At least I assume a rugged mountain man. This kind of home doesn’t really match with any other kind of man I know.
“Oh, you’re awake.” A deep voice makes my insides twist. With what? I’m still not sure. “Can I get you something to eat?”
“I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to go to any trouble. I’m usually not this useless. In fact, I’m usually quite the opposite. So useful that people find ways to dispose of me. I can make myself something, and I’m happy to pay you back for the ingredients,” I ramble as I try to sit up, but my head begins to do this thing that reminds me of the merry-go-round in elementary school, and I immediately fall back to the couch.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” says the man that I’m just now realizing does match the title of mountain man, with the kind of beard that other men envy, unruly dark hair that flops over to one side, and piercing blue eyes that look like wide-open spaces. “You’ve got to take it easy. The grim reaper almost claimed you.”
I smile at the statement. “My mother said I’d be too much of a bother for him, and he’d actually never take me. At least, that’s what she’d tell herself to believe that my dumb choices wouldn’t end in death, although I’m not really sure why she ever cared about me dying.”
“Is that why you were out in a blizzard in quite possibly the worst car ever for it?” he says gently as he tucks a knitted blanket around me. “Making a dumb choice to see if you could defy death?”
He smells good. I know it’s cliché to say men smell like trees and dirt and cinnamon, but until someone else can come up with better words for a lumberjack of a man that smells like he lives outside in the woods and puts a pinch of cinnamon bark in his coffee…that’s just going to have to be how this man is described. It’s heavenly. Like God knew the exact kind of scent that could make a girl’s knees wobble.
“It’s a rental,” I reply. “Last one they had.”
He nods his head as he backs away from me. “And you didn’t consider staying where you were?”
“There wasn’t any coffee there,” I answer honestly.
His lips twitch at this, and I can’t tell whether he wants to laugh or call me unbelievable—and not the good kind of unbelievable that makes a woman pulse with gratitude all the way to her toes because someone finally saw how hard she really tries, how she’s been trying her absolute hardest to become a better version of herself, and a person recognized it.
He chooses a sliver of a laugh that sounds more like a sigh of what-did-I-get-myself-into-by-saving-this-woman’s-life. Which, I get. I really do. I’m not like most women I’ve encountered myself. I’m ridiculous, frank, and more stubborn than most care to contend with. Especially if you come between me and my coffee.
“Well, I have coffee here. Would you like a cup?”
This man is the embodiment of an angel, and not because he actually did save my life.
“Is that question even necessary? Didn’t I almost die trying to find some?” My head feels woozy, butsurely coffee will fix me right up. It hasn't let me down yet.
“True,” he remarks with a head nod. “I’ll be right back.”
I watch him walk away, typical jeans and red flannel attire. Predictable. Chiseled muscles you can see through his clothes. Predictable. The way he walks with some kind of I-belong-here assurance. Predictable. And well, because he does. This is his house. But what’s not predictable is the way he turns and says, “Creamer? I have vanilla, hazelnut, peppermint, and gingerbread.”
What lumberjack of a man takes his coffee with creamer? The more bitter the coffee, the better. At least, that’s what I’d expect Paul Bunyan to say.
I blink my eyes, trying to register. “Did you just say gingerbread?”
“Yes,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Tis the season.”
“I normally don’t do creamer unless it’s…”
“Homemade?” he asks.
“Well, I don’t make it, but I like to know where my ingredients come from. You know the whole debate about how the food industry isn’t regulated and is trying to poison us slowly, and there’s this coffee shop back in New York that makes syrups and creamers from scratch. They made a fantastic one last month that was pumpkin and toffee. I had dreams about that creamer. Anyway, I’m just trying to be conscious of the choices I make,” I explain.
“Conscious of the choices you make? Like choosing to get into a vehicle that’s not even remotely made to withstand blizzard conditions in a blizzard?” he questions.
“Well, within reason of what I determine is good for my health,”I clarify.
“Got it. Good for your health, not your life. Well, in that case, you’d be glad to know I make all my own creamers.” His eyebrows are raised, concern starting to sketch itself in deep folds across his forehead. I know this debate sounds ridiculous. That I care more about what my creamer is made of than the car I got in. In fact, he’s probably wondering if there is a possibility that frostbite has nibbled at my brain cells.
“Well, in that case, I’ll take gingerbread,” I retort.
“Is there a name to go on this order?”
And it’s at this moment that I realize we haven’t even formally introduced ourselves. We’ve just been two strangers coexisting in a cabin somewhere in the woods. This crazy, caffeine-obsessed lady that he found almost dead in the snow, now sprawled out on his couch and this contradictory lumberjack of a man that seems to spar with words in a way that makes me feel more energized than I’ve felt in years.
Social media and the doom scroll have really created a dire situation when it comes to conversing with humans outside a screen. It’s as if people are numb to simple verbs and adjectives that make up a conversation. I haven’t had a good word joust in forever, and I am beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t sharpen my tongue.
