Page 272 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
“Thanks for driving. You should relax for a bit,” he says.
“I need to stretch my legs. And then we need to hit the road again.”
Owen rubs his ear, and his brow creases. “What? Hit the road again?”
As I unlock the door, I wave my hand behind us, indicating the snow-covered streets. But it’s only an inch or so. It’s not slick yet.
I plaster on a can-do grin. “We’ll just do our thing here, but we can still make it to Nisha’s tonight, don’t you think? We can hang out with them, pour some wine, have a charcuterie board. She makes great charcuterie.”
Owen pulls ayou’ve-got-to-be-kidding-meface. “Seriously?”
I scoff, gesturing dramatically to the cabin. “Well, she does, and we don’t want to be stuck here. Our friends are waiting for us. I mean, do you want to be stuck?”
Owen says nothing. He gets out, shuts the door.
I get out too. “Do you?” I press.
“It’s not as if I woke up this morning thinkingplease let me be trapped in a fucking chateau tonight.”
That only bolsters my point. Neither one of us wants to be here. “So, we’ll be in and out. And get back on the road.”
We walk through the coating of snow to the front steps, then he says, “Yeah, whatever you say.”
Yup. This will be a quick trip, and we’ll be on our way.
Safe and sound in a house full of people.
All the other people I don’t want to kiss and touch.
All the other people I don’t want to spend the night with all alone.
9
RIVER
“I’m a polar bear. Wait. Make that a popsicle,” I say, shivering in this icebox of a house.
“You’re so California,” Owen says, as he shuts the door after me. But his voice is flat.
“Says the guy from Vancouver,” I point out as I head to the kitchen, opening cupboards with renewed vigor.
“I’m hardly from there. I just lived there till I was eight,” he says, joining me in the task, jerking open the cabinets.
“But it made you sturdy. You’re like a mountain man,” I say, trying to keep the mood light.
“Yes, River. I’m practically a lumberjack,” he says drily, as he heads to the sink, turning the faucet on a smidge.
Tantalizing images flick past me thanks to that word—lumberjack. Owen in flannel. Owen chopping wood. Owen in front of the fire. A low rumble escapes my throat.
My friend snaps his gaze to me. “Do you have a lumberjack fetish?”
No, I have ayoufetish.
Apparently, I’m just fully realizing it today.
And it’s radically fucking with my head.
Best to deny everything. That’ll keep me focused. “No, I don’t.” I gesture to theTravel & Leisurecabin that requires gawking. The kitchen is modern and new—white counters and a steel fridge, and it opens into a sunken living room. A stone hearth frames that room, rising to the ceiling. My eyes travel up, taking in the logs for days above us, and yet this is hardly a log cabin.