by Elaria Ride
I groan and lather up, pushing those thoughts as far back as I can. This is definitely the most awkward situation of my entire career, something I’ve never prepped for even once. One thing is clear though: I need to remain focused on the general mission.
And what’s that general mission? To get Autumn the hell out of here. Without completely ruining either of our careers.
I set my jaw in resolution and make quick work of soaping up. I ignore the pounding in my cock that’s been reawakened at the mere thought of Autumn — which is fucking pathetic, I know. Still, I don’t feel comfortable relieving any of this. Not now. Not with her so damn close in the other room.
With a final shake of my head, I turn off the water and step out of the claw-foot tub. It hasn’t been my most relaxing shower, but Autumn is a much greater concern.
I towel off, and then take a glimpse down at the clothes on the floor, the ones I’ve just worn into the bathroom. Oh. I make a face. They reek of the gas we’d cleaned up out on the overlook.
But of course, they’re the only clothes I brought into the shower. And now there’s a girl — a girl I like — asleep in my bed. Fabulous.
I groan, massaging my eyes with the base of my palms. Has there ever been a greater moron on the face of the earth? Doubtful. But I really don’t have a choice. I don’t want the smell of gas to linger on my skin, not now that I’ve washed it off. I’ll just have to go out there (in a towel) and hope that Autumn’s not awake yet. I wouldn’t dream of making her feel pressured or uncomfortable, not when I’ve already breached every aspect of professionalism I could…
So with newfound determination, I tightly hold my towel over my waist, push open the door to the bathroom, and stride into the living room. Be quick, I tell myself, gritting my teeth. Get in and out. Grab clothes. Go.
Because I’m an idiot, it only takes a few seconds for this plan to come crashing down in front of my eyes.
First, because Autumn is awake… and second, because just as I notice her eyes fluttering open, she slams them shut.
I set my jaw. Great. I’ve already terrified her, and the blizzard has just begun.
8
Autumn
.Upon blearily blinking open my eyes and trying to get the world into focus, I notice three things.
First, I’m half-naked. Or at least I think I am; my bra strap is digging into my back and grating uncomfortably against whatever fabric I’m lying on. The thought of actually checking is too much.
I squirm a bit… aaaaaand yep. My panties and bra are definitely not a good match for… flannel? Is that what this is? Ugh. I’m hit with a wave of nausea as I wiggle in place — and the second thing I notice is that my head is killing me.
And the third thing I notice sounds obvious, but perhaps because of the pounding in my head, I realize it last of all: I’m in a bed.
And the bed I’m in? Yeah. It isn’t mine.
Shit.
The room slides into place as a rush of fear floods my stomach. Oddly, what appears before my eyes doesn’t make me feel worse — if anything, it’s comforting. I’m staring up at a ceiling, one constructed of real wood. The sight of real wood doesn’t make me want to run out the front door, doesn’t make me want to take my chances with whatever the hell might be outside. Maybe it’s just because it’s me (and because I love the outdoors so much), but wood is a damn sight better than popcorn ceilings.
So although I’m slightly reassured, I still don’t have an answer to the most basic question of all: where the hell am I?
I bite my lip and turn my head (just a little) to get a better look around — and as soon as I do, my breath catches in my throat.
Wow.
Well, I’m clearly in a log cabin; that much is a given. It’s the authentic type too, constructed with the same real wood of the ceiling. As someone who spends a lot of time in nature, I can definitely tell; genuine lumber has a different patina, a unique texture that’s distinguishable from plastic imitations. The imperfect grooves and grains of the wood tell me it’s the real deal, even as far away as I am from the wood itself.
The place looks legitimately handcrafted, but it’s not mansion-sized; I’m sure it required many trips to haul the lumber up here, but the actual construction looks simple enough. All-in-all, this is probably what you’d consider a studio apartment if you lived anywhere else. It’s most likely a bachelor pad, the sort of place the park service might provide for free in bigger placement locations. In Biggal Mountain, though, I know that doesn’t exist; this town is so tiny that free housing is laughable.
