And I don’t think about Amy smelling the breakfast, or her coming out here, until she’s practically running through the living room beyond the breakfast bar, one hand holding her still-damp clothes, the other holding up the shorts I lent her.
She’s tall, but slender, with defined biceps and muscles that tell me she works out. I can easily picture her at some sort of yoga class, her long legs, hips, and chest hugged by a matching fitness set. Her hair hangs loose and slightly curls around her face, the tips of her ears just poking out. She has the kind of hair that comes out of a salon, with ten different shades of blond and brown all mixed together, layered in a way that’s not quite natural.
But still mesmerizing.
It makes me wonder what her real hair color is, what it would look like if she grew it out.
“Amy,” I say, before I realize I’m going to say anything at all, and she skitters to a stop, turning and looking first at me, then the plate of food on the counter, then the front door.
“Thank you so much for the hospitality,” she says in a rush, her left hand gripping the waistband of my shorts with gusto, “but I’ve got to get going. I have work.”
“But it’s Sunday,” I say, brow furrowing. Then I wonder why I said that. It’s not like Icareif she has work or if she’s working on the weekends.
She looks like the kind of woman who works on the weekends. There’s a tiredness to her face that gives off the impression of overwork.
“Yeah,” she agrees, swallowing, glancing at the door once more. “I, uh—I have your address. I can mail back the clothes?”
The confusion on my face must show, because she says, “Or I can take them off. I mean, I could go back in theroomand take them off.”
“You can’t go anywhere.” My voice comes out harsher than I mean for it to, and I work to soften it, lowering my eyes to the breakfast I’ve just made. I reach out, pushing it across the bar to her. “Roads are bad. Melted just enough, then temperatures dropped. Nobody should be driving.”
“How do you know?” she asks, brow furrowing. “There’s no service.”
I point to the weather radio sitting in the corner of the kitchen, and her face goes a bit pale. I’d laugh, but I don’t want it to come off as rude. Right now, she’s the epitome of the businesswoman caught in the woods, confronted with lifesansa smartphone.
“Okay,” she says, glancing again to the door. “Maybe I should…”
“Eat,” I say, nodding toward the plate. “You drink coffee?”
Slowly, she sets her things down on the other stool, then slides onto her own, looking down at breakfast with wide eyes. “I do.”
“Let me get you coffee. Then you can make decisions on a full stomach.”
“That sounds like a throw pillow,” she says and then laughs.
I have no idea what that means, so I just grunt and get to work making her a cup of coffee. My first is almost gone, so I make another, and ten minutes later, I’m starting on my breakfast and second coffee while she finishes up her plate, eating in starts and stops, taking little sips of the coffee between.
It’s strange having someone else up at the cabin with me. Years have passed since the last time Gramps was here, and other than the days I visit him, I eat breakfast alone.
When Amy is done, she shyly pushes the plate over to me, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. Every time she looks away from me, my eyes dart to her, and it’s like I can’t stop myself from looking at her, watching the way she moves.
Despite the fact that I found her under that tree last night, she moves now with a careful, certain grace. A cautious sort of movement that communicates a thoughtfulness. Not the actions of a woman who’d slide down a hill and wedge herself under a fallen tree.
“Since we have so much time on our hands,” she says, after a second, those kaleidoscope eyes returning to mine, “I thought we might talk about the offer.”
“Youhave time on your hands,” I say, grabbing the plate out from in front of her and quickly depositing it in my dishwasher. Maybe it’s just because she’s gorgeous, and I am but a man, but she seems to have genuine intentions.
That still doesn’t mean I want to hear whatever spiel she’s going to spout right now.
“What do you mean?” she asks, getting to her feet and watching me as I leave the kitchen and head to my room to change. “You’re leaving? I thought the roads were bad?”
“They are,” I call back before disappearing, shutting the door behind me. I wasn’t planning on going fishing today, but it’s obvious I’m going to need to get out of this cabin if I want to avoid talking to her about selling my place.
When I return, she’s waiting for me, something uncertain on her face. “Where are you going?”
“Just out,” I say. “I’ll be back.”
“You’re going to leave me here?” Her eyes go wide with her question, as though I have any choice in the matter. “Alone?” she adds, and I raise my eyebrows at her.
