“I . . . I think I . . .” I think I might miss you too.
Before I could properly string together the words, Michael quickly stood up. His chair screeched against the floor in his haste, and I lost balance as the support of his body was yanked away. “I shouldn’t have said that, Mallory. I’m sorry. I was out of line.” He ran a hand through his hair and turned around, looking for an escape. There wasn’t one, though. That was the problem.
The thought of him feeling bad for voicing his loneliness broke my heart. I hurried to my feet as well. Rushing to his side, I put my hand on his arm to stop him from searching for a way to flee. “It’s fine, Michael. I was just going to say I’ll miss you too . . . more than I ever thought I would. I regret crashing, but I’ll never regret meeting you. Being here with you . . . it’s been wonderful.”
His gaze snapped to where we were touching. A part of me wanted to pull my hand away, but I held firm. He should feel purposeful human contact; he’d gone far too long without it. Michael swallowed, then slowly slid his eyes up to mine. Maybe it was the alcohol, but my skin tingled everywhere his gaze lingered. When his eyes locked on mine, he opened his mouth, but no words came out. His silence made the room spin with anxious energy.
Feeling closer to him than I’d ever felt before, I slid my hand up his arm, wrapping it around his bicep. I felt his muscles flex, even under his thick shirt, and I instantly remembered how they looked, bare, casually slung over his tub. The visual did surprising things to my attention-starved body—my breath picked up, my heartbeat quickened, my lips parted in anticipation. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to happen, but at the moment, I felt up for anything: a hug, a kiss . . . or maybe more.
“Michael . . . do you . . . ?” Do you feel this energy, too, or am I in this alone? Maybe I was. Maybe the cabin fever had finally driven me over the edge.
Or maybe I wasn’t alone. Michael was still staring at me. His brows bunched, and he drew his bottom lip into his mouth like he was suffering from confliction. If I leaned forward, would he lower his lips to mine? “Do I what?” he murmured, looking lost.
Just when I felt bold enough to lean forward and test my theory, Michael took a step back. Inhaling a deep breath, he shook his head and slapped on a smile. “Do I want to get meat for dinner before it gets dark?” he asked. “Yes, yes I do. Good thinking.”
Grabbing his jacket, he swiftly opened the front door. Chill seeped into the room, instantly killing whatever mood had been building. A shiver went through me as I clutched my elbows to keep warm. “That wasn’t my question,” I muttered, but Michael was already closing the door behind him.
I watched from the window, helpless and embarrassed, as he clipped himself onto the yellow line leading to the shed. The white squall outside swallowed him up seconds later, and he was gone from my sight. Disappointment flooded me, but it was almost instantly replaced with relief. Michael was right to firmly stop the building tension between us, before we both made a mistake. I knew I’d fall for him if anything happened, and I just couldn’t fall for a guy who I’d probably never see again after the snow thawed.
Winter romances weren’t my style, and I had a feeling they weren’t Michael’s either. We needed to be extremely cautious with each other, because despite everything out there that might hurt us—being mauled by a bear, frozen in a river, impaled by a felled tree, or lost for all eternity in the woods—losing our hearts to each other might be the deadliest of all.
Chapter Twelve
The whiteout conditions eventually eased into gentler snowfalls and even a few sunny days, not that the sunlight helped the temperature much. It was cold, damn cold, and Michael and I spent a lot of time warming up by the fire when we weren’t working our butts off to keep surviving. It made me instantly realize just how much I’d taken for granted all of the modern conveniences that took the hardship out of everyday life. Electricity. Running water. Thermostats controlling the heat. Showers. Washing machines. Refrigerators. I made a vow to kiss every appliance I owned when I returned to my quaint little home in a few months.
I was having a really weird dream about marrying a microwave when I was aroused into awareness by the tantalizing smell of the most amazing meat on earth: bacon. My eyes popped open, and I was greeted by the underside of the logs forming the ceiling. Stretching out the kinks in my back, I looked over to the stove, where Michael was standing, tending to the frying pan.
He looked over when he heard me stir. “Good morning,” he said, a warm smile on his face.
“Morning,” I yawned in response. Tossing off my blankets, I gingerly stood from my hard couch bed and walked over to Michael. “Bacon?” I said, glancing into the pan. “I didn’t know you had bacon in the shed.”
Flipping a couple of perfectly browned pieces over, Michael’s grin grew as he said, “I was saving it for a special occasion.”
Intrigued, I asked, “Oh? And what’s the occasion?”
Michael gave me an odd, amused look before returning his attention to the bacon. “It’s Christmas, Mallory.”
“Oh . . . right.” I’d known it was quickly approaching, but without a calendar to help pinpoint the days, the passing of time became a blur. Especially up here, when it was dark more often than it was light.
A thick knot of sadness threatened to take control of my stomach as I thought of my family waking up without me nearby, hoping I was alive but fearing I was dead. I firmly pushed the grief aside. Michael was trying to make today special for me. I wanted to focus on him, on how sweet he was being, and not dwell on the people who were missing me.
“What can I do to help?” I said, throwing on a smile.
