.” He pushes in the bathroom door and walks inside.

  “How can you not be hungry?”

  The door shuts behind him and soon after the tub water goes on. I never do get an answer to my question.

  Maybe he means he’s not hungry before a bath or shower or whatever he’s doing in there. I get that. My appetite would suck too if I smelled as bad as he does.

  Now that I’ve resolved that mystery, the idea of him naked in the shower comes to mind and gives me chills. I can’t blame it on the temperature in here, especially now that I’m really starting to warm up. He’s probably standing naked as a jay bird in there right now, soap and water running down his skin…

  Dammit. Jeremy’s hot. I might as well just admit that and stop spending so much energy trying to deny it. Even with all that scruff and stink he’s got going on, he’s still way better-looking than a guy has a right to be. He reminds me of Harry Connick, Jr. on a bender, which isn’t making my situation any easier, seeing as how I’ve had a long-standing crush on Harry for most of my adult life, and I have a special weakness for bad boys.

  This must be some kind of crazy test sent by the universe to see how dedicated I am to dragging myself out of this hole I’ve gotten into. Paint and get my life back together, or fall into a deeper pit of despair throwing myself at a hot, bad-boy, raging alcoholic.

  It should be an easy decision, right? So why am I still picturing him naked? And why am I thinking about throwing myself at him? I can’t be that desperate, can I?

  I eat my eggs and bacon even though they’ve lost most of their flavor. Cardboard. They taste like cardboard cutouts of what they’re supposed to be. Paper bacon, sponge eggs. Yuck. No wonder Jeremy didn’t want to eat this crap.

  A sound on the porch and the realization of what it means perks me up a little. Opening the front door, I find Jaws there, his little back covered in snowflakes. He glances up at me before entering. Then he gets busy sniffing the floor, tracking down a scent of something. He only pauses once, to shake the snow from his back and leave it on the floor.

  “You hungry?” I ask him.

  He stops and sits, looking at me expectantly.

  “Here.” I take the rest of my breakfast and put it on the floor for him, plate and all. “Bon appetit. Eggs and bacon, mmm, yummy.”

  Jaws scarfs it down in two seconds and then looks up at me. I swear he’s smiling.

  “The rest is for Jeremy, so you’ll just have to settle for dog food.” I take a scoop from the food bag on the counter and put it onto the plate, and watch as he wolfs that down too. He may be tiny, but he sure has a big tummy.

  I can’t help but smile. There’s something very satisfying about seeing someone enjoy what you’ve made for them. Okay, so it’s not that I made this dog food, but still… I bought it and served it up. At least someone around here appreciates my efforts. I try not to be hurt by the idea that Jeremy doesn’t appreciate my eggs and super-crispy, amazing bacon.

  After I’ve cleaned everything up but Jeremy’s breakfast plate, the bad boy himself comes out of the bathroom. It takes a little extra effort to swallow when I see him standing there in jeans and a fresh sweatshirt. He still has the scruff on his face, but it’s not awful, now that I can imagine it’s clean. It’s probably good he keeps it there, actually. From what I can tell, the face underneath is too handsome. At least this way I can still picture him being a really bad idea for me.

  He lifts his chin at me in greeting. “Morning.”

  “Morning.” I hold up his plate. “Breakfast?”

  He shakes his head and goes into the bedroom.

  I hiss out my offense and mumble to myself. “Not even a ‘No, thank you.’ What a jerk.” I lower the plate to the floor.

  Jaws makes quick work of my offering to Jeremy. I stop to pet him a little, thanking him for being so enthusiastic about my efforts. He doesn’t seem to notice my gratitude, though, too focused on licking the plate clean. His belly bulges out on both sides.

  I’m standing with my back to the main part of the cabin when Jeremy emerges again, as I busy myself sterilizing the plate that just got a tongue bath from Jaws. Ew. I have to remember not to give him food on our plates anymore.

  Dammit, I mean my plates, not our plates. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Why am I imagining Jeremy as a roommate? He’s leaving in less than an hour.

  I lift my gaze to look out the window above the sink. All I can see is white everywhere, and the flakes are still falling. It’s like the universe is conspiring against me getting any painting done. Why? Have I not hit rock bottom yet? Are things going to get worse before they get better?

  “Got any coffee?”

  And so the universe has spoken; not surprisingly, it has the voice of Jeremy Oliver.
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  I bite my tongue to keep my honest response from flying out. When I can trust myself to speak nicely, I finally answer. “Nope.”

