Page 70 of One Small Spark
He laughs, flashing the towel open to reveal solid blue swim trunks. “I’m not naked.”
“Oh.” I should not sound so disappointed.
“Interesting that you looked, though.”
I’m going to ignore that. “What are you doing in a swimsuit? Do you have a hot tub?”
Lila’s told me that all the cabins at the lodge have them. I heard way too much about how she shared one with Grant back when he stayed there.
“The opposite. I’ve got a cold plunge tub on my deck.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
He tilts his head toward the back of the house. “I’ll show you.”
Still dripping, he leads me through the living room, and I touch the rolling ladder as I pass.One day, friend.He pulls open the back door, revealing a big deck with an unobstructed view of the woods, two Adirondack chairs, and what looks like a tiny black hot tub except it’s topped with ice cubes.
Just looking at it makes me want a blanket and a hot tea.
“I don’t believe you fit in that.” He’s got to be way too tall for that thing. It looks like it could barely hold August.
“I fit just fine.”
My already overtaxed brain fizzles out in a puff of smoke. I grasp for an ounce of coherence, my fingers finding nothing. “With the ice, though? Sounds like torture.”
As if to prove my point, a breeze blows over the deck and straight through the open door. He shivers, an image that etches itself on my brain for future playback. He shuts out the cold, but we don’t leave the small alcove. I look around, trying not to stare at any part of him. He’s got a couple of coats hanging by the door and a pair of boots at the ready.
Big, big boots.
“It’s to help with anxiety.” He gazes down at me, no shame in admitting his vulnerability now. “Theoretically, it regulates my nervous system.”
“Does it work?”
“In my experience, it does.”
“I thought cold showers were supposed to distract you from sex and stuff.” Nice, Wren. Never been smoother.
Especially when I’m trying to focus on anything but the mostly naked man in front of me.
“In my experience, it doesn’t.” He indicates I should go into the main part of the house. “I’ll get dressed. Make yourself at home.”
He climbs up the staircase, leaving wet footprints as he goes. My brain whirls with questions about what’s up there. What his bedroom looks like. If the ceiling is sloped, and if it is, how he gets around. What he’s putting on.
I shake my head, moving toward the best distraction at my disposal: his library. He’s got a little bit of everything here. Technical books about bike mechanics. Books about hiking trails and campsites in Oregon. Several shelves of classics like Dickens, Fitzgerald, and Hawthorne. Contemporaries covering horror, sci-fi, and mysteries.
Everything Rick Riordan has ever written.
He’s got Austen and Brontë tucked away in here, too, along with some modern rom-coms whose bright covers add a nice pop of color to the otherwise drab assortment.
There’s also a vinyl record collection on one shelf. Was not expecting yacht rock, but I can see that kind of laid-back classic rock for Callahan.
I’d noticed the photographs when I was here last time but didn’t really examine them. I do now. No surprise, all the photos are of scenery or use nature as the backdrop. He’s got a family photo. One of him and Charlie at a lake somewhere. A snapshot of him and what must be Leo when they were kids in a treehouse.
A picture of him with an elderly man catches my eye. I can’t resist picking up the frame to get a better look. It’s more recent than the others, maybe a couple of years old. The two men have their arms slung around each other, the older one wrinkled and frail but smiling just as bright as Callahan.
“That’s my grandpa.”
I spin so fast, I clutch the frame to my chest so I don’t drop it. His hair’s still damp, but he’s put on a navy blue henley that clings to his arms, and gray sweatpants. Iknowhe chose that combo just to spite me. It’s like the man wants me to be tongue-tied twenty-four-seven.
