Page 7 of Big and Grumpy
She bites her lower lip, considering. "You're sure you don't mind?"
"I'm sure."
What I don't say is that the thought of her company during what would otherwise be a long, lonely few days sounds like a gift I don't deserve.
"Okay," she says finally. "Let me pack a bag."
Twenty minutes later, she's standing in my living room with an overnight bag and a bottle of wine, looking suddenly nervous about what she's agreed to. My cabin is larger than hers, all dark wood and masculine furniture, with a massive stone fireplace and windows that showcase the wilderness views.
"Guest room's upstairs," I say, taking her bag with careful courtesy. "Bathroom's at the end of the hall. Make yourself at home."
My phone buzzes with a text, and I check it quickly.
"Your cousin?" Marigold asks, noticing my slight smile.
"Orson. Checking if I need anything before the roads close." I type a quick response. "He's the responsible one. Always making sure everyone's prepared."
"That's nice. Family looking out for each other."
"It's what we do." I pause, considering my next words carefully. "The town has a pretty good system for these storms. Everyone checks on their neighbors, the general store stays open as long as possible, and the community center becomes a shelter if needed. Been that way since before I was born."
"I like that."
"It's one of the good things about small towns. People may gossip, but they also show up when it matters."
The storm hits just after dinner, and it's every bit as vicious as the forecast predicted. Rain lashes the windows, wind howlsthrough the trees, and just before nine o'clock, the power goes out with a finality that suggests it won't be coming back anytime soon.
"Well," Marigold says philosophically, settling deeper into the couch cushions. "Good thing you convinced me to stay here."
The firelight flickers across her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek and the way her dark hair falls over one shoulder. She's changed into soft clothes—leggings and an oversized sweater that somehow manage to be both modest and incredibly appealing.
"Good thing," I agree, trying not to notice how right she looks in my living room.
We've been talking for hours—easy conversation about books and movies and travel, punctuated by comfortable silences. The wine has loosened both our tongues, and I've found myself sharing stories I haven't told anyone in years.
"So Boone really jumped his dirt bike into the creek?" she asks, laughing at my latest tale of my cousin's youthful stupidity.
"With half the town watching. Kid never did learn when to quit." I take a sip of wine, noting how the alcohol is making it easier to talk, easier to relax in her presence. "Still doesn't, come to think of it. Heard he's been seeing some woman he met on the trails. Getting pretty serious, from what I hear. She'd have to be a saint to put up with Boone." I shake my head, but there's fondness in my voice. "Though he seems different with her. Less reckless, more... focused. Never thought I'd see the day."
"Love can do that to a person."
"Love," I repeat, and the word feels strange in my mouth. "You think that's what it is?"
"I don't know. But whatever it is, it seems good for him."
"What about you?" she asks softly. "Are you happy?"
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication. In the firelight, with the storm raging outside andthis beautiful woman looking at me like I matter, I'm forced to consider the question seriously.
"I'm working on it," I say finally.
"What would happy look like for you?"
I'm quiet for so long I think she might give up on getting an answer. When I finally speak, my voice is barely above a whisper.
"Peace, I guess. A place where I can work with my hands and not have to pretend to be someone I'm not. Someone to share it with who understands that I'm not good with words but I'm reliable in all the ways that matter."
The honesty in my voice surprises even me. I haven't articulated those thoughts to anyone, haven't even fully admitted them to myself.
