Page 2 of Own Me, Outlaw
Well, if it’s not, it’s going to make one hell of a story someday.
I ease the window open with a groan of old wood and wet glass. It gives.
“Okay,” I whisper. “This is fine. I’m not breaking in. I’m just… making a creative entrance.”
I shove my tote through first, then hoist myself up with all the grace of a rhinoceros. My foot slips, my hip knocks into the sill, and I tumble inside with a shriek and a crash.
Something shatters.
I land flat on my back on a braided rug, staring up at the timber ceiling. “Ow…”
The room is dim, lit only by the flickering fire in the hearth. The fire that’s already going.
Is that weird for a rental? Or is the host just really considerate? Did they start the fire so it’d be ready when I arrived?
I sit up slowly, heart banging in my chest. There's a broken clay pot beside me, the potting soil scattered across the floor in a messy splash. A sad little houseplant lies on its side, leaves bent at awkward angles like it's judging me.
“Hello?” I call out. “Is anyone here? If so… sorry about your plant.”
No one answers. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?
Before doubt about whether I’m in the right cabin can fully bloom, my brain does what it does best: compartmentalizes.
One: the cabin was unlocked. More or less. It’s not like I broke the window to get in…
Two: it totally matches the description.
Three: surely, the odds of accidentally breaking into the wrong cabin are low.
Four: my luck can’t be that bad. Right?
“Right,” I say aloud.
I spot a wool blanket draped over the back of the couch and wrap it around myself without hesitation. It smells like cedar and campfire and something warm and masculine. Something that sends a very confusing thrill straight to my stomach.
Does this blanket belong to a man? Is thishiscabin?
Don’t read into it, Lark, I tell myself.They probably just used scented laundry detergent. Mountain Fresh or something.
I make my way to the electric kettle on the counter. There’s already water in it, so I press start. While the water’s boiling, I reach for the tin of tea bags next to the kettle. I pick the one that smells like chamomile and lavender. This should be just the thing to help me relax.
A few minutes later, I’m clutching a warm mug in my hands. My bones start to thaw. The sound of the storm outside fades into background noise as the fire crackles.
I ease down onto the couch and pull my sketchbook from my tote, flipping to a blank page. The blanket is soft. The tea is perfect. And for the first time in months, I let myself breathe.
This is just what the doctor ordered.
Chapter 2
Lark
I’vedefinitelybrokenintothe wrong cabin.
I mean, I thought I was in the clear. The fire was already going, but I’d convinced myself that the host generously started it before my arrival. The tea tin was charming and inviting. And the blanket I found on the couch was exactly what I needed to warm up my bones.
But now I’m not so sure.
Because that is definitely the sound of boots on the porch. Heavy and unhurried and approaching the door.
