He threw me a funny look, unzipped his big coat and put it away, then grabbed his slippers, set them on the floor by the bench, where he removed his boots, and replaced them with the slippers.
Watching his precise movements, it occurred to me that he had to keep his place neat or it might trip him up. I hadn’t been in any condition to notice last night, aside from a general impression of small and dark and rustic. As I took in the details, now, it became clear that rustic didn’t necessarily mean rough-hewn. In fact, the light coming in made the place downright bright and it was remarkably clean and…fresh.
By the time he’d put on his slippers and looked up to meet my eyes, the humor I’d felt earlier had morphed into something else. Not any one clear emotion, but a mess of feelings in my belly and chest, so mixed up it wasn’t clear if I’d end up in laughter or tears, or maybe doing something completely off the wall, like pounding the floor.
What would this morning have been like, if I’d made it home last night and awakened in my own bed?
After being attacked and leaving my job? Bad. Really, really bad.
He went to the kitchen, where he lit the stove, grabbed something from the fridge, and went to work.
I took another minute to look around.
This looked like pretty new construction, actually, with built-in details that had to be specially-made for him. The bench beside the front door, for example, and the shoe cubby beneath it. The kitchen was entirely made of smooth, streamlined wood. White pine? I could tell you the weight of a sheet of card stock from ten feet away, but lumber? I had no idea. The dining table was the same type of construction—sturdy and simple. Whitewash the whole thing and it would look like that modern Swedish stuff people went crazy over.
The dark, plain grey sofa was probably the oldest thing in the room, aside from a rag rug in front of the fire, and the wood stove itself.
I liked it—the high ceiling, the warm, knotty wood, the feeling that it belonged up here on the mountain, blended in, unlike the ostentatious eyesore I’d gone to last night.
“Eggs okay?”
I blinked. “Um, yeah. But you don’t have to—”
“You like ’em scrambled?”
“Yes.” I watched him work for a few minutes. “So… What do you do for a living?”
“Arborist.”
My brows flew up. Man, the guy wasn’t kidding about not letting that leg impede him. “You climb trees and stuff?”
“I do. You?”
“No. No, I do not climb trees.”
“Should try it. Quite the view from up there. And it’s kind of a rush.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve had my share of rushes this week.”
“What’s your job?”
I flushed. Oh, that was probably what he’d meant, rather than whether or not I climbed trees.
“Marketing Manager for a local company. Project 54. We create Integration Platforms for—” Anxiety hit me like a punch to the gut. “Actually, I don’t have a job, do I?” Something a lot like relief filled the empty places in the wake of that wave of panic. “I’m currently seeking opportunities in Marketing and Communications. Preferably at a female-owned company.” My own, one day.
He eyed me for a few seconds, without speaking, probably checking me for signs of an imminent breakdown.
“It’s strangely freeing, actually, not to work for that creep anymore.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Investor profit. I’m so tired of pretending to care about that soulless crap.”
He made a pained face. “Can’t imagine.” He walked to the built-in dining table, set two plates down, then made another trip with the coffee. Did he have a limp? Not really. A long gait, heavy footsteps. Nothing I would have noticed out in the world. “You okay to sit here, or you prefer the couch?”
“Oh,” I started, guiltily. I’d been staring at his legs, hadn’t I? Was I distilling the man to a disability, rather than the person inside? I wouldn’t look below the belt again. Wouldn’t think about it. “I’m coming.”
“Be right back.” He disappeared into his bedroom and re-emerged wearing long pants and buttoning a flannel shirt, his face a little flushed. He looked up and met my eyes briefly before settling across from me. “Sorry.”
