Page 7 of Wren's Winter

“No, she’s a…”

“A Burmese mountain dog. Or one of those big mastiff dogs?”

I coughed to hide my laugh at her exuberance. “She’s definitely not any of those. Maizie is a mutt through and through. I couldn’t even tell you her breed.”

“But she’s big, right? You look like the kind of guy who would have a big rough dog.”

I pictured little wiry-haired Maizie. On her pile of special pillows, the hot pink quilt she had commandeered as her own lay beside her stash of small squeaky toys in her wicker basket beside her special formula kibble. “That’s not how I would describe her.”

“You should introduce me tomorrow.” She opened the front door, leaning against it. Her hand on the door, she bit her lower lip and glanced between our two houses. The urge to pull her lip from her teeth came suddenly. Strike that down.

“Oh, um…maybe?” I stuttered for words. Was she asking to see me again? What was the right thing to say in this scenario? “I’ll be over there if you need anything. And lock this deadbolt. No one or nothing is getting through it unless you want them to.”

“Nothing? Not a ravenous bear?”

“No bears or nosy neighbors.”

Her face softened, the flicker of a smile playing on those full lips. “The last thing I’d call you is nosy.”

“What would you call me?” I wasn’t sure where this bold question came from, but it came out before I could take it back.

“That remains to be seen.” Her bright smile widened, dimples deepening on her cheeks. The sight of it was a gut punch. A heat pulsed through my chest. It didn’t matter if I was standing on a snowy porch or if the wind was picking up, whipping shards of ice off the rail. I was all fire.

I needed to leave before I embarrassed myself in front of this beautiful woman. Clearing my throat, I motioned to the doorknob. “Lock this, Birdie.”

If she had a reaction to the nickname, she didn’t show it. She tapped the bandage on her forehead with two fingers. “Yes, sir.”

At the base of the stairs, I paused, waiting for the telltale click of the deadbolt in the lock before traveling across the icy road to my home. Letting myself into the house, the wagging and nervous bundle of my dog greeted me, jumping up until her front paws were on my knees.

“I’m home, Maizie Girl. I’m home.” Petting her coarse fur, I glanced at the house across the street, hoping to see one last glimpse of Wren.

Wren

Dinner was naked tortellini, which turned out to be expired after I ate half of them, and a squished granola bar I fished out of the bottom of my suitcase. With a half-full belly, I fell asleep under three heavy blankets from the hall closet and woke up sweaty halfway through the night.

The fire Adrian and I made was still blazing in the wood stove, but I placed another log on the fire in case. My arms crossed over my chest, I stared at the flickering flames, heat warming my cheeks not from the fire but from embarrassment. The man likely thought I was a complete ninny. What kind of adult didn’t know how to build a fire? What did he say he taught? High school? No wonder he was good at teaching me. He had experience with immature girls.

No. That wasn’t fair. Sure, I wasn’t a firestarter, but who even had a wood-burning stove these days? It’s like crocheting a blanket instead of buying one at the store. I bet Adrian Winter couldn’t make a killer charcuterie board for under thirty bucks.

Yeah, the circumstances of our meeting didn’t paint me in the best light, but why would I care what this stranger thought of me? Even if he had intense blue-green eyes and callouses on his fingers that felt so good on my skin. And muscular arms that can lift a suitcase as if it was nothing and...

Nope, nope. Don’t start daydreaming about the hunky man across the street.

A quick glance at my phone showed me I had one bar of service and seven unread messages, three from Buck. The towing company I called the night before said they’d have the dispatcher call me back in the morning.

Flopping onto the futon, I scanned the other messages I got. My friend Autumn sent daily affirmation she sent to our group text. Today’s was I trust that everything will be fine in due time. Summer, my best friend, sent me a personal text, freaking out and asked for confirmation that I hadn’t been eaten by a cougar or dumped in the woods by a serial killer. I ignored the affirmation—we all did—but let Summer know neither happened and that I managed to put my car into a snowbank. If the message even went through, it would be hours until she saw them. As I was about to put my phone down, my finger hovered over Buck’s icon. The picture was one of him at the lake. We had spent the day on his parent’s boat, him drinking heavily and me trying not to throw up from the seasickness as he made large wakes.

“You don’t need to scream like that. I wasn’t going that fast.” Six months later, I could still feel the rising urge to ask him to let me off and the ultimate burying of my nausea. Staring at the picture now, it was as if it were a different man on that boat. That we were different people. The pictures I posted of that day are gold-beamed visions of a couple, carefree and in love. His nose slightly sunburned because “sunscreen is for losers” and my hair pulled free of my two braids. My sun hat was somewhere below the lake surface because he refused to go back and look for it.

Dozens of albums, I made on my phone, carefully organized for easy posting accessibility. Arranged by season, I’d post these pictures with cute sayings, tagging him.

To my valentine! You have my heart!

One more year with my forever man!

The only person I want under my tree.

Bile rose in my throat. All these pictures of us together. He would groan and complain before getting in them and flashing a breezy smile.

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