“How about some Christmas pancakes to go with our Christmas bacon?” he said, his entire expression loose and easy. It was like for this one day, all his walls were down. I loved seeing the freedom in his eyes.
“I can do pancakes,” I said, practically skipping as I got to work.
After our breakfast, I thanked Michael by offering to do the dishes. “That would be great. It will give me time to finish up your present.”
My jaw nearly dropped at his statement. “Present? I didn’t know we were doing presents. I didn’t get you anything . . . and what could you possibly have gotten for me around here?” There wasn’t exactly a mall close to us.
Michael smirked at me as he finished putting on his boots. “You’ll see.” His face grew more serious as he stood up. “And don’t worry about getting me something. Just having you here has been . . .” He cleared his throat after his voice trailed off, and warmth blossomed in my chest. Having me here was his gift? His loneliness was practically radiating around the room. He shouldn’t keep staying out here by himself. He should go back home . . . once I left.
Like he knew where my mind had taken me, Michael pointed at the door. “I should get going.”
I nodded and watched him leave, but my mind was spinning with questions. And concerns. Would Michael be all right once he was alone again? Granted, he’d been living this way for years, but somehow, things felt different, like it would be harder for him this go-round. While I was so grateful that I’d met him, I felt horrible that I’d caused him to be at all discontented with this solitary life he’d chosen. And I really wanted to know why he’d chosen it, because I still didn’t understand.
When he returned a couple of hours later, I was slowly winning the battle with the always-dirty floor. Not by much, but there were places now that looked like they might be clean, and I was claiming it as a victory.
Michael poked his head in the door, clearly keeping something from view. “Close your eyes,” he told me.
With a sigh, I did what he asked. “This really isn’t fair. I didn’t know we were exchanging gifts. And me being here doesn’t count . . . I hadn’t planned on that.” Michael didn’t say anything about my comment, just continued hauling something into the house. It sounded big and cumbersome, and I was dying to crack my eyes open and steal a glance. I refrained, but it was difficult
.
Finally, I heard the door shut, and Michael said, “Okay, you can look now.”
When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. “Ummm . . . thanks?” It looked like a couple of heavy sheets sewn together with something shoved between them. It kind of reminded me of a cloth beanbag chair, only longer, more rectangular.
Michael laughed, then moved the contraption over to the hard bench I was using as a bed. He started spreading it out over the wooden slab, and I instantly understood. “You made a mattress? For me?”
Smoothing whatever the sheets were stuffed with, Michael nodded. “Yeah. I know from experience that just sitting on that couch hurts after a while; I don’t know how you’ve managed to sleep on it for so long.”
I’d managed because I hadn’t had a choice. It was either the couch or the floor, and at least the couch was relatively clean. From the woodsy scent coming from the sheets, I was beginning to believe they were stuffed with a ton of moss. And I knew from experience that moss was a natural cushion, about the best, most comfortable thing you could find out here. I finally might be able to get the ever-present knot out of my back.
“Michael,” I said, running my hand over the mattress once he was done. “This is . . . the best thing ever. Thank you.”
Michael sighed and rolled his eyes at me, but he smiled the entire time. “You’re welcome, Mallory. Now when I watch you sleep, I won’t feel sympathy pains.”
“You watch me sleep?” I asked, surprised.
His eyes widened, and his expression grew uncomfortable. “Not watch . . . it’s just . . . I can see you from where I’m lying down, and sometimes you fall asleep first, and I’m not tired, and . . .” He held his hands up. “I’m not a crazy stalker or something. I promise.”
His comment made me laugh. “It’s okay. I didn’t think you were either crazy or a stalker. I just didn’t know . . . you noticed.”
A smile softened his face. “I always notice you.” He looked away again, like the words had come from someone else.
“Come on,” I said, easing his discomfort. “We should bring in some wood before it gets dark.”
Clearly grateful for the escape, Michael’s eyes returned to my face. “Good idea.”
It was lightly snowing when we stepped outside, and the untouched woods around us made for a perfect winter wonderland. I had to concede that maybe Michael was right in letting his “yard” remain as intact as possible. It was always a sight to behold when there was fresh snow on the ground; it made me miss my camera.
“I wish I could capture all this,” I murmured as we made our way to the wood stack.
“Capture it?” Michael asked, turning his head my way.
“With my camera,” I said, nodding. “It’s just so beautiful here. I’d love a memento of it, something to help me remember it forever.”
I stopped walking to take it all in, and Michael stopped with me. “Yeah . . . you could always . . . come back? You said once this was an annual trip for you? You could spend a couple weeks here taking your pictures.”
His voice grew softer the longer he talked, and I shifted my gaze to look up at him. The snow was speckling his hat and beard with light white frost, making him seem a natural part of the environment. His eyes were darting everywhere as he waited for me to say something in response to his suggestion. I knew this was another big admission for him—asking me to return, even if it were only for a couple of weeks. I couldn’t deny the appeal, staying in a cabin instead of the woods, having someone nearby to help with chores, or just another set of eyes to look for tracks and keep an ear out for bears. It was definitely an attractive thought.
“I think I’d like that. Thank—” I stopped myself from saying the oft-repeated words and laughed instead.
