1
Lucien
Thecabinhaschangedsince the last time I was here. Last time, it was a ramshackle assortment of logs that had been stacked on top of each other. A rudimentary dwelling that was no more than a step up from a tent in the woods. A space that tested the very limits of my ability to present myself as laid-back and outdoorsy.
Two years ago, three days up here in the mountains saw me ending my trip a day early, and rushing back to city lights and civilization as fast as I could. It took a very long, very hot candlelit bath, a large glass of wine, and an overnight collagen facemask to bring me back to a semblance of myself. Even then, it took a few days and several double rinses to shampoo the smell of flannel and pine needles from my hair.
In the lead-up to this trip, Jensen assured me ad nauseam that the cabin had undergone extensive renovations. It’sthe only reason I even entertained the idea of coming back. He was elaborate in his praise, but he’s prone to exaggeration, so honestly, I wasn’t expecting anything quite on this scale.
The living spaces have been gutted. Walls torn down to reveal a vast open-concept space with high ceilings. The dark timber that clad everything before—and I really, really do mean everything—is gone. So are the pokey windows. Wide bleached oak boards now run seamlessly from floor to ceiling and large black-framed windows give the space a sleek, modern feel.
From what I can see, most of the furniture is new too. That, along with vaulted ceilings I never noticed before, makes the place feel spacious and a lot bigger than it did.
I shuck off my shoes at the entrance and head toward the bedrooms in my socks, rolling my luggage behind me.
Bill, the taxi driver who brought me up here, had a lot to say about how many bags I packed for a long weekend. He was one of those alphas who had a lot to say about a lot of things. When he wasn’t complaining about my luggage, he was banging on about the road and the weather.
Small-town people can be so dramatic about the weather, can’t they? Ugh, it’s exhausting. I think it’s because so little happens in their lives that they fixate on seasonal changes as a source of entertainment.
Anyway, I’m here now, and that’s the main thing.
I make my way down the hall, poking my head into each of the bedrooms leading off it. There are four of them, a small one at the end of the hall that Jensen said he’d take, and three others that are similar in terms of size and décor. It’s nice because it means Paul won’t be able to complain about the room he gets. I put my bags in the one with a nice view of the forest and sit on the bed to catch my breath.
There’s a chance Bill was right about my luggage.
Still, better to be prepared than sorry when you’re willfully heading into the middle of nowhere. That’s what I always say.
I check my phone, feeling mildly perplexed when I don’t see theBad Bitches Getawaygroup chat at the top of the list. My friends have been messaging about the trip nonstop for weeks, so it’s unusual not to have unread messages pop up.
They must be en route. Poor things. They’re probably having a nightmare finding a driver who can be assed to drive them up here this late in the day. Bill was definitely reluctant to make the trip, and it was early afternoon when we left the station. Hopefully, they’re able to find a driver who’s a little less work-shy.
I’d have waited for them if I’d known they were going to be late, but I have a long history of being the one who’slate. We have an agreement in our friend group that they’ll travel together while I make my own way, so I don’t keep everyone waiting.
It’s a strange feeling to be early. Not bad, but not nice enough that I can see what all the fuss is about.
I’m not really sure what to do with myself.
Maybe I should unpack.
Nah. Might have a little nap instead.
A husky voice infiltrates my dreams, startling me. “Lucien, is that you?”
He’s on the porch when I get there. A solid wall of testosterone. A brick shithouse of a man. Branson Lawlor, Jensen’s older brother. A dusty-blond alpha with an old-fashioned face and an imposing aura. He’s wearing a heavy brown jacket, jeans, and a flannel shirt. Obviously, he’s wearing a flannel shirt. I was bored at work once and decided to compare all the times I’ve seen him and the number of times I’ve seen him wearing a flannel, and as suspected, the two numbers were one and the same.
I told Paul, and we had a good laugh about it.
Branson scrapes mud and sleet off his work boots, studying me with what looks like a fairly big question mark.
When he’s satisfied with the state of his boots, he dips his head and enters the cabin, straightening once inside. My head tilts back as I meet his gaze.
He’s tall. I’ll give him that.
“How did you know it was me?” I ask to make conversation more than anything else.
Branson is one of those people who’s not particularly easy to be around. He’s difficult to talk to. Hard to draw out. He has a very big, obvious presence, if you know what I mean. A presence that takes up a lot of space. He never makes any real effort to insert himself into our group, and I think he prefers hovering around the periphery and keeping to himself.
It’s not that he’s a bad guy. I’m not saying that. He’s fine. He’s perfectly fine. Jensen swears and declares he’s the greatest big brother anyone’s ever had. Jensen’s an omega too,andhe dated me for over a year way back when, so he’s obviously an excellent judge of character.
