"I'm restless," she says, pulling out a small, canvas roll. "And I feel useless. I can't fix the power, I can't shovel the snow becauseI have no boots, and you won't let me cook because you think I'll burn the cabin down."
"I know you will."
She ignores me and unrolls the canvas on the sturdy oak dining table.
"What," I say, my voice flat, "is that?"
She lifts her chin. "My tools. I inherited the cabin, remember? I came prepared."
I walk over, towering over her. The head had snapped off yesterday, and she’d clearly tried to wedge it back on.
"This isn't preparation, Avery. This is a hazard. You hit a nail with this, the head flies off and takes out your eye."
"It works fine," she insists, snatching it back. "I was going to use the screwdriver for the pantry door hinge," she corrects, picking up the one with the yellow plastic handle. She marches over to the pantry door.
I cross my arms and lean against the table. The predator in me enjoys this too much. Watching her struggle. Watching her determination.
She fits the screwdriver into the screw head. It slips immediately. She curses under her breath—a soft, creative string of words. She tries again. She doesn't have the leverage. She’s standing on her tiptoes, her arm extended, the flannel riding up just enough to show the curve of her hip.
My mouth goes dry.
"You're stripping the screw," I say.
"I am not."
"You are. You're not pushing hard enough."
"I'm pushing as hard as I can!" She grunts, twisting. The tool slips again, skittering across the wood. She drops her hand. "Damn it."
I push off the table. I move toward her, my strides eating up the space. "Move."
"No. I want to do it."
"You can't do it."
"Show me, then," she challenges, spinning to face me. Her eyes are blazing. "Don't just tell me I'm useless. Show me how to do it."
The air in the room thickens, charged with static. She’s standing her ground, looking up at me like she’s not afraid of the monster in her kitchen.
"You want a lesson?" My voice drops an octave, rumbling in my chest.
"Yes."
I step closer. She doesn't back down, though her breath hitches. I’m close enough to smell her sleep-warm skin. I reach past her, grabbing the screwdriver from her hand. Our fingers brush. A spark snaps between us, hot and sharp.
"Turn around," I order.
She hesitates, then turns back to the door.
I move in behind her. I don't touch her, not yet. I hover, my chest inches from her back, caging her between my body and the wood. I encompass her. She’s so small. I could crush her, but all I want to do is cover her.
"The problem," I murmur, bringing my hand up over her shoulder to place the tip of the screwdriver into the slot, "is your angle. You have no torque."
She trembles. I see the goosebumps rise on her neck. "Okay."
"Put your hand on the handle."
She reaches up. Her hand is dainty.
