The Realist
By
Abbie Zanders
Copyright ©2014 Abbie Zanders
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.
Better alone than in bad company.
That’s Clarissa Sullivan’s new philosophy. No more bad relationships. No more dead-end jobs. No more depending on anyone for anything. The rustic mountain cabin in the middle of nowhere is the perfect place to start over and simplify.
Adopting a mongrel stray is not part of the plan. Neither is guarding her heart against her sexy, survivalist neighbor.
Ex-marine Travis Maxwell is totally onboard with that. He sought out the seclusion of the mountains to get away from betraying fiancés and back-stabbing best friends. The last thing he needs – or wants – is to get close to anyone ever again.
Worrying about his prickly, sexy little neighbor is not part of the plan. And any kind of relationship is definitely out of the question.
But in the unforgiving wilderness, it just makes sense to have each other’s back, right?
Excerpt:
~Clarissa~
I watched Travis as he stalked across the grass to the barn, a symphony of male movement my body wanted to dance to. What remained of the pack of shingles was slung casually over one shoulder, even though I knew how heavy those things were. A hammer and a small crowbar dangled from the tool belt slung low on his hips, swaying with the movement of each confident step. A light sheen of sweat glistened over his bronzed, bared back and shoulders, making it impossible to turn away.
Travis Maxwell was a man who owned his body. He was comfortable in his own skin. I envied him that.
It was something I couldn’t relate to. I’d never been particularly happy with my body. I’d always been too short. Too fluffy. My boobs were too big, my hips too wide for my diminished height. These days, I wish I’d spent less time worrying about that and more time appreciating the fact that at least everything had worked pretty well. Since the accident, I tried not to take anything for granted anymore.
Even simple things – standing for long periods of time, walking too far – could be difficult. Other things, like climbing or running, were next to impossible. Rather than feel sorry for myself, though, I said a prayer of thanks every night, because a bum leg was better than no leg, and I’d come damn close to losing it.
Like most life-changing events, it wasn’t directly my fault. I was on my way home from my weekly trip to the local farmer’s market, a canvas bag in each hand filled with fresh produce. The market was only a couple of blocks from our house, and it had been such a beautiful day that I’d left the car in the garage and decided to walk instead. I was thinking about the recipe for herbed, roasted vegetables I wanted to try that night.
A car ran a red light while I was in the middle of the crosswalk. I never saw it coming.
I woke up in the hospital a couple of days later and found out what happened. Bottom line: the guy was drunk. Nearly eighty years old, he was already soused at ten o’clock in the morning. Wasn’t his first time, either. He’d had his license revoked and had seven prior “incidents”.
As part of his “punishment”, he came to see me in the hospital. The kicker? He was one of the nicest old men I’d ever met.
He was also the only visitor I had, except for the obligatory ones from my ex, Mark. Mark used the evening visiting hours wisely, though. While I stared dead-eyed at the tiny little television, he pulled out his laptop and caught up on the work he was missing “because of me”. I never quite figured that one out, since he hadn’t taken a single day off that I knew of. Or if he had, he sure as hell hadn’t spent it with me.
The nurses and doctors kept telling me I was lucky to be alive. The thing is, I didn’t feel so lucky. It seems weird to say so, but the thought of “getting back to normal” wasn’t appealing in the least. I was in an unhappy relationship. I hated my job as a financial analyst for the international monstrosity that had bulldozed its way over several smaller, locally-based niche IT companies. I had a couple of people I was friendly with, but no real friends.
I had the shocking revelation that, except for fifty years and a difference of gender, my life was an exact parallel of the old man’s who had run me over. His miserable life, he confided to me as he sipped from the flask he’d snuck into my room, was why he drank so much. The only time anyone noticed (or cared) was when he hurt somebody else.
I thought about the nightly brandy habit I’d already developed. It wasn’t much, just a shot or two before bedtime. I liked the pleasant warmth and the way it relaxed me enough so that I wouldn’t lie awake in bed alone, thinking too much.
Would I be that man in another fifty years?
With two weeks of nothing but rehab and time to think, I did a lot of soul-searching. I came up with some hard truths. Despite the fact that I’d followed the formula and done everything “right”, I wasn’t happy. I didn’t like anything about my life. Sharing a place with Mark and my job were slowly killing me. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life that way. And I didn’t want anyone to ever get hurt because of me.
I tried to talk with Mark. He insisted we were fine, everything was fine.
It wasn’t. And it would never be, I realized, unless I did something about it. ’Tis better to light a single candle than curse the darkness. I don’t know who first said that, but whoever it was, was pretty smart.
“Earth to Rissa.” Travis’ deep voice rolled through me like a wave, tugging me away from my reflections. His shortened address felt warm, intimate. No one had ever called me that before. “If you’re finished ogling me, I’m going to head back to my place.”
I felt the heat rise in my face. Yes, I had been ogling him, but I’d zoned out for the last couple of minutes. I don’t know what bothered me more – the fact that he’d caught me in the act or that I’d wasted several minutes of prime ogling time.
“I’m done,” I said casually, waving my hand in a shooing gesture. “You can go now.”
He grinned cockily. “Lasagna.”
“What?”
“That’s what I want for dinner. Lasagna. With lots of meat and that chunky homemade sauce of yours.”
I blinked, looking at him blankly.
“Our deal,” he reminded me. “You get manual labor. I get food. Your roof is fixed. And I’m hungry for lasagna.”
“Right,” I nodded. I knew that. I did.
He leaned down and petted Ripper, who had become my shadow. The scent of clean male sweat and heat-activated deodorant tickled my nose and I discreetly filled my lungs with it.
“I’ll be back around sundown. And Rissa?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t stare at my ass while I’m walking away. It’s objectifying.”
I openly gaped at him, but he just winked and strutted – yes, strutted – out of my kitchen like a big male peacock.
I showed him, though. I stared at his ass the whole way.
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