  “You don’t drink it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you angry at me for something?”

  “Nope.”

  I hear his footsteps but I’m still not prepared for the moment he shows up at my elbow. The smell of his soap or whatever he used after his shower washes over me and makes me feel faint. Wow. Now I almost wish I hadn’t urged him to get cleaned up. He’s dangerous when he’s not stinky. I’m almost ready to forget he rejected my breakfast.

  “It sure seems like you’re mad.” His voice is soft and kind, smoothing over my rough feelings and making me wish my life was completely different and his was too.

  “Well, I’m not.” I scrub at the plate that’s already been scrubbed enough to remove the outer coating on it.

  “Are you worried about the snow?”

  “No.” I pause the frenetic cleaning for a second and then start again with renewed vigor. “Why would I be? You have a truck.” I can see the bed of it sticking out from behind a pile of snow.

  “Are you serious? Come on, you know I can’t drive in that mess.”

  I drop the plate in the sink and turn sideways to face him. He’s way too close, but I’m not going to be the one to take a step back. Any sign of weakness would be a mistake with him. “You have to.”

  He smiles, his good humor completely disarming. “You want me to get stuck in the snow somewhere and freeze to death? Man, I must have really stunk bad when I came in here last night.”

  I can’t look at him anymore. Not when he’s smiling at me like that. I turn back to face the window and grab the plate again, scrubbing three times faster than I was before. “No, of course I don’t want you to freeze to death. Don’t be ridiculous. I just can’t have you here right now.”

  “Why? You expecting a date or something? Worried he might get jealous seeing me here?”

  I frown at that idea. Me and a guy up here? Ha. That’ll be the day. “No, don’t be ridiculous. I need to paint.” Just thinking of all the painting I’m not doing is frustrating. And my fingers are getting raw with all the scouring I’m doing, but I don’t care. I need this energy to go somewhere out of my body.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll leave you alone.” He backs away, making me feel suddenly bereft. “I’ll spend an hour or so splitting some wood, and we’ll get a fire going. Then you can paint without getting frostbite.”

  Mollified by the idea of warmth and being able to paint with only two layers of clothing on instead of four, I relax my hold on the plate and sponge. I turn on the water to rinse all the soap bubbles away as I respond. “Fine. Just don’t expect me to cater your meals or anything.”

  “Cater my meals?” He laughs, confused.

  Dammit. I’ve exposed my hand, let him know that he hurt my feelings by not eating the eggs I made him. God, could I be any more pitiful? Probably not. I sure hope not.

  “Never mind.” I grab the dishtowel and dry the plate, putting it in the cabinet when I’m done.

  “I don’t expect you to cater my meals,” he says in a softer voice.

  I shrug, like I don’t have a care in the world. Which I don’t, obviously. It was just eggs and bacon. It’s not like I baked a soufflé or anything. “Whatever.”

  “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings by not eating the breakfast you made for me.”

  I turn to face him, my arms crossing over my chest without conscious thought. I hate that I’m that easy to read. “I didn’t make them for you, I just made them.” I shrug again.

  “I actually like bacon and eggs. It’s my favorite breakfast.” His smile holds an apology but his words make no sense.

  “Then why didn’t you eat it?” I hate that my vulnerability is right out there for him to see, but it’s too late to pull it back now.

  He lets out a long sigh and drops his gaze to the floor. “It’s stupid, really.”

  “You prefer beer for breakfast?” The mean comment comes out before I can stop it, and his calm acceptance of my cruelty makes me feel even worse.

  “No. It’s just that my wife used to cook my breakfast every morning, even when she was nine months pregnant and her feet so swollen they wouldn’t fit in her shoes anymore.” He looks up. “When I saw you standing there in the kitchen holding that plate up, I had a flashback, I guess.” He pauses, his voice changing when he speaks again. “She died. Earlier this year.”

  I have a hard time swallowing. It’s impossible not to share the sorrow I see in his expression. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I mean, I heard about your loss — and I’m sorry for that, by the way — I just … didn’t know she cooked you eggs and bacon.”

  His expression is bland. Maybe a bit sad. Maybe angry. It’s impossible to know for sure because he’s a stranger to me — a dark, mysterious, formerly smelly but now way-too-handsome stranger who I need to avoid at all costs. My life is already enough of a mess.