The furnishings around the cabin are sparse, too. There’s the bed (which I’m sleeping on), a wooden dresser and a fireplace directly in front of me, and a tiny hallway behind the table and chairs in the kitchenette. Since the kitchenette has a sink and a faucet, I assume this place has running water — which means there’s probably a bathroom. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a good sign. I spent most of my time in the woods, but I really prefer creature comforts (and yes, I consider toilets a creature comfort!) if given the choice.
There are three windows in the cabin, I can’t deny they’re kinda cute. A red flannel curtain adorns each one, and the ruching on each curtain screams of a woman’s touch. But the rest of the place? Not so much.
The fireplaces in front of me bathes the whole room in an orange glow. Flames dance merrily from behind a metal grate and cast shadows on the walls, popping and cracking in the silence.
I smile, just to myself; I’m a sucker for fireplaces. Maybe that’s why I find myself so at ease.
The feeling of contentment remains as my eyes travel from a rack of cowboy hats on the far wall, to a small, insulated plastic box on a wooden nightstand. I’m not sure what that’s for, not exactly… but I’m pondering my options, intent on finding out, until my eyes scan the rest of the room.
Then I see the wide array of knives and axes on the far wall of the kitchenette.
And I stop giving a crap about this random plastic box.
Fuck.
I’m not the quickest on the uptake, but knives and axes aren’t the best sign. Am I about to be murdered? Is that why I’m here?
Because I’m a total weirdo (or perhaps to distract myself from the pounding in my skull), I then decide to imagine myself in a horror movie.
I let out a little cackle. The whole concept is kinda hilarious.
For starters, I don’t know of any horror movies starring fat chicks — but if this movie exists, my character is doomed from the start. The scene might begin simply enough, with my character all delirious and incapacitated in bed as the firelight illuminates the cabin. Maybe my character thought she’d find safety in solitude, but the narrator knows better. The token fat chick never survives: It’s a rule.
To prove this, the camera would then dramatically pan from the bed to the wooden door — or perhaps to the hallway behind the kitchenette. And what does my character see there? Is it a well-intentioned bumbling neighbor asking for a cup of sugar? Is it a family of raccoons looking for a snack?
No, of course not: It’s a muscular man clad in a tree-mask and wielding a revving chainsaw!
My character would shriek and wave her hands around her face, leaping out of bed as fast as she could. This wouldn’t be that fast though; the movie would need to emphasize the fat part, even if (in reality) I’m fairly fast on my feet.
Then there would probably be a big ridiculous chase scene where I’d struggle to get out of bed, where I’d flop around the tiny cabin. I’d run from the fireplace to the kitchenette to the hallway, screaming and flailing my limbs as I went. Naturally, because this is a horror movie, I’d go anywhere but the door — and now that I think about it, I’d probably pick a ridiculous non-weapon to defend myself. My eyes settle on the fire poker about 50 feet away.
Yeah, I think reasonably. If this were a horror movie, I’d probably lunge for that first.
Just as I’m envisioning how the chase would lead outside, how the man in the
white mask would hunt me down and cut me up, things get infinitely worse.
Because someone does appear in the hallway behind the kitchenette. It sounds insane, but I wish it were a maniac with a chainsaw; that option is a lot less intimidating than Asher fucking Bosco.
Instead of jeans, a wife beater, and a white lumber mask, he’s only wearing a towel. And a guilty smile.
But do I regard him with a smile in return?
Nope.
Instead, I just close my eyes. And pretend to be asleep.
Aaaaand just as I’m lying there, my eyes slammed closed (even though Asher clearly saw them open), everything slides into place. The memories come flooding back, trigged by the sight of his little smile, of the muscles rippling across his forearms, of his hands gripping the towel just like he’d grabbed the trash bag out on the clearing…
Fuck.
