Page 72 of Drowning in Darkness

Not because she asked. She didn’t. Not because I want to see that look on her face again. That would be a problem. But because unused equipment deteriorates, and maintenance matters.

I’m an excellent liar to all, but apparently, I am becoming less skilled at lying to myself.

TWENTY-TWO

STEPHANIE

When he says he’s going outside to work on his wood, do not laugh.

In the orbit of a man who can literally do everything, I feel useless. What can I offer a man like him? Trauma and scars? Nightmares? Sleepwalking? Oh, and the cherry on top—a stalker. I’m quite the catch. One you would want to throw back in the lake the second you pulled it free.

He rinses my new favorite mug and makes me a fresh tea before preparing a triple-decker chicken sourdough sandwich with all the veggies one could hope for, with a bowl ofwashed, plump strawberries next to it.

“This bread is amazing. Which store is it from?” I wonder between bites as I shift on the bar stool I’ve decided is mine.

“None. I made it.”

He delivers another blow to my flailing femininity. “Well, congrats on being a star baker.”

His lips twitch as he takes a seat next to me and devours his sandwich, one huge bite at a time. That man’s mouth is a marvel. I’m still on my first half.

“What?”

“Did you even taste it?”

“Of course.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“It’s food, Stephanie, not sex.”

He blinks like he can’t believe he just said that. That makes me snort before I can contain it. A moment later, he’s up and cleaning the already sparkling surfaces like he’s prepping for an open viewing day. It wouldn’t be the house I was interested in viewing—it would be him.

He runs a hand through his hair and glances to the side. “I’m going to check on the wood.”

“Another sexual reference?” I tease. “Do you need help?” Who am I kidding? I have almost zero experience in that arena, and the small taste I have had should have put me off for life. It has—had—until I met him.

Maybe it’s because he’s off-limits. Or because everyone tells me how terrible of a person he is. I’ve never been the girl to fall for the proverbial bad guy. It always baffled me how women flocked around them. If a guy treats me mean, I leave. He’s not worth my time. But James isn’t mean or bad. Good people do terrible things. That’s a tale as old as time.

He flies out of the rear door, and I tilt my head as he passes by the window, an ax swung over his shoulder like we are in a real-life fairy tale. Okay, now this I need to see. Taking my plate, because there’s no way I am not devouring this sandwich, I cross the room to lean against the window and watch the best show on earth—a man trying to hammer out his feelings by splitting wood. Next he’ll be rubbing sticks together and calling himself a pioneer. I eyeball the tall stack of prepared wood next to the lodge. Are we planning a bonfire or supplying whatever local town we are close to with their entire winter season’s worth of wood?

He toils away, his back to me as he breaks log after log. I continue to eat my sandwich with my gaze trained on this fabulous male creature out in the wild. I should narrate it. I could make a small fortune.

His shirt rises a little, offering me a peek of his bare skin. I frown at the red mark that disappears as he straightens. Is he injured? He turns and meets my eyes. They are startling, intense, devastating. I could lose myself in their depths. And now I am a poet about eyes. Give me a break, brain. Life is not a romance novel. It’s not even an episode from a low-budget romcom series. It’s dark, hard, cold, and about survival first. But I’m done with just breathing to get through to the next day. I need to live, and with that comes danger and the unknown, but also the possibility of more.

I finish the last bite of my sandwich with my attention still fixed on the increasingly impressive display of wood chopping taking place beyond the window. It really shouldn’t be this attractive watching a man swing an ax through innocent logs, yet here I am, questioning whether I should be taking notes for future reference.

I shake my head to snap myself out of whatever spell this man casts over me with barely a glance. “Get it together, Steph,” I murmur as I carry my plate back to the island. I look down at the muted colors I’m wearing and decide I need to be truer to myself, even when I’m on the run from a monster. My gaze catches on the open laptop on the breakfast bar.

James said he’d order me clothes, but he’d also blanked when I mentioned fluffy socks, so there was every chance he missed a few things. Besides, he was outside, and I had no intention of interrupting whatever deeply personal conversation he was having with firewood and living out his mountain-man lifestyle.

“I’m helping,” I tell the empty kitchen.

The screen wakes beneath my fingertips, revealing exactly what I’d expected. The shopping basket is still open, filled almost entirely with practical clothing. Walking boots. Thick sweaters. Thermal leggings. Waterproof pants. The man had apparently dressed me for an expedition to the Arctic or a zombie apocalypse.

I scroll through the order with a smile. “Honestly, James.”

A few clicks later, and a pale-blue knitted dress finds its way into the basket, followed by a soft cream cardigan that looks cosy enough to justify the hefty price tag. You can’t compromise on a good cardigan. I hesitate over a matching underwear set before adding it too. Plus another. I have a weakness for silk and lace.