Page 136 of Gunnar

“You can see it all from the lodge,” Orson grunts.

Torin barks out a laugh.

“What’s so freaking funny?”

“You,” Torin says. “You miserable bastard. You’re like the Grinch of spring.”

“Any season,” Gunnar adds dryly.

Orson folds his arms. “Can’t see the point of going out in the world when we’ve got everything we need right here.”

“Some of us prefer chairs that don’t feel carved out of stone,” Gunnar says.

Orson snarls and falls silent.

I smile and turn back to the window, watching the mountain come alive around us.

Before long, we pull into the store’s lot and Gunnar cuts the engine.

The place is enormous—glass, metal, carts rattling over asphalt, people weaving in and out through the sliding doors.

Gunnar climbs out first.

I follow, the warm air hitting me as I step out, carrying the smell of asphalt and civilization.

Torin stretches as he gets out beside us, taking everything in.

Orson climbs out last.

He slams the door and glares at the building like it personally offended him.

I walk over before he can retreat.

“It’s fine,” I say.

His eyes flick to mine.

I reach for his arm, just a brief touch.

“Stay with me,” I add.

He holds my gaze for a second, then nods.

The doors slide open and we walk straight into the light and space of it—things laid out in endless displays, people wandering in every direction.

Torin slows, looking around.

“This is… something,” he says.

“Stay close,” I tell him, grabbing a cart and pushing it toward him.

He takes it automatically.

“Why does everyone keep looking at us?” he asks.

At least six women have turned to stare at us in the last thirty seconds.

One of them walks straight into a lamp display.