I shudder, hit with another wave of nausea. I remember cleaning up the gas spill on the overlook, I remember Asher’s laughing mouth, I remember applying the soap, slipping on the rock, one foot sliding out from under the other, and then blinding, searing pain as everything faded to black.
That had been embarrassing enough without… no.
The horror that had receded comes rushing back, even harder and more insistent than before.
Nonononono.
That must mean… he got me half-naked.
So I’m in Asher’s cabin. In Asher’s bed. Wearing only my bra and panties. How the hell do I find myself in these situations, again? Honestly, it’s a wonder I’ve lived for as long as I have; you’d think someone who is this chronically unlucky would’ve been eliminated at some point down the line.
For just a few seconds, I allow myself to have one of my rare woe-is-me moments. Shit. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, but every heaving breath from my chest scrapes the lace of my bra against the flannel sheets. Which only reminds me, of course, that Asher got me half-naked.
I moan, suddenly more mortified than anything else; I’ve fantasized about him seeing me like this, but in my fantasies, I’ve been conscious, at the very least!
Now, though, I have no such luck, and it’s time to face facts. It’s time for me to deal with what life handed me.
I’ve just psyched myself into opening my eyes and giving him a friendly smile when I hear a rustle of clothes from my left.
I crack open an eye, intrigued… and my mouth immediately goes dry.
Oh.
My.
God.
Asher is bent over, opening the drawers on the dresser as he clutches the towel with his other hand, and holy hell. I bite my lip, suppressing a moan; somehow my concussion has taken a back seat to watching the rippling curve of his muscular ass. I do my best to take those deep, even breaths — but this time for entirely different reasons. All I can do is thank my lucky stars that he hadn’t purchased full-sized towels. The real horror movie scenario would be a towel covering that body.
But my bad luck today hasn’t ended with spilling coffee all over myself, falling on a canyon clearing, going unconscious, and then having the man of my dreams undress me. While I’ve been lying here salivating over Asher’s ass, I’ve somehow forgotten something super, super crucial: My eyes have to be open to do that.
I’m so lost in staring at him like a buffoon that I don’t even notice him turning around. I hardly notice anything at all, actually, until he clears his throat.
Busted.
Asher quirks an eyebrow, a towel still clutched in front of him — but this time, I actually remember my manners!
“S-sorry!” I stammer, averting my eyes as fast as I can. Suddenly, I feel very exposed — which I know is ridiculous, given that he’s the one wearing a towel! I pull the flannel duvet tighter around me.
“Shit. I’m so sorry, Asher,” I repeat, clearing my throat. I wince at the ceiling. “Would you uh… believe that I’m concussed and completely unaware of what I’m doing?”
There’s a pause.
My eyes flicker back to his; I’ve never been good at interpreting silence, but it seems I’ve caught my first break of the day: Asher doesn’t look like he feels violated. Instead, he’s just shaking his head and giving me a knowing smirk.
“No,” he admits, shrugging — but there’s a warmth behind his words, a thaw spreading below the surface. And then: “But I might be guilty of that, too.”
There’s another beat while I figure out what the hell he’s talking about.
“Oh!”
My eyes widen and I let out a startled laugh. Asher’s confessing that he’d looked… at me?! Huh. I arch an eyebrow. Maybe my assumptions about him were wrong.
“Anyway.” He clears his throat, and just like that, Automatic Asher is back. “Would you mind…? I have to, you know. Get dressed.”
Before I can help it, I snort, “Well, that’s a pity.”
Good Lord, have I seriously forgotten every ounce of Southern etiquette in a few hours?!
“C-course!” I amend, slamming my eyes closed again. “God, please feel free to put me in my place — I don’t know what the hell has come over me.”
To my surprise, Asher laughs as he pulls out a drawer. His chuckle is a lovely sound, one I’ve only heard a few times.
“Oh, Autumn,” he sighs from the dresser. The cadence of his voice sends a vibration straight to my core. “There are a lot of places I’d like to put you… but in your place isn’t one of them. After all,” he finishes, closing one of his dresser drawers. “I think my place is just the right size for the two of us.”
