by Gwen Hayes
Of course, Michael hated the idea. From the beginning. Mostly he hated that she hadn’t consulted him. Which hadn’t been her best move. But she’d known he’d talk her out of it. He’d have cajoled her and reasoned with her and manipulated her into investing that money into mutual funds or stocks and bonds and a nest egg for the future for two people who no longer knew how to live in the present.
So, she went behind his back. And she was sorry for it now. Not sorry she bought the camp, but that she did it in a way that didn’t honor their vows. And that’s when she’d realized she’d checked out of their relationship just as much as he had.
But she still had faith. Life threw the camp in front of her last spring, daring her to take it, but it had also thrown Michael in front of her once, daring her to be taken. They’d kissed here, in these woods, and promised to see each other the next summer. Only he hadn’t come back. He’d been a dream, a wish, a cherished memory, until the first day of college and they’d unexpectedly ended up in the same shitty dorm.
More electric than the lightning storm outside, finding each other again had overloaded both their circuits. It wasn’t long before they knew, just knew, they were meant for each other. Nothing got between them—not the stress of college, the temptation of other coeds, not even his disapproving parents. Yes, they were opposites in every way, but that never mattered. Not once they found each other again.
So it ripped her heart out when things started falling apart a few years ago. She blamed his stress at work and tried not to add to it. She made an effort to fit in with his family, taking his mother’s advice and staying at a job she hated. She dressed in neutral colors and they took sensible vacations and not once did he notice she was dying on the inside.
Hell, he hadn’t noticed she moved out of the condo for three days.
And today, he'd just sat there, pretending like it wasn't the end. Like he could still control everything by doing nothing. No more of that. She desperately wanted things to be different. She still loved him with every fiber of her being. But she needed to remember that this was who he was. She'd given him divorce papers and he'd let her go.
She tried to picture what the rest of his day had been like as she'd had an emotional drive up to the camp. He'd have finished his coffee, then gone across the street to his office, where probably nobody knew that his marriage was dissolving. He would have probably even gone to his racquetball game. And then home, where he’d open the envelope to read the divorce papers—and then he’d see it. The hemp bracelet he’d given her all those years ago.
She'd put it in there as a last-ditch effort, she supposed. The truth was, she'd never stop loving him. Never stop thinking about him.
But she still needed to move on. If he didn't want her, as she truly was, if he didn't love that girl who kept woven bracelets and dreamed of running through the forest on a sun-dappled afternoon, then he didn't love her.
She lit a few more candles, trying to see the cabin through his eyes. Would he hate everything about it? All the things she loved? The rustic wood walls, the scarred floor, the red loveseat and the blue ottoman. The bed that didn’t have its own room, but filled the corner with color from the patchwork quilt and dozens of throw pillows.
She saw the play of light on the wall first. Headlights. The sound of his footfalls on her squeaky porch boards next. The snick of the doorknob as he didn’t knock but barged into the room in a very un-Michael-like way.
He stood in the threshold, the weather swirling around him as he remained half in and half out. The wild look in his eyes and the strong set of his jaw belied his mental state. He wasn’t exactly happy to be here, was he? He looked feral and crazed and so unlike his usual calm, collected demeanor she wanted to cheer.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” he said. Not hello. Not I miss you or I love you or even I hate you and can’t wait to be divorced.
“The battery died.” He hated it when she didn’t keep her phone charged.
“I kept trying to call. I was worried.”
She took a step toward him. “So you drove all this way because you were worried?”
Chapter 3
All day, Michael had thought about this moment. He'd dumped the box of stuff on his desk this morning and stood there in his coffee-drenched suit, wondering where the hell his marriage had gone wrong.
Then his assistant had knocked and entered his office, oblivious to the turmoil inside her boss. He'd felt the moment that work and responsibility had swirled around him, and for the first time in his life, resented the hell out of it.
He'd held up his hand, not even looking over his shoulder. All of his attention was still on that box of stuff, and the envelope still on top. "I need to cancel my appointments for the day," he'd said gruffly. "I've had a family emergency. I need to clear as much time as possible. A few days at least."
They weren't going to get divorced. He was going to chase her down and make her talk to him in a way that was probably long overdue.
Maybe she'd tried. He couldn't really remember. But this time, he'd listen.
Once he was alone again, he opened the envelope. It killed him that she'd gone to a lawyer already. So much for a separation just being a cooling down period.
He'd forced his hand to relax before he turned the envelope into a matching crumple to the ruined coffee cup he'd left in the café. But before he dropped the envelope, he felt something other than paper in it.
The hemp bracelet.
He'd gone to the board meeting, but his mind was already a few hours ahead of him on the highway. Not that it had helped him any.
Now he was standing here on her doorstop, that bracelet in his pocket, and he still wasn't quite sure what to say or do to get his wife back. The unexpected gift had given him even more motivation to get up here and get some answers, but now that he'd found her, he found himself shaking with emotions more complicated than he'd ever expected.
Maybe she hadn't meant for the bracelet to mean anything other than, here's this old thing you made me. I don't want it anymore.
