Mason is a giant in a thick, wool-lined coat, his shoulders so broad they block the pale winter light reflecting in the snow.
He’s burly in the way of men who actually work with their hands, all solid strength with a firm, rounded belly that strains the front of his jacket.
Like a creature who stole human clothes, he puts his attention in front of him. Picking the perfect time to add to his already impressive firewood collection, he surprises me with the possibility of chopping even more.
By now, he should have enough to survive through the rest of winter. And here I was curious about what excuse he’d use to linger this time.
He’s scowling, I can tell, even though most of his expression is hidden by a thick, dark beard, peppered with a few strands of silver that seem to catch the light. Late forties, I’d bet.
Are men that old supposed to be this good-looking?
He shifts his weight, and my eyes catch on the way his big hand rests on the ax handle. He doesn’t bother wearing gloves, like he wants to show off one of my favorite parts of him.
I may have stared at those paws of his a few times in passing. Those thick fingers connected to huge palms. May have thought about that part of him during my hours of loneliness, too.
A strange, unwelcoming heat prickles along my skin, a flush that has nothing to do with the heavy, puffy layer of my own coat. I pull my collar tighter, as if I can hide the warmth spreading through me, a warmth he’s generating from thirty feet away without even trying.
Snowflakes continue to drift down, and I watch, fascinated, as they land on the dark wool of his shoulders and the worn cap covering his hair. They stick there, building up in the fibers. But the ones that dare to land on his skin—on the ruddy, weathered curve of his cheek or the bridge of his nose—they vanish. An instant, tiny melt. The man runs that hot.
The very same man who hates my guts. I’m sure of it.
Why else would he glare at me every single time we make eye contact? If he has a problem with me, wouldn’t the neighborly thing to do be to come over here and talk to me about it?
Even if he came over here to complain, I don’t think the butterflies in my stomach would notice. If I got to see Mason up close like this, I think they’d be flapping around, trying their hardest to break free.
Focus, Nova. The decorations.
Jerking forward, I pluck a nail from my pocket and hammer down the garland. Each thump of the hammer matches my heartbeat. A consistentthump, thump, thump.
Even now, I can feel the heat of his stare on the back of my neck. From the constant chopping happening behind me, I write it off as my imagination.
Maybe I’m too full of myself, thinking he pays so much attention to me. I could be entirely in my head when it comes to my neighbor. He really doesn’t go out of his way to talk to anyone. I’m not special.
Feeling heat against my cheeks despite the cool air, I try to finish my task quickly. By the last strike of the hammer, my fingers have gone numb.
If I slip back inside, I won’t have to worry about questioning whether his stare is real or not. The last thing I need to do is feed into these feelings that may have been brewing over the course of the year.
Ever since that one day I found his mail accidentally slipped into my PO box, I’ve been a bit of a goner.
Making my way down the ladder, I try to hurry so I can hide until he finishes his task. Once he’s tucked back inside his cabin, I can focus without having a grumpy audience judging my beautiful decorations.
Taking a step at a time, everything is smooth until my boot lands wrong. One small slip and I can’t even gasp before I’m hitting a blanket of snow down below. As soon as I make contact, all of the air in my body whooshes out, leaving me gasping for fresh air.Ouch.
Expecting to finally hear a mocking laugh, or maybe a littleI told you sofrom across the way, I don’t get any of that.
Tilting my head back, I see Mason is staring my way, a scowl written all over his face. It looks deeper than usual.
Right now would be a perfect time to die, I think. Maybe I can flush hot enough that I’ll sink through the snow deep enough that he won’t be able to see me.
“I’m fine!” Hoping to sound confident, my words come out too shaky for my liking. “Super fine, actually.”
Groaning under my breath, I sit up and check to make sure nothing is broken. All my limbs are intact, thankfully. Just seems my pride is the only thing bruised. Maybe my tailbone, too.
Feeling mortified by the slip, I’m relieved to hear the resuming thumps of wood splitting.
As that same prickling sensation floods me, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and another shiver rolls through me. Biting the inside of my cheek, my body feels appreciatively numb.
Better to feel cold than hot all over.
