by Tawna Fenske
“It would have.” I swallow hard, aware of my hands shaking. “Big tree, small cabin—it’s basic physics.”
Even if a sharp breeze gets credit for changing the course of the tree’s descent, Gabe gets credit for quick thinking. I would have just stood there like a damn lump, too mind-whacked from the kiss to think about getting out of the damn way.
“You didn’t hit your head, did you?” He looks in my eyes like he’s assessing me for a concussion, and my insides go melty at the gold flecks swimming in pools of mahogany. “I tried to cushion you with my arm, but the floor’s pretty hard.”
“No, I’m good.” I rub the back of my head, though I’m positive my dizziness has nothing to do with our landing. “Thank you.”
He nods and glances out the window at the toppled pine, staring it down as though the strength of his gaze might force it upright again.
But it lies there like a defeated giant, branches stretched as though reaching to touch the trunk of my car. My heart’s pounding so hard I’m afraid it might crack my ribs. I’m starting to shake, which must mean the shock’s wearing off.
“Hey.” Gabe slides a hand around my hip and pulls me to him. “It’s okay. We’re safe.”
Somehow that makes me shake harder. I’m afraid I might start crying, but the next sound that slips out is even worse.
“Are you laughing?” Gabe draws back and looks down at me. “I know shock does weird things to people, but—”
“Sorry, I’m okay.” I step away from him, accepting the fact that I’m never going to get my heart rate under control with him touching me. “I can’t believe it missed the cabin.”
“That was crazy. It was headed right for us.” He reaches for the doorknob, and I follow, crossing my fingers no more trees topple.
The snow is already past our ankles as we reach the back of my Subaru. “Damn.” I rub the needles with bare fingers, still shaking. “How did that not crush my car?”
Not that it matters. It’s right behind me, which still means we’re stuck.
Gabe looks at me. “You said you didn’t bring Sally the Chainsaw?”
I shake my head. “Just an axe.”
“And a gun.” It’s his turn for the head shake. “Not that we’re going to blast our way out of here, but I’m impressed you’re so well-prepared.”
I grimace. “Sort of. I was prepared for firewood and intruders. Not a stint as a lumberjack.”
“That’s a pretty big tree.”
I shiver, conscious of how close we came to dying. And also, how close I’m standing to Gabe. He’s like a human furnace, hot and solid and deliciously male.
“We should get back inside,” he says. “In case more trees come down.”
“Right.” I follow him into the cabin, struggling to formulate a plan. “I have snowshoes. I could get back out to the highway and—”
“With trees flopping around out there?”
“Fair point.” I glance out the window. “And this snow’s not letting up. Not ideal conditions for snowshoeing.”
Gabe’s watching me, brown eyes calm and even. My heart ticks up again, but it’s nothing to do with our near-death experience. It’s Gabe, strong and solid and molten eyed beside me.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks softly. “You got kind of a frantic look just then.”
“I’m good.” I swallow hard, willing myself not to get lost in those eyes. Not to pull a repeat performance of what happened with Alastair.
Focus on survival. Not on getting laid.
“How much food do you have?” I ask.
“Enough that we won’t need to go all Donner Party just yet.” He shrugs. “I brought plenty. I was planning on being out here a week.”
“Same.”
Which also means it could be a while until anyone comes looking for us. I stare at the fallen tree and shiver. “So we really are stuck.”
“Looks that way.” Gabe shoves his hands in his pockets. “I guess it could be worse. We’ve got food and shelter and running water. Firewood for heat.”
As I look into Gabe’s brown eyes, my brain skitters toward thoughts of other kinds of heat. “No.”
Gabe blinks. “No what?”
I didn’t mean to say that out loud. “Nothing. It’s just—I’ve made some less-than-awesome decisions.”
“Oookay.” He looks at me a long moment. “Did I speak too soon on the Donner Party thing?”
I laugh and force myself to push all thoughts of Alastair out of my head. “It’s not that. Never mind.” My stomach growls, and I’m grateful for the distraction. “Are you hungry?”
