Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
This isn’t my bed; it’s an oddly comfortable sleeper sofa. And those aren’t my dogs. I’m not even sure they are dogs, but it doesn’t matter because they’re zooming around on the mountain of blankets, looking like over-caffeinated Ewoks or teddy bears, and I need them to be mine.
Have I mentioned teddy bears recently?
I couldn’t have, because that didn’t happen. I remember imagining it happening, which is the only thing that makes any sense now that I’m room temperature and back in my right mind.
My dreams about him are usually more sexual and rarely plausible, but not even my subconscious would expect me to believe that the guy whose cock I sucked one night just happened to rescue me in a snowstorm this far away from the city two months later.
There’s coincidence, and then there’s that. The plot line would be laughed out of my survival tragicomedy. Too contrived, they’d say, whoever they are. And they’d be right.
It’s not that much of a coincidence if he’s dating someone at the lodge.
Right. I close my eyes on a silent groan, because my almost-hookup being someone else’s plus-one at this event would be on brand for me. But the longer I consider that possibility, the more I have my doubts.
No, it’s not just wishful thinking. Bex works for Tanaka, and he’s very involved in the personal business of his fiancé’s family, which means I’ve heard all the gossip. And what I’ve heard is that there are only a few single members left. People actually make bets on who’ll be the next to fall to Tanaka’s machinations, but no one is holding their breath with the final three.
One moved back from Florida and, instead of rejoining the police force, got a construction job and just received his six-year sobriety chip. He never dates. Another is focused on his son and counseling firefighters recovering from injuries. The writer who hangs out at the pub just wrote a fantasy novel based on him, which I can’t wait to read. Maybe it will tell me why people still whisper about his handsome manny disappearing so abruptly a few years ago.
And then there’s Kate, who used to go through men and women like it was her job, but has shut down her social media accounts and been swearing since that awful night that those days are over if Bex would only give her a second chance. A real one this time.
I might be too emotionally invested in that last one to offer my opinion.
The point is, I can’t see my guy with any of them.
Can’t or won’t?
It doesn’t matter. It isn’t my business who he is or why he’s here with these two adorable teddy bear dogs. Right now, I need to focus on where I am and how quickly I can get back to the lodge, quit in a dramatic huff and head home to be with my friends. Can a person cancel their sabbatical mid-sabbatical? I imagine it’s a lot of paperwork and a pain in the butt for scheduling. What would they think if I showed back up after two months away? And what are the odds that the assistant principal suddenly comes down with a raging case of something horrible with boils that has him using all his sick days and vacation time until summer so I never have to see him again?
Not great, Winnie.
With my head still pounding and the dogs still frolicking on the bed, I cautiously survey the room for clues and exit routes. It’s not like I’m expecting bloody chains or terrifying taxidermy, but with the way this weekend is going for me so far, anything is possible. What I see instead is photo-spread-ready furniture and…wood. So much wood. Wood is the word of the day.
Even in my pants, though it’s not quite hardwood yet. It must be one of those life-affirming reactions to a near-death experience.
I ignore it and take in what I suppose most people would call “rustic chic” instead of “We only had one building material, so we utilized the hell out of it.” It’s actually not that bad. I mean, wood, yes, but not that dark seventies paneling that makes every room feel three times smaller and a smidge more murdery. This room is big and bright and attractive, with those rounded-pine-log walls and colorful mismatched throw rugs on the distressed wood floors.
A staircase with steps that look like halved logs rises up to an open loft above, highlighting the knotty wood beams that cross the vaulted ceiling.
Wood. Wood. Wood.
Thankfully, the large modern kitchen to my right, with its quartz countertops and tiled floor, breaks up the motif. Beside me, tall bay windows and a glass door reveal the snowstorm still raging beyond the covered porch outside. It looks like it’s gotten a lot worse out there.