“I’m such a moron,” I complained to myself as I did the breakfast dishes at the sink at the back of the cabin.
The space I was renting had three acres and two buildings.
First building, the cabin, which on the bottom floor was an open living room and kitchen with a closed off utility room to one side of the kitchen that led out to the car port (or more aptly described as a truck port), and on the other side, a pantry and a tiny half bath.
On the top, creating the ceiling of the kitchen (the living room space went up two stories) was an open loft.My bedroom, flanked by a bathroom and a closet.
To get up there, you used a spiral staircase off to the side of the kitchen next to the door to the powder room.
Since I sold pretty much everything I owned in Florida before I moved here, it had taken me months to find the right pieces to fill the space, none of it new, except the blue corduroy couch that faced the stone hearth over which was mounted (also new) a flat-screen TV.
For two months, I’d lived on mattresses on the floor up in the loft, and for another month, the stuff that should go in drawers was in boxes until I’d discovered, and oftentimes refurbished, the furniture that was in there and elsewhere in the cabin.
I didn’t consider it done.But as much as I loved this place, if I could make a go of my store in town and decided to stay in Misted Pines, I wasn’t going to continue to rent, and I knew the wild character who was my landlord, Mrs.Matthews, wouldn’t agree to sell me this place.Thus, I was making do with what I had until I made my decision about staying or going and settled, wherever that may be.
The other building—and even as awesome as the cabin was, that other building was a big part of what made me love my rental—was the big workshop that sat about twenty yards off to the north side of my front door.
It didn’t have heat, but it did have electricity, and it was plenty roomy for my needs.
Oh, and there was no one around.
The drive into the property next to mine was at least a good quarter, if not half mile away, and the next drive was a good half mile up the road on the other side of street, whatever that property might be, resting higher up the mountain.
There was no landscaping at my place.
The front of my property was a vast expanse of dirt, some boulders, and surrounding it were thick pines.
My plans for the day had been to continue work on refinishing the bureau in the workshop.I’d stripped the paint the day before, unearthing a gorgeous walnut, but there was a lot of detailed sanding work to be done before I could start finishing the piece.
However, after my Post-it Lover had left me that ludicrously insulting note on my own danged pillowcase, I decided it was probably best not to be in a solitary space, alone with my thoughts.Instead, I’d motor into town.Check in with Abigail at the store.Grab some groceries.Maybe hit a few thrift shops.
Anything to take my mind off what happened the night before.
Oh sure, I was far from some naïve schoolgirl having been taken for one hell of a ride my first time.
I’d gotten picked up at a bar.
I had sex with a man three times, he’d gone down on me twice, I’d done the same to him once.It was energetic, sweaty, pulse-pounding, world-rocking, fiery, consuming, all the good things.
But even if he’d followed me into my house, I’d shrugged off my coat and told him, “I’m Mabel,” he hadn’t returned the favor of sharing his name.
Nope.
Instead, he’d kissed me.
And since he was also a deliriously good kisser, that was that.
There weren’t breaks where we had words of getting to know you.
It was all sex all the time.Even in our recovery times, there was foreplay happening.
I’d wanted to get picked up.
He picked me up.
We both got what was expected.
And then he left.