Not waiting for an answer, I move toward the kitchen. Gabe follows. “You don’t have to cook for me again.”
“I know I don’t. But all I had was a granola bar on the drive out. I’m ready for some real breakfast.”
And for some space between Gabe and me. I focus on pawing through the food box I plunked on the counter. That was before the sight of a strange man in bed transformed me from happy homesteader to ninja warrior.
I dig out a can of corned beef hash and the jumbo pack of farm fresh eggs I picked up when I stopped in town to text my brother. How soon until he and James discover the mix-up?
It could be a while. I asked Jon to keep it quiet, not wanting word to get out about the research. Nothing like a sighting of a nearly endangered animal to bring crowds of lookie-loos. Besides, I didn’t want anyone at the university to hear about my solo trip. Not that I expected Alastair to show up, but—
“You really did bring a lot of food.” I plop a cast iron pan on the gas stove and flip through a cupboard, determined to get my mind off my ex. “You’re a fan of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, I see.”
Gabe smiles and moves into the too-small kitchen. “Seemed like the sort of thing a guy should eat while staying in a rustic mountain cabin.”
His expression is almost boyish, and I can’t help smiling back. “My dad used to bring this anytime we’d go camping.”
“I’ve never been camping.”
“Seriously?”
“Nope. Never.” His gaze sweeps the cabin, his expression almost wistful. “This is the closest I’ve come.”
I dump the can of corned beef hash into the pan and give it a stir. “This stuff was my mom’s go-to dish on snow days.” The hash is sizzling now, and I add a generous dose of pepper. “As soon as we’d get the message that school was canceled, she’d make us corned beef hash and eggs before sending us out to play in the snow.”
Gabe’s so quiet behind me that I turn to look. He’s staring at my ass, and when he lifts his gaze, he’s caught somewhere between sheepishness and longing. “I never had snow days,” he says. “Growing up in Southern California—” He trails off there, then shrugs. “Anyway, I missed out on a few things.”
I glance down at his right hand, surprised to see he’s gripping an ax. “Is this revenge for holding you at gunpoint?”
He laughs and hoists it to his shoulder. “I was going to split a little more kindling. I kept it inside last night in case an axe murderer showed up.”
“And forgot his weapon, so he needed to borrow yours?”
He grins, and my insides puddle again. “Nothing more desperate than a weaponless axe murderer.”
He pivots and walks out of the kitchen. A rush of cold skims the back of my neck, and I’m not sure if it’s from the front door opening or from Gabe not being near me anymore. Either way, I keep my eyes on the pan, stirring the hash as it starts to crisp.
But no matter how focused I am on breakfast, I can’t stop thinking about last night’s kiss. And the kiss this morning, the one I initiated.
That was dumb. Really dumb.
In my defense, I thought we were saying goodbye for good. I had every intention of jumping in my car and driving away, never to see Gabe again. In that scenario, it seemed reasonable to claim one more kiss to cement the other in my brain. The first one happened so fast, and I spent the whole night tossing in bed, wondering if
I imagined it. Trying to convince myself it couldn’t possibly have been as mind-bending as I remembered.
I was wrong. If anything, the second time was better. More familiar, more like we recognized each other on some raw, primal level.
This is how you got into trouble before.
I hate that my subconscious has a point. Following my libido instead of my ability to think things through analytically; that’s where I went wrong with Alastair. If I’d taken just a few minutes to research and find out—
“Hey, Gretchen?”
Gabe’s voice jolts me from the memory, and I look down to see the hash smoking on one edge of the pan.
“Yeah?” I call, scraping at the pan.
“Did you leave Sarah sitting on the ground out here?”
My flutter of joy that he remembers the name of my ice cream maker is zapped dead by another emotion. “Oh, crap. I tried to grab it on my first trip in, but my arms were full.”
“I see.” He’s kind enough not to mention the fact that holding him at gunpoint prevented my speedy return for the appliance. “I’m sorry to deliver the news, but I think Sarah was a casualty of the Great Tree Crash of 2020.”
