She lifted her head. Flushed, wrecked, grinning.
“Your cabin is not designed for this,” she said.
“It’s held up fine.”
“We destroyed a coffee pot. Last night I dented the hallway baseboard with my spine. Your bathroom door doesn’t close properly anymore. We are a structural hazard.”
“I’ll fix the baseboard.”
“My hero.” She dropped her chin on my ribs. “So you’re a builder. That’s your love language. You just build things.”
“I build things that need building.” I could have framed her a wall right then. Wired the loft, hung the window, built a crib with my bare hands. And it still wouldn’t have been enough to say what I meant, because I was a man who could sand a nursery floor in silence for a week but couldn’t get three words out without sounding like I was ordering feed at the supply store.
“Like nurseries,” she said. Her voice softened. “Like ginger tea that you think I didn’t notice.”
“The loft floor needed sanding.”
“The loft floor needed sanding because you’re building a nursery for a baby nobody told you about.”
I tucked her hair behind her ear. “Somebody read my essay and drove to Montana. That was enough to start.”
She leaned into me and closed her eyes. Outside, the early foragers were heading out, that low hum that never stopped until dark. The creek was running with the last of the snowmelt. A varied thrush sang from the ridge, two notes, the same as every morning.
“I need to call my mother,” she said.
“So do I.”
She looked up. “Your mom?”
“My parents are in Billings. My mother is a retired school librarian, Flora. She reads every book that crosses her desk. She has opinions about parenting that she will deliver regardless of whether anyone asked. And my father is a retired county extension agent who will want to know the exact dimensions of the garden you designed and whether the soil drainage meets his standards.”
“Your dad is going to quiz me on soil drainage?”
“He’s going to love you. That’s worse. Gene Morrow doesn’t love easily and when he does he shows up with a truck full of compost and doesn’t leave.”
She lit up. “What about Nate?”
“My brother will have one question.”
“Which is?”
“Is she pretty.”
“And what will you say?”
I looked at her. Dark hair wrecked on my pillow. A crease on her cheek from the pillowcase. Naked and grinning at me like she’d won and hadn’t known she was competing.
“I’ll tell him to mind his own business.”
“Atlas Morrow. That is not the answer.”
“It’s the answer he’s getting. He doesn’t need details.”
“You are the worst communicator on this mountain. Including the bees. The bees at least dance.”
I almost smiled. She saw it — she always saw it — and her grin got bigger.
“I also need to call my mother,” she said. “She’s going to want your dental records, your credit score, and your stance on co-sleeping. Minimum.”
