I chug the rest of my coffee before stretching back on the couch. “Listen, Boone. My mother is not cut from the same cloth as most mothers. Her fabric is starched and prefers the dry cleaner’s over being line dried. She’s all sharp edges and no soft curves. I can’t even remember the last time my mother hugged me or said anything to me that wasn’t a carefully crafted insult. And by said, I mean by email, because my mother never calls me. So, I’m not exactly her biggest fan, but she’s not mine either. She’s made that abundantly clear every day of my thirty-seven years.”
His eyes widen as his lips pull together in a straight line. “So, you really aren’t upset you’re missingChristmas?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“Got it,” he mutters.
And then, because I’m never afraid to poke at a bear, even though maybe I should be a little more cautious because it appears he’s not either, since there is one hanging up on his wall, I ask, “So, is there a woman in your life? A girlfriend? A Mrs. Paul Bunyan?”
“A Mrs. Paul Bunyan?”
I shrug my shoulders. “If you don’t want people to assume you are a lumberjack, you probably should stop looking like one. I mean, really. Lumberjacks wear flannel and jeans. Usually have beards. Appear as if they’ve swung an axe or two. Don’t get mad at the messenger. You should really take it up with whatever association lumberjacks hail from.”
“Right,” he mutters as he glances down at his red flannel shirt. “I just like the color red.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t look good in it,” I admit. “It’s just, you kind of look the part. You got a blue ox corralled around here somewhere?”
“Afraid not,” he replies, a crack of a smile finally appearing before he swallows it back down. “What about you?”
“No, I’m afraid my apartment complex doesn’t allow pets of any kind. Especially giant blue oxen,” I answer, allowing the right side of my mouth to curve up in an easy smile.
“I meant a boyfriend.”
“Oh, one of those.” I sigh as my mind pulls up a Rolodex of men that have run away from trouble as soon as they see it in me. Usually by the fourth date. Although one time, a man named Andrewwas ignorant enough for six months, and I thought maybe, just maybe, someone other than my dad actually saw my light instead of my darkness. “It would be more probable for me to have a blue ox than a boyfriend.”
Even under his thick beard, I can see Boone’s edges soften a bit, like a stick of butter that’s been sitting out on the counter for a while. “So, where exactly were you headed?”
“Sedona,” I reply. “I was supposed to have a layover in Denver, but the storms grounded my flight in what felt like the middle of nowhere, which then prompted the deadly dance with a blizzard because, well, coffee. The most consistent relationship I’ve ever had in my life.”
He nods his head. “Makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” I question, looking down at my empty coffee cup.
“What you were wearing,” he mutters.
“Excuse me? What do my clothes have to do with my flight plans?” And now I’m wondering where my clothes are. They’d practically embedded their threads into my flesh as they froze around my almost-corpse.
“A lot, actually,” he answers even though he doesn’t say a lot. In fact, he says very little. Not enough to give me any indication of what he meant.
“Well?” I prompt. “Go on.”
He leans over, his elbows finding his knees. “You sure you want me to say?”
I match his movements, leaning over so thereare only a few feet and Dog, the cat, between us. “Idareyou. Be honest.”
He sucks at his bottom lip before saying, “All right. First of all, stilettos? You’re lucky I found you and you didn’t lose your toes.”
I nod my head in agreement, because I do agree. Not my best footwear moment. I wiggle my toes, which are now covered in large wool socks, to make sure they are still intact. They are. Thank goodness.
“Secondly, what kind of jeans were those that you had on? I swear they were tattooed to your skin. It took some serious gymnastics to get those things off you, and this might surprise you, but I’m not exactly the most flexible guy. Lumberjacks aren’t out here in the woods pommel-horsing.” He’s picking up word speed, and even though I flinch mildly as embarrassment begins to engulf me, slowly thinking about how I was as lifeless as a Barbie doll as he attempted to pull off his very poetic description of skinny jeans, I’m equally as excited, because along with his word speed, he’s revealing his wit, and I appreciate it.
“Then your blouse was…interesting. Very sheer for zero-degree temperatures. I mean, I’ve listened to you talk enough that I know you don’t lack any depth of intelligence, but that thing was practically as useless as a bikini top.”
“I had a coat on,” I argue.
“It was cotton, which is breathable, and not exactly what you want up here. You need wool, fleece, or anything that is meant to trap your body heat and keep you warm. You were becoming a human popsicle at a very rapid rate,” Boone contends. This man truly is a great sport at some word banter.
My grin is splitting my face in two, maybe not literally, but it feels as if the corners of my mouth are touching my ears.