I gasp and drop the spatula. “What?”
Gabe moves solemnly like an officer delivering news of a fallen soldier. He holds out the wreckage of metal and wood and lays it gently on the counter. “Sorry. Maybe we can fix it?”
I stare at what’s left of my ice cream maker. The wooden bucket is reduced to kindling, and the metal canister inside is crushed beyond recognition. It’s amazing Gabe even recognized it as an ice cream maker.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” His voice is soft and low, and I look up to see he’s not smiling at all. He really does mean it.
“Thank you.” I bite my lip. “It’s not a family heirloom or anything. I’ve only had this Sarah a couple years.”
“I see. So Sarahs are replaceable?”
“Sort of.” I glance at the wreckage of this one. “At least it wasn’t Genevieve.”
“Genevieve?”
“My sorbet maker. That was a gift from my late grandmother.” I touch the crushed edge of Sarah’s crank. “Damn.”
“And now you don’t have ice cream.”
The solemnity of Gabe’s voice is a good indication he knows this is the biggest tragedy of all. I turn back to the stove, annoyed to discover the hash smoking again. “Argh.” I snatch the spatula and scrape the edges of the pan. It’s only burned in a few spots, so I stir it around and hope it mixes okay with the unburned stuff. “It’ll just be a little smokier than normal.”
“Perfect,” Gabe says. “It’ll be my introduction to campfire cuisine.”
“Way to look on the bright side.” That, along with the tenderness he showed Sarah, is making my heart melt.
Don’t get all mushy. You hardly know the guy.
But I can’t help stealing looks at him as I finish off the breakfast with a couple over easy eggs while Gabe stacks wood in the living room. I try to recall what he said he does for a living. Set designer or something? It makes sense he’d be good with his hands.
As I carry the plates to the table, Gabe washes up at the kitchen sink.
“Where’d you learn to make fires like that?” I ask. “If you didn’t grow up camping, I mean. Did you have a woodstove at home?”
He smiles and drops into the chair beside me, eyeing the breakfast like a starving man. “Nah, I watched a lot of Survivor and Naked and Afraid.” Picking up his fork, he regards me with an odd look. “Those are reality TV shows.”
“About making fire?” I have actually heard of Survivor, but the other one sounds suspiciously like porn.
He laughs and digs into the food. “About surviving outdoors for prolonged periods. Making fire is one of the most important skills, so I studied up.”
For some reason I find this intensely charming. “How do you study making fire?”
“YouTube videos, mostly.” His grin is completely unselfconscious as he stabs his fork into the center of his egg, making yellow goo ooze out. “My sister has one of those chimenea things—sort of an outdoor fire pit? So I’ve practiced with hers.”
“You’re close with your siblings?”
“Yeah. Very.” He stares down at his plate like he’s deciding something. When he looks up again, there’s an openness in his eyes I’ve never seen before. “We had sort of an unusual upbringing,” he says. “We’re all pretty different, but we’ve always had each other’s backs.”
I wait for him to elaborate. How did they have each other’s backs? And what’s an unusual upbringing? Raised in a commune? Cat-hoarding parents in tinfoil hats?
But Gabe doesn’t offer more. Just stands up to refill both coffee cups before setting one beside me. “How about you?” he asks. “I know you have a big family, but are you close?”
I nod around a mouthful of egg, taking a sip of coffee to wash it down. “Very. Not just with my sisters, but with Jon’s family from Mom’s first marriage.”
“Was that weird?” he asks. “Having one brother be part of such a—” he pauses there, probably trying to come up with a nice word to describe Jon’s father.
“Rich, arrogant billionaire’s collection of spawn?” I supply, grinning so he knows there’s no bitterness behind the words. “Not really. Jon was always more a part of our family than that one. Mostly, I felt sorry for him.”
“How so?”
I shrug and mop a forkful of hash through my eggs. “His dad was such a player. All those wives and a zillion kids with so many different women. It must have been confusing, plus I think the money ended up being more of a burden than a blessing.”