"Are you just going to stand there?" Heather looked at him like he'd gone mad. Maybe that was true.
“No.”
“You’re dripping. Are you going to come in?” Something about her tone—too rehearsed, too cool—gave her away.
He narrowed his eyes at her, not giving a damn about the rain, not when she was looking at him like… “You knew I’d come,” he said, the truth of it sinking in. “You set this up.”
Her eyes sparked bright. “I’d hoped you would.”
His wife was fearless. Fearless and beautiful and so totally infuriating, it made him see red. He was furious.
"That's a dangerous game to play," he rasped. He took a step inside and she moved around him to close the door. "What if I hadn't found the bracelet?"
She shrugged, and he realized she was wearing his sweatshirt. The sight of it on her sent another flame of regret shooting through his core. He loomed over her, still wearing his dripping jacket, and she let him crowd right into her space.
"I don't know," she whispered.
Tell her you were going to chase her anyway. Tell her you'll always chase her. But it wasn't true. If she really wanted to be done with him, he'd find a way to live with that. But he wasn't ready to admit defeat.
"Why did you go to a lawyer?" His voice cracked, and he swore under his breath. "I brought the papers, you know. If you're serious about wanting out, I'll sign them. But not until we've talked."
"No." She shook her head. "You're not going to tell me I'm wrong again. That's not why I gave you the bracelet."
He unzipped his rain jacket, because as wild as he looked, of course he would still have checked the weather report before driving up, and tossed it aside. Shoving one hand through his wet hair, he tried not to let his frustration get the better of him. They needed to undo months of damage. Maybe years, if he was being honest. And it wasn't going to happen in one rain-soaked, emotion-laden moment.
/> “You couldn’t just ask me? Instead of giving me divorce papers, you couldn’t have just asked me here?”
"Would you have come?" She twisted her hands into the front of his shirt and tugged him toward her.
It was the closest she'd come to being in his arms in six months and at the first whiff of her familiar scent, he knew it wasn't going to be enough to just be close. His arms shook with the need to haul her against him and never let her go. "You made it crystal clear that I wasn't welcome."
"Because you kept trying to convince me to sell this place!"
"Because it's a money pit," he growled back, unable to resist the now familiar fight. He couldn't understand why she'd walked away from their life for a complete disaster. Why she'd chosen a total mess over her husband. "Because if you want to do something different with your life, fine, but why choose certain failure?"
She gasped and shoved at his chest, but no—she'd pulled him close. Now he was right there, and he wasn't backing down. "Take that back," she whispered.
"It's the truth," he said roughly. "I'm never going to lie to you."
"It's your opinion. I don't share it. I have a plan, which is sound, if you'd ever deigned to listen to it."
That pulled him up short. "If I agree to listen to it, will you agree to hold off on the divorce?"
"You think that's a fair trade?" She huffed into his chest. But she wasn't shoving him away.
He bowed his head and breathed in the scent of her. His Heather had always been fresh and sweet. Always would be. He'd missed her like this, in his arms, all curled up. "No. I probably owe you a hell of a lot more. But it's a starting point."
"You'll understand if I'm doubtful," she said, her words muffled now as her mouth found his neck.
Painful longing punched him in the gut. God, yes, he wanted her kisses. Wanted all of her, immediately and constantly, but that wasn't talking.
"I understand completely." His words were rougher now, shaking with restraint that he hated. He didn't want to hold back. He stroked one hand into her hair, letting himself have that slightly more intimate touch. The silky strands slid around his fingers as he held her tight. "But I can prove to you that I'm interested in every last detail of your plan."
She nodded, and when she spoke, her tone surprised him. It sounded like she believed him. "You can"
Holy hell, did that give him hope. He tightened his grip on her hair, just enough to tug her head back. He gave her a hard look. "Yes."
Her eyes widened and her lips parted. She slowly exhaled, then smiled. "You came."
"I did." He curved over her, his mouth aching to cover hers.
"We'll talk?" Her breath puffed against his lips, shaky and warm.
"A lot," he murmured, knowing they needed it. But they needed this even more.
"When?"
"Later."
She pushed up on her toes, closing the last quarter inch between their bodies, and he opened for her, because he wanted to, hell yes, but the need was deeper than that.
He'd never been able to say no to her.
Not for kisses, or dreams, or even a separation when things got so bad she couldn't see another way to deal with their impasse.
If she'd just asked him about the camp, he'd have found a way to support that, too. But she'd done it all without him, then served it up as an angry ultimatum.
The bitter memory needed to be wiped away. He deepened the kiss, demanding more from her, but the more she gave, the hungrier he got.
She tasted like tea and sweetness. Her tongue was quick and warm and teasing as it tangled with his—so familiar and yet new, too. She'd always been confident when making love, but this was daring and willful. A new taste, and he wanted more of it.
He tugged her hair again, angling her head back so he could taste the skin of her neck. The delicate muscles worked beneath his mouth as she clung to him, letting him explore for a minute, but then she tugged back.
"More kisses," she whispered. "I've missed that so much."
