Page 10 of Campfires & Canines
The night sky outside is almost pitch black, with only the faint golden glow from the cabin windows illuminating the rough trunks of the pine, fir, and maple trees. Leaves quiver in the breeze like black confetti, peppering the trunks with quaking shadows.
I feel better than I have in ages. Maybe my ex-fiancé was right about meeting new people. There’s something about these new friends that feels real. They aren’t performing like the social climbers around me in Los Angeles. Marigold is quirky and charming enough to be an influencer, but I doubt she even has social media.
The twins are hilarious too: Cedar is downright nerdy while Onyx flirts shamelessly. With their blonde hair and golden skin, they'd look more at home on a beach in Los Angeles than here in the mountains. But they don't fascinate me like Slate.
His brooding intensity makes my stomach do all kinds of weird things. His lips tend to pout when he frowns, which is pretty much all the time. Something about those emerald eyes and messy hair has me weak at the knees. If it had been him flirting with me tonight, I would have been a goner. Too bad he ignored me. In fact, he seemed downright pissed off during dinner.
I should go to bed, but the unfamiliar scenery keeps me rooted. As I lazily watch the shadows dance, two yellow pinpricks of light blink into existence. Could they be a pair of glowing animal eyes? I can't quite see and as I lean forward and squint, they're gone.
Cedar said there is plenty of wildlife here. If I'm lucky, I'll come across some cute raccoons or foxes tomorrow. I'm dying to explore the woods.
Finishing my cocoa, I hand-wash the mug and set it on a towel to dry. Heath still isn’t home, but exhaustion drags me down. With a yawn, I crawl into my dad's childhood bed and try to picture the wildflowers from today. The riots of yellow and purple are better to dream about than the life in Los Angeles that is no longer mine.
It must work, because I sleep hard and dream of walking in a verdant forest.
I wake up cozy and quiet, too comfy to open my eyes. There’s no traffic or the muffled thuds of neighbors stomping around gettingtheir kids ready for school. Instead, soft birdsong serenades outside the window.
Oh, right, I’m on vacation.
With a deep breath, I flip back the quilt and pull myself upright. Warm sunlight pours in through the window. I could stay here forever, wrapped in this calm quiet. But damn, I'm hungry and I've got to pee.
Rolling out of bed, I find my jeans and pull them on. Heath is absent when I pad across the wood floors and into the tiny bathroom.
By the time I'm dressed in clean clothes, he is sitting at the kitchen table. He devours a breakfast sandwich while checking messages on his phone. How is he getting service out here?
"Good morning, Hazelnut!" He practically glows when he smiles, he’s so tan. He's like some Wild West version of Thor.
"Morning." I stifle a yawn, still not ready to be functioning.
"Did you get me a chocolate croissant?" I snatch the pastry from the plate. He can keep the Danish, but this is mine. After a couple of bites, I pause to accept the tea he offers.
"What's your plan today, kiddo?" He sets his phone down.
I’m too blissed out with my flakey chocolatey breakfast to be annoyed at being called kiddo.
"I was thinking about doing some reading. Walking around in nature. Maybe a nap." It all sounds appealing right about now.
He crinkles his eyes, amused.
"I've got to work. But if you want to hike, grab someone to go with you. Cedar shouldn’t be too busy, or Marigold if it’s after two."
"Sure." I'm not about to argue with his request, even if it's unnecessary. Does he think I’m that incompetent?
"Be safe, make good choices." Yes, he does think I’m that incompetent. My hackles raise, but I force a courteous smile.
He stands, setting his dishes in the sink and heading for the door.
"Bye! Have a nice day,” I say. The latch clicks.
I finish my pastry, deliberately taking my time and relaxing, before taking a second look around the cabin.
The kitchen is tidy. A vintage teddy bear cookie jar sits in the corner. I imagine Heath and my dad stealing cookies from my grandmother while she makes dinner. I’ve only seen grainy, old pictures of her, so it’s a blurry vision in my head. She had a chin-length bob and smile lines around her mouth.
A row of floral-patterned plates perches above the doorway between the kitchen and living room. I wonder who collected them? Perhaps Heath likes vintage china, you never know.
In the living room, a collection of spy novels and thrillers pack the bookshelf. Their spines look cracked. Some of the titles look positively ancient. Maybe my grandfather liked them. Does Heath read on cold winter evenings? There isn't a television and he can't work twenty-four-seven.
Logs are stacked tidily in an alcove a few feet from the black stove. The whole room smells like cut wood and soap. Distinctly a bachelor pad, but I can see the remnants of a family from when my dad still lived here. Before he met my mom and followed her to the West Coast.