Gabe studies me in silence. It occurs to me that I may have just stepped in it. If he went to fancy prep school with James, he probably grew up with money, too.
“You’re right,” he says before I can apologize for the gaffe. “Sometimes money and fame are more trouble than they’re worth.”
Fame? I don’t recall mentioning that, but Gabe’s still talking. “Anyway, I guess I had a weird childhood. Tell me about snow days. I feel like I missed out.”
I pop the fork in my mouth and chew, considering. “They rarely called off school in Alaska, but we’d get them more often in Washington and Oregon.” I spear another hunk of hash, recalling the breathless winter mornings of my childhood. “We’d get an automated call in the morning, or sometimes the night before if the superintendent made the call early.”
“And it said what—that school was just canceled?”
“Or delayed.” I take a sip of coffee, remembering how my sisters and I would sit in a circle by the fireplace, crossing our fingers for a full day off. “If it got called off, my mom would come up with all kinds of fun things for us to do.”
“Like what?” His eyes are bright, and his voice is like a kid at story time.
A kid with broad shoulders and toned forearms and scruff that’s deliciously scratchy against my cheek.
“Outdoor stuff like making snowmen or having a snowball fight,” I tell him. “Or indoor stuff like obstacle courses and craft projects where we’d make marshmallow catapults. Oh! And blanket forts.” I grin, warm from the memory. “Those were my favorite.”
His eyes are warm and clear, like he’s wallowing in my childhood “That sounds amazing.”
“It was.” I make a mental note to thank my mom the next time we talk. “What about you? I know you didn’t have snow days, but how did you spend sick days or weekend mornings?”
“Cartoons, mostly.” He smiles. “Or movie marathons.”
“Tell me you at least had the blanket forts.”
He laughs and folds his arms over his chest. “I don’t want to brag, but I make a pretty badass blanket fort. My brothers and sisters ceded the duty to me every time.”
For some reason, I find this ridiculously sexy. Then again, he could roll naked in a pile of sawdust and grape jelly and I’d find that sexy.
I hold his gaze, trying
not to melt into those brown eyes. “You’ll have to show me your skills sometime.”
Gabe grins. “Maybe so.” Unfolding his arms, he takes a sip of coffee. “So did you not watch TV at all? After the great Bambi tragedy, I mean?”
I shrug, trying to remember. “Sometimes my sisters would watch cartoons. Not much, though. My mom kept us busy with creative projects or playing outside—things like that.”
“Sounds so healthy.”
“She’s a nurse.” I smile and sip my coffee. “She read a lot of articles about the dangers of too much screen time.”
“Your mom sounds great.”
“She is.” I laugh and swirl a forkful of hash through a puddle of egg goo. “I guess this all sounds a little hippy-dippy when I say it out loud, but I think I turned out okay.”
“You turned out more than okay.”
Oh, God. The low rasp of his voice, the heat in his eyes…I feel myself getting pulled in. The butterflies lying peacefully on the runway in my belly launch into a whirlwind of wings and bright color. I need to get this conversation back on safe ground before I throw myself in his lap.
“What about you?” I’m not totally sure what I’m asking, so I try again. “You said you went to school with James?”
“The last couple years of prep school,” he says. “Also, the first couple years of college.”
“Did you transfer or something?”
He takes another sip from his mug. “Dropped out.”
There’s a shuttering in his expression that tells me I’ve stumbled into another subject he’d rather not discuss. There seem to be a lot of those with Gabe.
But then he surprises me. “I wasn’t cut out for college,” he says. “And there were so many work opportunities that it seemed dumb to stick it out.”
“College isn’t for everyone,” I say. “There’s a pretty cool resurgence of graduates getting into the trades. Plumbing and electrical and construction—things like that with built-in job security.”
I hold my breath, hoping that didn’t sound patronizing. I don’t have a clue how well set design pays, or even if he likes it.
“It was the right move for me at the time,” he says. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve been considering a change.”