I’d roll my eyes if they were open. God, that’s cheesy — but it gives me an opening to ask some questions.
“So it’s just you here, then?” I ask, trying to sound as casual as I can. Even though my eyes are closed. And I’m half-naked in his bed.
“Mmhmm!”
I hear the soft rustle of fabric. I expect that to be the end (given that it’s a monosyllable, and all) but he continues: “I’ve lived here since I took the ranger position fifteen years ago. May not look like much, but for me, it’s perfect.”
“I love what I’ve seen so far!” I gush, my eyes still shut. “The flannel is adorable. And solid wood construction — you don’t see that much these days!”
Asher’s muffled laugh sounds from in front of the dresser; I assume he’s pulling a shirt over his head. Which both depresses and comforts me.
“Well, certainly not in Geeeorgia!” he teases, mimicking my Southern drawl. “You’re probably used to mansions and sprawling landscapes and—”
I cut him off with a laugh. “Is that what you think Georgia is?”
My eyes are still closed, but from all the time I’ve spent around Asher, I can tell he’s pondering my question. “Well, that’s what Gone with the Wind told me, anyway.”
I laugh, shaking my head — and I immediately regret it. Ouch. Another wave of nausea rolls over me.
“Easy there,” he rumbles, his voice suddenly close to my ear. His fingers glide down my cheek, and I deem it safe to open my eyes. I’m not disappointed; Asher’s kneeling next to my bed, a wrinkle of concern worrying his brow. I’m not sure if it’s the concussion talking, but his eyes look beautiful in the light from the fireplace.
He’s also clothed now. Dammit.
Luckily, he mistakes my blunt adoration of his body for genuine pain.
“You feeling ok?” he asks, leaning in closer. “I tried to call for help on the walkie, but even on the sunniest day, the signal here is total shit. With the blizzard, well…” He winces. “I’m afraid there’s a very slim chance of us getting out of here before Sunday, at the earliest.”
Oh. The blizzard! Right. I’d almost forgotten about that.
“So uh…” I’m almost afraid to ask. “What are we… supposed to do until then?” I blink open my eyes and give him my best look of doe-eyed innocence.
“Well,” Asher says thoughtfully, dropping his hand to trace the fabric next to my head. “We’re snowed in, but I
have plenty of food and wine. As long as I keep chopping wood, the fireplace will keep us warm. We have running water.” He shrugs. “Probably not the best weekend you ever spent, but fortunately you don’t strike me as the tiny-dog-Hollywood-type who needs cable and nightlife.”
I laugh. His reference is a little dated, but that doesn’t stop us from staring at each other as the fire pops in the background. Shit, he’s handsome. Yeah, I could do a lot worse than being stuck with Asher for a few days — even if it will take some newfound strength to pretend that I’m merely attracted to him.
But then (just like every other time) Asher rips his head away, breaking our eye contact. I suddenly feel like I’ve been thrown into a blizzard in the middle of a Georgia August.
He clears his throat, his tone suddenly all business, and gestures to a pile of clothes at the end of my bed; he must’ve laid them there while my eyes were closed.
“These pajamas probably won’t fit you,” he says brusquely. “But I think they’ll do, at least until I can get your clothes washed.”
Oh. Right. My clothes. I chuckle. “I guess I’ll uh… need to wear those. At some point.”
There’s an awkward pause in which Asher takes a cue to stand up, effectively ending the conversation. My face flushes; I don’t blame him. How silly of me to take his friendly, well-intentioned jokes as anything more than professional courtesies.
It seems I’ve received my final reminder that men in the Northeast differ greatly from men in the South; these cowboy lumberjack types don’t work in flattery and sweet-talking insinuations: they’re blunt.
If Asher had feelings for me, I’m sure he would have said something by now.
I avert my eyes, about to offer an apology, but Asher doesn’t seem terribly put-out by my increasingly overt passes. Probably because he’s flattered. And doesn’t see me as much of a threat.