My eyes widen. “You wouldn’t!”
Boone smirks. “Try me.”
“You’re mean,” I sigh as I carefully sit down in front of him.
“Sure, because helping you is cruel,” he replies.
“Holding my coffee hostage is not helping me,” I argue as Boone’s fingers find my skin. So much for him not touching me.
Boone doesn’t reply. Instead, his thumbs begin to softly rub against my neck, causing me to flinch with pain and yet breathe a sigh of relief when he finally unties a knot beneath my flesh with his bare hands.
The air between us feels heavy and smells like peppermint, because, naturally, Boone, the lumberjack full of surprises, has a collection of herbal remedies.
“Is the pressure okay?” he questions.
“You’re perfect.” The words linger between us before I realize what I’ve said, feeling my face flush before I stutter, “I mean, it’s perfect. Of course. You’re not perfect. You’re great, but I’m sure you’ve got some flaws you just haven’t thought of revealing to me yet. Now would be a great time, by the way, since I seem to be revealing all of mine. I mean, you already know that I’m emotionally and physically dependent on coffee, that I ramble way too much and say things that I should probably keep locked uptight somewhere inside my brain, that I obsess over things until I master them, and well, have a hard time accepting help.”
His fingers pause. “Those aren’t all flaws, Kate.”
“Then what else are they? They aren’t exactly my best traits,” I answer.
“Or maybe they are, and you’ve just been told they aren’t,” he replies, and I feel a crack in my armadillo shell, as if he’s managed to see the soft part of me that I always try to protect. I am honest in a lot of ways, but I’ve also learned how to protect myself.
“You don’t really know me,” I mutter.
“Well, you don’t really know me, either,” he argues. “In fact, I think you assumed a lot, with me being a man that dresses in red flannel living up in the mountains by himself.”
“I suppose that’s true,” I admit. “In my defense, I woke up in a new place with a stranger.”
“In my defense, I rescued a woman that almost killed herself in a blizzard because she couldn’t stay somewhere where there wasn’t coffee,” he jests.
“Fair point. So, let’s get to know each other instead of continuing to just tiptoe around what we think we know,” I suggest as I carefully untangle my legs and attempt to stand up. Boone puts his hands around my waist, helping me up.
Dog is curled up in the chair, so I turn around to sit beside Boone on the couch, pulling my legs up underneath my body. I’m wearing a pair of Boone’s thermals, my hair still damp from the shower I took, if you could call it that.
“All right,” Boone says before extendinghis hand to me. “Hi, I’m Boone Montgomery.”
My lips twist, wanting to smirk, before I put my hand in his for a handshake and say, “Kate Everett.”
“Kate as in Katherine?” There’s a daring spark in the way Boone is looking at me.
“Katherine if you want me to hate you all of your life,” I reply, my words smooth and sharp as if they are a sword, while arching my eyebrows.
“I’d prefer you didn’t,” he laughs. “So, Kate, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a marketing manager for an ad agency,” I answer swiftly.
He nods his head. “Do you enjoy it?”
“Mildly. I’m good at it, but I wouldn’t say I necessarily enjoy it. I enjoy the life I have from the paycheck attached to the job. What do you do for a living, Boone?”
I have been wondering what Boone actually does. Do lumberjacks split wood for a living and sell it? Build houses? Chicken coops with luxury accommodations?
“Well, I make and sell coffee mugs. I have a shed out back that’s my studio. It’s not a lot, but it’s something.”
My brain starts processing a marketing plan that would put Boone’s mugs on the map, that would cause mass sellouts and monetary success, but at the same time, I don’t think Boone would want that kind of success. He seems like the kind that prefers the quiet kind of living.
“You sell those mugs?! I need to put in an order, stat. What’s your turn around? Think you could teach me how to make them?Is it hard?”