  “And there’s no way you could know, so don’t apologize.” He walks away without another word, grabbing his jacket hanging by the door before he walks out onto the front porch and slams the door shut behind him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  FROM MY SPOT AT THE kitchen window, I can see everything pretty clearly, even though the snow is still falling. Dammit, at this rate, we’ll be snowed in for a week.

  I don’t know where Jeremy found the axe, but within ten minutes of leaving the kitchen, he’s out there swinging that thing around, making wood fly. I hadn’t noticed the large stump under a giant pine tree until he’d brushed it off and started using it as a base for his log-splitting operation.

  A glance at my art supplies brings me nothing but disappointment in my lack of inspiration, so I bundle up and head out the door, Jaws at my heels. Might as well make myself useful.

  Jeremy’s face is red, probably from both the cold and his efforts. Two small piles of split wood lie on either side of the big stump he’s resting the large logs on before he splits them into several smaller pieces. I watch as he balances one he’s already split once on its end and brings the axe down again to make it half its original size. I have to jump back to avoid getting hit by one of the pieces.

  “Get out of the way,” he says, practically growling.

  “I’m here to help.” And I’m feeling stupid because his simple demand has hurt my feelings. Since when have I been such a big marshmallow?

  “You can’t lift this, so go back inside. It’s no help to have you freezing to death.” He rests the axe head on the ground with the handle against his leg as he lifts another big log onto the stump.

  Maybe I should listen to him. Not that I agree that I can’t lift the axe, but there is a very high probability that I’d end up burying it in my shin if I tried to use it, and it is pretty damn cold out here. But I can’t just sit in the house and watch him work, especially when he’s going to be leaving soon and he hasn’t even had breakfast yet. I’ll feel too guilty about kicking him to the curb.

  “I’ll stack the wood, then.” I grab as many split logs as I can and walk back to the porch, placing them neatly in a row just outside the front door.

  “I wouldn’t put the stack so close to the entrance if it were me,” he says, still focused on his work. He swings the axe up behind him and then down onto the log, only getting it stuck halfway in. He jiggles the axe until it releases and then he takes another swing, successfully splitting the stubborn wood. His strength is impressive. I would have given up after the first swing, I’m sure of it. Even with all those clothes on, I can see the muscles it’s taking to do the job. A shiver passes through me, and I’m pretty sure the outside temperature isn’t the inspiration for it.

  “Why not?” I look at the door and my pile. It seems logical to me that we’d want to reach right outside the door and grab a piece of wood instead of walking across the porch and freezing to death for it.

  “Critters,” he says.


  I back away from my pile in a hurry. “Critters? What critters?”

  “Mice mostly. You don’t want them having such easy access to the front door.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Good plan.” I kick the wood a few times before I dare pick it up again. I don’t know what I’m afraid of, though. What mouse is going to hang out in a bunch of snowy logs? Not a very smart one. And if he does hang out there, surly he’ll be frozen solid, so it’s not like he’s going to run up my arm and into my jacket.

  I start a new wood pile at the corner of the cabin anyway, about fifteen feet from the front door, figuring I’d rather risk a cold set of buns rather than have a mouse making a nest in my art supplies or worse, under my bed.

  Jeremy and I work in silence for a good ten minutes or so before I decide I can’t take it anymore. I was never one for the silent treatment. I try to think of something that we both have in common to discuss, but pretty much come up empty.

  “So, when do you think you’ll be leaving?” I ask.

  He rests the axe against his leg and stares at me, his breath coming out in large puffs of white air. “You that anxious to get rid of me?”

  I feel bad for my choice in conversation openers and for thinking how much I need him to be away from here, especially because it’s not for the reasons he thinks. It’s not that I want him gone, it’s just that it’s better for both of us if he leaves before I do something stupid like flirt with him. It’s so very, very tempting when he’s standing out here in the snow with those work boots on, flushed from his hard labor, and wearing just that tight sweatshirt over those broad shoulders. And that scruffy beard… damn.

  I very nearly slap myself to get my mind back on track. Luckily fate intervenes and causes two logs to fall against each other and pinch my finger between them. I yank it out and breathe deeply a bunch of times in rapid succession, trying to will the pain away. It doesn’t work.

  “Holy mother of all angels … ow, shit that hurt.” I shake my finger and dance around a little, but stop when I notice Jeremy’s still waiting for an answer from me. Now I’m just cranky. When did this go so pear-shaped?