“What’s so funny? You were in the worst clothes to even attempt survival in a blizzard,” Boone lectures.
“I’m just enjoying someone talking more than me. I’ve been told no one else can do it. That my words are kind of like the equivalent to a lumberjack’s axe. Cutting everyone else down,” I laugh.
And then it’s there. A real smile, one that slowly crawls across his face into a full grin, and my stomach involuntarily swirls.
“I’m not so bad, you know. It’s just, I didn’t know if I’d be able to save you when I found you. I apologize that you’re wearing my clothes, but your own were not helping with your battle against hypothermia. I honestly didn’t know if you were going to make it at first. Your clothes were practically useless. I’m assuming you’d gotten out of the car?”
I nod my head and gulp, thinking about how it would feel to find someone almost dead, and you were the one that had to save them. I’m also slightly infuriated with myself that I couldn’t save myself, something I’ve been doing for years and haven’t yet failed at. But I’d failed this time. In fact, it could have been the biggest mistake of my life, since I’d almost ended it.
“I’m sorry about that.” And I am. Really sorry. Sometimes the worst part about taking risks is you risk hurting others, which is why I prefer taking risks that only involve me. I just didn’t know to calculate Boone into this one since, well, I didn’t even know him.
“I’m just glad I found you and that you’re okay,” Boone says softly. He stands from his chair. “Need another cup?”
“I can get it,” I say, standing up from the couch for the first time, thankful that my feet have finally found their balance.
“I’m happy to get it for you,” Boone insists, reaching out for my mug that I’m just now noticing how beautiful it is. It’s pottery. Terracotta colored but with flecks of something that sparkles thrown in. The glaze on it is fantastic, too. Smooth.
“This is a gorgeous mug,” I comment as I turn it around in my hands. “Locally made?”
“About as local as you can get,” Boone replies.
I notice his coffee cup is similar but subtly different, only adding to the artisan flair. “Don’t tell me you make your coffee mugs and your coffee creamer?”
He runs his hand through his hair, pushing it back away from his face, which I can now see is slightly freckled and worn from the elements outside. “It’s just a hobby.”
I tilt my head, looking at the mug and then at Boone. “Well, you’re very good.”
“Thanks,” he replies before slipping his hand beneath my own to grab the mug from me. “I’ll get you another cup. Gingerbread?”
And even though he’s already begun walking toward what I assume is the kitchen, my hand is still tingling as if it has just woken up from being numb. I hate that touch affects me like this, but it’s something my skin isn’t used to. “Yes, please.”
“On it,” he replies.
“Oh!” I cry out, needing my hand to do something other than think about Boone’s hand. “My phone. Did you happen to grab my phone when you found me?”
“It’s on my nightstand charging!” he shouts back.
“And that is?” I question loudly.
“Through the only other door inside the house,” he replies just as loudly.
Right. Of course. This is a small cabin. It’s not like I exactly need directions.
Chapter Five
One missed call and one text message, and neither one is from my mother. Both are from my brother who is currently completely distracted in his life of fatherhood, and I’m shocked he’s even had the time to check on me.
I’m honestly surprised I have service, but there’s a single bar on my screen. I push the missed call, redialing. The phone rings, and when my brother picks up, the most deafening scream erupts through the speaker. It’s so shrill and loud that I’m positive my eardrum just packed up its drumsticks and evacuated my ear canal.
“Hey, Katydilla. Sorry ‘bout that. Gracie’s been teething,” he calmly explains.
Kevin, my brother, is two years younger than me yet looks like my twin. Taller though, by at least twelve inches. I didn’t really know what he would make of his life, but he seems to have created the family we always wished we had growing up—two parents that don’t just live together but love together. There’s a difference. He married a hands-on, not-afraid-of-anything woman named Maisy Jo from Oklahoma ten years ago. They now have five kids, five acres, and a milk cow. A very different life than what wegrew up with, and yet every photo Maisy Jo posts on her Instagram feels like something you want to climb through and be part of. It’s wholesome and real.
“Well, I sure hope you didn’t get her a microphone for Christmas. Girl doesn’t need to think her vocal cords need to be even more amplified, and I hate to break it to her, but she sounds a little pitchy.” I laugh while still rubbing my ear.
“Yeah, we settled for a drum set,” Kevin laughs. “So, are you at Mom’s?”
“Not exactly,” I mumble, tucking my bottom lip under my top teeth.