It wasn't quite "I've missed you," but it was a start. And it wasn't that he doubted that fact. He was just a bit needy to hear it. To know that her heart had been broken just as much as his, and she was just as fragile now…
Not that she felt fragile as she sank her teeth into his lower lip.
"Ahhhh," he groaned and she laughed a little.
"Is that okay?"
"More than okay."
Her fingertips dug into his shoulders as she slid her body against his, winding a heavy fog of lust around them both. His lips were wet now, and swollen, and each kiss got sloppier than the last.
Hotter, too, until they were both gasping and tugging at clothes.
Those definitely needed to stay on until after talking.
He tightened one arm around her waist, so she couldn't get offended and run away, and stroked his other hand along her jaw. It took all his willpower to avoid the temptation of her clever tongue swiping for his thumb. He cleared his throat and gave her a stern look. "It’s late. Dare I ask what kind of bed you've got in this cabin?"
She laughed. "Afraid I'll make you sleep in a bunk?"
"I always did have a fantasy that we'd done more than just kiss. Me sneaking into your cabin…trying not to squeak those metal springs too much"
"If…" She trailed off and her eyes darkened. "I don't want to get ahead of ourselves here."
He swallowed hard. He knew the feeling. They had a chance here, maybe, to right all that had gone wrong between them. "If we talk, and we end up on the same page, maybe we can celebrate by finding a bunk to violate?"
She nodded. It should have been dirty, but it wasn't. Not the feel-bad kind, anyway. They'd met here. Fallen in love here. If they had any chance in hell of finding their way back to each other, it was at Camp Firefly Falls. And maybe in a bunkbed. In a canoe. On the dock and in that arts and crafts building…
"Stop looking at me like that," she whispered.
"Bed," he whispered back.
She twined her fingers with his and tugged him to the bed in the corner.
"Nice quilt," he murmured as she toed off her boots and peeled off the sweatshirt. Underneath she wore a snug tee and black leggings. Compared to that, his jeans and buttoned-down shirt would make lousy pajamas.
She crawled into bed and pushed back the covers. Even here, she slept on "her" side of the bed. That made his chest hurt.
She gave him a small smile and held out her hand. "Come here." Then she shook her head. "I'll stay clothed, but the jeans and shirt have to go unless you're commando."
He laughed. "I could be."
She arched one eyebrow. "That would be different for you."
He wasn't that different, not yet. But after he stripped down to his boxer-briefs, he stopped at the side of the bed. "I’m going to try, babe. I'm going to try as hard as I can to be as different as you need me to be."
He wasn't talking about underwear, and the way her eyes got bright, he knew she knew it.
"Come to bed, Michael."
So he did, wrapping his wife in his arms for the first time in what felt like forever. They kissed until it hurt, and then she buried her face in his bare chest and he stroked her hair.
Long after she fell asleep, he held her tight, wondering how the hell he'd been so stupid for so long. This was all that mattered. His wife. Their shared dreams. The only future he'd ever wanted.
Chapter 4
The light on her closed eyelids told her it was morning, but Heather didn’t want to move. Or breathe. Or anything that would break the spell. He was here. He was with her. He smelled impossibly wonderful.
She dared to blink, the small cabin coming in to focus while she memorized the feel of being surrounded by Michael once again. They’d fallen asleep spooned together last night, and he hadn’t turned away.
Would he turn away from her today?
“You’re not sleeping,” he said, his voice a dark rasp in the room painted by dawn. “I can tell by your breathing.”<
br />
“Neither are you,” she pointed out, settling deeper into the curve of him when his arms tightened around her.
He pushed back enough to let her know he wasn’t unaffected by their closeness either. “I’m regretting not making love to you last night. I’m considering rectifying that situation right now.”
She smiled as he nuzzled the sensitive spot behind her ear. “Nothing’s changed since we went to sleep. We shouldn’t…not yet.”
In his sigh, she heard a thousand words. A thousand grumpy Michael words, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he nipped her shoulder. “There had better be coffee. I need coffee and a shower and then…and then we’ll see.”
She had coffee. He was going to be disappointed about the shower.
The power was back on, surprisingly, so she didn’t have to resort to using the woodstove to make a pot. Which was good because he was going to grouse at her when he came out of the bathroom, and he groused less with caffeine. She made him a quick cup on the K-machine while she boiled water for an actual pot of French press, her preference. By the time he came out of the bathroom, she handed him a mug and smiled brightly.
“You don’t have a shower,” he complained, but then looked at the coffee and begrudgingly added, “thank you.”
Such a bear he was in the morning. “You’re welcome. And no. I don’t have a shower. I do have a natural hot spring five minutes away.”
He blinked at her. His mouth opened, then shut again. She almost laughed at the restraint he was so desperately trying to hold on to. Finally, he cleared his throat and said relatively blandly, “You’re bathing in a hot spring.”
“I’m conserving water.” Heather chose to ignore the insinuation that it was somehow abnormal or not practical. She also didn’t tell him that the main house had a shower that she sometimes used.