Page 17 of Goode Tidings

When I unpack my things later, after Oliver has gone to sleep, it's with that odd, detached sense of being in a hotel room. Bras and underwear in a dresser drawer that is not mine, shirts hung from a rack that also holds Callum's shoved-aside clothing.

Twenty minutes later, my half-read book is on the nightstand and my recently used electric toothbrush stands beside the bathroom sink. I am tucked between fresh sheets, found exactly where Callum said they would be.

It's safe to say that, so far, none of this has gone the way I planned.

CHAPTER 8

Callum

Is there an Andes Mint included with my pasta dish?

Unbelievable. This is what happens when a man spends two years shut away from the physical world. He forgets how to have casual, non-idiotic conversation with the opposite sex.

Why didn't I simply say thank you? I bet Eden is in that cabin right now telling her son that the guy who was squatting in their cabin is, among other things, a bumbling fool.

At least I'm a bumbling fool with a full belly tonight. If it weren't for Eden's generosity and thoughtfulness, I'd be nursing a stomachache from the stale protein bar I thought would be my dinner.

CHAPTER 9

Callum

Note to self: that recliner should be thrown in the lake, or burned. Maybe burned and then thrown into the lake. My lower back is reminding me that I'm thirty-four years old. I officially have a new respect for the elderly.

Retracting the reclined part of the chair, I take my time standing up. First, I put my head in my hands and sigh. Then, I rub my palms around my face while a closed-mouth growl vibrates my throat. Next, I (carefully) stand up and listen to my back crack.

I happen to know there's a big, comfortable bed not too far from here. Must be nice to sleep in it. Maybe I can ask my former stepbrother's ex-wife if it was to her liking.

Not only is a woman sleeping in my bed, but a stranger to boot. I can count what I know about Eden the Andes Mint on one hand:

She's a single mom.

She was married to Justin (how did that dweeb get a woman like her?).

She has a little brother (which explains the take charge attitude).

She likes to drink coffee as the sun rises and look out at the lake from the private patio off the main bedroom (my bedroom).

I know this because now, as I stand bleary-eyed in the kitchenette, preparing a single cup of coffee from my third-rate one-cup maker, movement at the cabin catches my gaze. Bent slightly at the waist, I peer out the glass pane door. Eden, in an oversized T-shirt with a graphic I can't decipher from this distance, stands at the edge of my patio.

I've decided to keep thinking of it as my home. I know it sounds absurd, and possibly unbalanced, but I put a lot of heart and soul into that place, not to mention money. Before happening upon the cabin, I hadn't known a thing about home repairs or maintenance. My knowledge stopped at understanding the difference between flathead and Philips screwdrivers. Now I'm a regular at the hardware store, which is, coincidentally, the place where I have to do the most fibbing. It comes part and parcel with talking about the cabin. Anywhere else in town, and there's not much I need to say to anybody. A grunted greeting, a nod of thanks, and I'm on my way.

Eden sets her coffee cup (ahem, my coffee cup) on the wooden railing. Did she take advantage of my stupidly expensive coffee machine's highest potential? I hope so, otherwise she'd really be pouring salt in my wound. It's the only piece of fancy machinery in that kitchen that I know how to use, and I'd love a drink from it this morning, made just the way I like it with the touch of a button. A flat white, two sugars. The coffee I keep here in the office is for occasions when I cannot break away from work. Usually, I head up to the cabin and make a fresh coffee every time I'm ready for a pause from the website.

I sip from my mug, wincing at the bitter taste. Across the yard, Eden lifts her hands in the air. She grabs each wrist in turn, giving her arms a gentle tug in the opposite direction. Her eyes close, and I can tell by the lifting of her shoulders she is taking a deep breath. If I were nearby, I'd tell her how much I love the smell of pine in the morning. But I'm not. I'm hidden away in my office, in a time out of sorts.

Let's be honest, I wouldn't tell her I love the smell of pine. I'd stare at her pretty face and the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and that cute little dimple in her left cheek and then my brain cells would pull a reverse Big Bang and disappear into the ether. My tongue would loll out of the side of my mouth and she'd regret coming to this cabin more than I'm certain she already does.

Forcing my attention off Eden, I grab a frozen burrito from the small fridge and pop it into the microwave. Right now I'm wishing I would've had a little self-restraint last night with Eden's baked ziti. I'd definitely have it for breakfast. I'd even eat it cold. That's how good it was. Home-cooked meals are scarce around here.

My gaze wanders up to the house, my stomach entertaining the possibility of leftovers, when my eyes snag on Eden a second time. She has shucked her shirt, and appears to be wearing a white sports bra. Through the slats in the wooden railing I see red fabric, probably soft pants suitable for sleeping. Makes me think of those blue jeans she was wearing last night on the dock, the fabric loose and worn, leaving me wondering if they were soft to the touch.

The timer on the microwave dings behind me, jarring in the quiet of the morning, but I ignore it.

Eden presses her fingertips to the sky, proceeding to execute a short yoga sequence. At least, that's what I think it is. Her movements are sure and strong. Fluid. The early morning light finds her as she shifts positions, casting a warm glow over her. She's facing the lake with her arms bent like a cactus when her gaze laser focuses on my office. On me. Can she see in here from that distance? I don't think so.

I glance away toward the counter, the coffee machine, anything else, but my attention doesn’t quite settle. It’s not that I’m trying to stare at her. It’s just hard not to notice when someone is that…peaceful. I straighten and back up, shrinking deeper into the small space.

I gulp down the terribly bitter coffee, chew through a burrito that is cold in the center and overcooked on the outside corners, and mull over the only answer I've come to about this predicament of my own making.