Michael’s smile widened as he gazed at me, and his eyes were blazing with joy. “Good . . . it’s a date then.” The smile fell from his lips, and his eyes widened in embarrassment. “Not date-date, just . . . it’s a plan.”
I laughed harder at his awkward stumble, and Michael’s smile finally returned. “You have a great laugh,” he told me.
His cheeks flushed with color, and I could tell he was mortified that he’d said that. Not wanting him to feel weird or awkward for complimenting me, I quickly returned his sentiment with one of my own. “You have a great smile.”
He instantly smiled, then studied the ground as a small laugh escaped him. It was adorable, and it made me want to compliment him about everything I liked—his eyes, his strong hands, the solid chin I could just make out under his scruffy beard . . .
It took me a second to realize that our eyes had locked, and we were silently staring at each other while the snow softly fell around us. The minute I became aware of it, my heart started racing, and every inch of me became hyperaware of our proximity. Fearful that he’d break the connection if I moved, I stayed as still as possible.
The chill was beginning to seep inside me, but I didn’t care. I’d get frostbite if it meant Michael didn’t run away, if it meant this buzz between us could keep going. My eyes were the first to break formation as they drifted along his nose to the full lips nestled between the frozen beard and mustache he used as an extra layer of defense from the cold. The puff of my breaths started increasing as his mouth became my sole focus. I nearly gasped in delight when his lips parted and his tongue darted out to run over his bottom one. If I leaned forward, would he press his lips against mine?
I was too scared to move to test my theory. Waiting was working: he hadn’t run yet, hadn’t gotten all awkward and made an excuse to leave. And the breaths escaping his lips were just as quick as mine; he was feeling this too.
Anticipation rose inside me, filling me with need—a need for something, anything to happen. Standing still was no longer an option. I needed to move before I combusted. All I did was angle my head and tilt my chin up, but it was enough to snap Michael out of the spell holding him in place. He let out a long exhale and looked away, toward the cabin. “I . . . uh . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know what . . .”
He stopped speaking as words failed him. Frustration rose in me. I’d wanted him to stop pulling away, to embrace the moment . . . but maybe he was right to cut it off before it began. He was being smart, and I couldn’t blame him for that. “It’s okay . . . I just . . .”
As an awkward tension built between us, I noticed Michael reach down and play with his ring finger like he was twisting a piece of metal that wasn’t there. I knew where it was—in a plastic bag buried deep in one of his bins. “Your ring . . . you’re still used to wearing it, aren’t you? Is that why you kept it?”
I wanted to slap my hand over my mouth, but the words had already been set loose. There was no putting them back now. Michael’s eyes were huge when he snapped his gaze back to mine. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice tight, like the words hurt him.
Wishing I’d just kept my mouth shut and let the awkwardness extinguish the moment between us, I quietly told him the secret I’d been holding on to for far too long. “I found your wedding rings . . . attached to a picture of your wife. She’s very beautiful.” And I can see why you’re not ready to move on from her. Especially with someone who isn’t sticking around.
Michael’s eyes went even larger. “You found . . .” He looked around, then rubbed his bare hands. “We should get the wood before we freeze.”
He took off without a second glance at me, and all I could do was stare in shock at his retreating form. I’d figured he wouldn’t be happy that I’d been snooping, but I hadn’t expected him to passive-aggressively brush it off and ignore me. Following him, I said, “I’m sorry. It was back when I first got here, and I just wanted to know something about the man who’d rescued me. You’re not always forthcoming with information, so I—”
He spun around to face me then; his eyes were heated when they met mine. “So you took matters into your own hands, right? Is that why you asked me if I was married? If it hadn’t worked ou
t? You couldn’t ask me directly about the rings without admitting you were spying on me, so you made sure it came up in conversation?”
I tossed my hands into the air. “Yes, that’s exactly what I did. I’m sorry I went through your stuff, but can you really blame me for wanting to know who I was living with?”
The spark in his eyes died, and his voice dropped. “No, I can’t blame you for that. I get it . . . and it’s fine.”
It didn’t feel fine as I watched him continue walking to the shed to load his arms up with wood, but he was dropping the conversation, so I decided to drop it too. I never should have brought it up anyway.
Things were silent between us as we collected some logs and trudged back to the cabin. All of the beauty I’d admired earlier seemed to be gone now, swept away by my word vomit. I hadn’t meant to admit my faults, hadn’t meant to cause him pain, hadn’t meant to ruin Christmas. As Michael stoked the fire in the stove, I tried to somehow salvage the remainder of the day.
“I really am sorry, Michael. Please don’t be mad at me all night. It’s Christmas.” I smiled at the end like I believed those two words were enough to solve any dilemma. And they should be. Temporarily, at least.
Michael looked over at me on my new ultrasoft mattress and let out a low sigh. After closing up the stove, he walked over to sit beside me. “I’m not mad. It’s just . . .”
“Just what?” I asked, grateful that not only was he still talking to me, it seemed like he wanted to open up to me as well.
“I just . . . it’s hard to think about those rings. Hard to think about what they symbolized . . . what I had. You poked a tender spot is all.” When he looked back at me, his eyes were full of age-old pain.
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