“You want to know that it was at Christmas, don’t you?” Hisquestion is quiet and more of a musing.
I nod my head.
“It was a blizzard at Christmas. Not quite as bad of a blizzard as this one, but bad enough. Becca never was the careful type when it came to most things. Finding you was a lot like how I found her. I’ve just been processing the whole situation. I’m sorry if I made you think I was some miserable ole miser up here in the mountains all alone. I just haven’t had a reason to really do Christmas the way Becca used to love it,” he answers.
“You don’t need to apologize to me. I’m the one who should be apologizing,” I say while placing my hand on his arm. “I’m so, so sorry, Boone. My ridiculous stubbornness kind of wrecked your solitude up here, not to mention the fact that I caused a traumatic flashback. That couldn’t have been easy.”
Boone shrugs his shoulders, and that’s when I realize my hand is lingering, and I quickly retract it, running my fingers through my hair, hoping he didn’t notice. “Life isn’t supposed to be easy, but yes, it did feel a little like Groundhog Day. I’m just thankful this time was different and you’re okay. It could have been much worse. Now, are you hungry? I threw some things in a pot, and I’m calling it soup.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d consumed anything but coffee. “If you are half as good at making soup as you are at making coffee, I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”
Boone lets out a breath of a laugh.
Chapter Six
Andnow I know why Boone laughed.
It’s edible, at best.
So, he isn’t perfect…not that anybody really is, but I had begun to wonder. There aren’t many things to look at in this small space we are stuck in, and I’d found myself staring a little too often, sketching his details into the ridges of my mind. He isn’t just good looking. He is exactly the kind of rugged gorgeous that would sell out a Cabela’s if he was wearing or using it. I mean, I kind of feel like taking up fishing or hiking or even hunting, and I hate all those things.
Any woman with any common sense would assess her current circumstances and take a chance on a swoony Christmas romance. I mean, movies are made of women stuck in similar predicaments like I am. But I’m not common, therefore my senses are directing me in the opposite direction that doesn’t include rejection. I’ve had enough of those. Honestly, I should probably try to strike up a fancy with Dog because I’ve already decided that I’ll grow into an elegant spinster with multiple cats,showing up at family gatherings as the quirky aunt, slipping envelopes of spending cash behind my brother’s back to my nieces and nephews so he can’t argue that it is too much. I’ve become fond of this story I’ve written for myself.
“What exactly did you put in this?” I ask between slurps.
“I’m not really sure. There was some broth, some chicken, some spinach that looked a little more wilted than it should have been, some beans, and some flimsy celery.” He details out the list that, honestly, should have tasted better than this.
“Well, it’s something,” I mumble.
“Something horrible. You can say it.” He smiles with his eyes, allowing them to fold into his wrinkles, which I suspect are a combination of joy and grief.
“It’s a free meal. I’m not going to complain.”
“You know, all free things aren’t good things. In fact, sometimes free should be questioned the most.” Boone dips his spoon back into the liquid that is tinted a strange yellow-green that doesn’t look quite right.
“That’s a good point, but I’m not sure the chef warrants a complaint after all the trouble I’ve already put him through today,” I answer, holding back a grimace as I take another sip.
“Actually, two days,” he states.
I feel my eyes widen. “What day is it?”
“December twenty-third,” he answers. “I found you yesterday afternoon. I had to keep checking on you through the night to make sure it was just the chill wearing off and not something worse.”
My mother had said two days on the phone, but I hadn’t calculated it quick enough. Not between the nonchalant way she’d acted like it didn’t matter if her own daughter made it home for Christmas or not, and the way she hadn’t even been concerned that I’d almost died and was now at some random guy’s house in the middle of the woods. My own mother doesn’t care if I spend the holidays with a serial killer. Not that Boone is. But how would my mother know that? Moms should be suspicious when their daughter is at an unknown man’s house.
“Oh,” I sigh. “So, how snowed in are we?”
“Very.”
“Like you’re-going-to-have-to-spend-Christmas-Eve-with-someone-other-than-yourself kind of snowed in?” I question, finally claiming defeat and putting my spoon down in my bowl. I’m not sure my stomach can take whatever not-so-magical ingredients are in this soup. It’s like an off-brand soup can had a baby with the produce they took to the back to be disposed of instead of consumed.
“Looks like it,” Boone confirms before also admitting to his own defeat. Our bowls are half empty. Or half full. It seems like the entire world is always reminding you that you are defined by whether you look at a situation as half full or half empty. I’m usually a half-full girl, but my gut-brain connection has been infected by whatever was in the soup. Our bowls are definitely half empty.
“Are you okay with that?” I question.
“Do I really have a choice?” He stands up from the small kitchen table that only hastwo wooden chairs, in which Goldilocks would have been severely disappointed if she’d come across this cabin. Both chairs are hard. Or at least, mine is, and I suspect his to be the same.
I hand my bowl to him, a look of pity pulling down at the skin on my face. “I tried to finish. I promise. Please forgive me. It got a little better sometimes, and then it sat on my tongue too long, and it would turn into something that kind of resembled the rubber from a tire. Well, what I imagine rubber from a tire would taste like. Then the next bite seemed to curdle before I could swallow it. And then…”
