Page 7 of Eager Beaver
I listened to him rifle around for a minute, and as soon as the bathroom door closed behind him, I groaned in relief. I’d never felt such sexual tension around anyone before. He wasn’t even my type! I tended to go for the nerdy guys, like me, straightlaced and tightly buttoned, always in control. Guy was the total opposite, like a pot of slow-simmering stew: hot, meaty, and likely to boil over onto my stovetop if I wasn’t paying attention. He certainly had the potential to be messy, since he obviously didn’t live anywhere near here, but he would sure be fun for a holiday fling.
Someone had told me once that the kind of man we were attracted to changed depending on what part of our cycle we were in. If I didn’t know any better, me suddenly liking the whole rugged thing could’ve meant I was fertile or something, but Iliterally just had my heat a couple weeks ago. I wasn’t due for another anytime soon.
I heard the toilet flush and water running in the sink. Without missing a beat, I shuffled over to my side of the bed like I’d been there all along, and as soon as the door opened, I made a production of “waking up,” yawning and stretching my arms over my head. “Oh, good morning,” I chirped, chipper as could be. “How’d you sleep?”
He arched a brow at me, not buying my act for a second. Yeah, I didn’t buy it either. There was a reason I was given the part of Tree #3 in my elementary school’s drama production of Robin Hood, but I was all about the fake-it-till-you-make-it approach. Anything to avoid the awkward conversation. Luckily, he seemed willing to let it slide. “Very well. You?”
“Mm,” I said, noncommittally. In fact, it was the best sleep I’d had in years—maybe ever! But I wasn’t about to admit that. “Their website said the breakfast buffet is included. Would you like to go check it out?”
His smile was slow but kind of gooey, with a dash of mischief. “I would be delighted.”
We both got ready to go, taking turns in the bathroom to get dressed. He insisted I use the dresser for my clothes, since he said he’d only packed a few things. I suspected it was just because he could envision the disaster the cabin would soon become if I was forced to live out of my suitcase. And rightly so! Every time I tried to find one thing in my suitcase, three more fell out, until it looked like my clothing had become sentient, socks and t-shirts caught mid-escape, crawling across the floor.
We somehow avoided too much contact in the small space. But every time we so much as bumped shoulders, it sent an electric current right down to my fingertips. I thought I was imagining it, but when I tripped on a shoe and caught his arm, he let out a gasp, his pupils dilating.
There was something going on between us. Could I label it? Nope, but I refused to ignore it either.
“Is that the only jacket you brought?” Guy asked skeptically.
I looked down at myself in my blue windbreaker. “Yeah. What’s wrong with it?”
“You’re going to freeze out there.” He glared down at my shoes next, which were still damp from last night. “Here, at least wear my toque.”
“What’s a toooook?” I asked, trying out the word. “How do you spell—” but he’d already yanked off his beanie and shoved it on my head. It was so warm, and I sighed as his woodsy scent enveloped me. “Thanks.”
It took Guy a good shove on the door to push the snow away that had piled up against the frame overnight. It was cold enough outside that the skin of my face tightened like clingwrap, even though the sun shone bright overhead. I’d forgotten how much I hated Oregon winters. I was surprised I hadn’t been shivering all night. When I glanced at Guy, though, he didn’t seem at all bothered by the cold. Maybe his blood just ran warmer than mine.
It was a short walk to the main lodge. Thankfully, it seemed staff had been out this morning already to clear the paths. The closer we got, the more people we saw, coming from their own cabins for breakfast, and when we entered the lobby, stomping snow off our shoes, I could hear the chatter of voices from the dining hall.
I eyed the front desk on the way by, the clerk very obviously avoiding eye contact. I’d expected Guy to suggest that we should go clear up the cabin mistake. He probably wanted his own bed tonight, right? But he didn’t even pause in his stride, gaze fixed determinedly on the dining room ahead. Strangely enough, as eager as I’d been to fix the error last night, I now found myself unwilling to bring it up either. My lips twitched with a smile as Ihurried to catch up with him. As I walked by his side, our arms brushing with an electriczing, I leaned into the contact, however brief.
The high-ceilinged hall was full, nearly every seat taken. There were a lot of couples, I noticed; I guess that made sense since this was a well-known romantic destination. We made our way down the main aisle toward the buffet, surrounded by the clatter of cutlery, but I noticed there was also quite of bit of sniffing, much like Guy had been doing last night. I hoped this wasn’t about to be some kind of flu outbreak. Ooh! But maybe then I could get out of going to the reunion by being sick! One could only hope.
Guy went first through the line. He grabbed a plate and began to load it up, but then before I could grab my own plate, he turned and asked, “French toast or pancakes?”
“Huh?”
He gestured with the tongs in his hand. “Which do you prefer? I’m making you a plate.”
“You are?” Why was I so surprised? He was Canadian, and Canadians were notoriously nice. He was just being nice, like he would to any old stranger; it had nothing to do with me specifically. My heart fluttered in my chest as if no guy had ever been nice to me before… and I hated that it was probably true. “French toast, please.” And my choice had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that a certain French accent was currently tying my insides into knots.
Guy carried both our plates over to a table by the front window, offering a breathtaking view of a snow-covered vista, the Cascade Mountains’ peaks cutting a sharp outline into the clear blue sky, and I felt a vague urge to go skiing, even though I knew from past experience that it was not a skill I possessed.
“So… tell me about yourself,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. For such an innocuous question, his eyes sure seemed to be boring deep into my soul.
“Um, well, I’m 28, and I work as a claims adjuster, and in my spare time, I have a food blog. I grew up around here, but I moved to California for school right after graduation, and now I’m back for my ten-year reunion.” I tried to smile like I was glad to be here, but it was nearly painful to pretend that hard.
Guy’s fork paused halfway to his mouth, and his eyes said he missed nothing. “Hmm,” was his only response.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped defensively.
“Oh, nothing. I’m sure it’ll be loads of fun.” He shrugged, then shoved his forkful of hashbrowns into his mouth, likely so he wouldn’t have to say what he really thought. He was more focused on me than he was his own food.
I itched with the need to explain the whole thing. The lies I’d told my old friends, the escort I’d hired, all to make myself look more successful. But that would mean admitting all my insecurities, and no matter how comfortable I found myself around Guy, he was still a stranger, and I didn’t want his judgment.
So, instead of blurting out all the things I refused to share, I turned the tables on him. “So, what about you, what brings you to Pinevale, Oregon? It’s not exactly a tourist hub.”
Guy kept his eyes on his plate as he cut up his pancakes, but his wide shoulders crawled up toward his ears. The big man wasn’t immune to his own insecurities, it seemed. “I’m here for a convention. I make maple syrup.”
