Dax

Becca’s on the phone in the other room talking to her brother. She’s saying something about heading back to the office, followed by a lot of gaps of silence interspersed with the occasional “okay.” I heard her call him “Chosen One” at least once, so I know her fire hasn’t been completely snuffed.

She emerges from her bedroom wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her packed bag slung over her shoulder. Déjà vu.

The End is written on her face. I knew it’d come this. Hell, we both knew it’d come to this. When we were in the shower, I made sure to touch her everywhere in case I never got to do it again.

I’ve never been the sentimental type, and I’m not going to start now. I’m on vacation—a temporary visitor in Tennessee. I’ll be heading home around the time Becca grows bored with me anyway.

“So . . .” She shifts from foot to foot, uncharacteristic shyness sneaking in. “I have to go back to work before my brother fires me again.” She smiles sheepishly. “Good news. He told me that cabin seven will be available by this evening if you’d like to move there tonight.”

“Great,” I say, though “great” isn’t what a feel. I’m not as ready as I thought to be secluded on the mountain. But. This is why I came here. To clear my head and to drown some worms. I didn’t come expecting to get laid by a cute blonde who makes me moan with pleasure both by what she fixes me to eat and by the way she touches me.

“I thought you’d like to hear that.” She hesitates, her gaze snapping to the door before it lands on me again. “We don’t have to make this awkward, right?”

“No.” I offer a casual shrug.

“There’s no unfinished business of any kind.”

“One bit of unfinished business,” I argue. Her smile flags. “You need to tell me what you’re charging me for the quesadilla recipe.”

Predictably, she shakes her head. “It’s on the house.”

She walks to the door and I follow, hands in my pockets, unsure how to say goodbye or if I need to. She answers that question for me.

“I’ll bring your key over as soon as it’s available. I’ll probably work the rest of the day to catch up on what I missed over the last few days. I assume you’ll be here?”

“Nowhere else to be.”

She hesitates for only the briefest of moments and then, with her hand wrapped around one of my biceps, she pushes to her toes and lays a kiss on the side of my mouth.

That’s it.

She turns, walks outside, climbs into her car, and drives away.

Finally I have what I thought I came all this way to get: time alone.

Only now I’m not sure I want it.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop worrying?” my mom asks, a note of frustration in her voice.

“At least fifty thousand more times,” I answer.

“I appreciate your checking in on me, Dax. I do. But Tracy with her euchre club and Mary with our choir practice and my neighbor Bethany with her questions about begonias . . . I’m plenty ‘checked on’ and plenty busy.” She may be reprimanding me in her own way, but I can hear the gratitude in her voice. Whenever I picture her home alone, setting the table for one, I have a pain in my chest that feels like somebody planted an ax there. It’s good to hear that she’s busy. Makes me worry less.

“How’s your vacation? How is Tennessee?” She handily changes the subject.

Now, don’t freak out when you hear my answer. My relationship with my mom is atypical. She’s not elderly and out of touch; she’s a spry fifty-five and understands exactly how life works.

“Unexpected,” I start. “The road washed out leading to the mountain, stranding me. I ended up with a roommate. Girl who works here. Gorgeous, spunky, and she wrote a recipe for the menu at McGreevy’s.”

An excited gasp comes from my mother’s side of the phone. “You met someone?”

She’s wanted to make sure I find “a good woman” since Courtney left. I haven’t had the heart to tell her I haven’t been looking.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I warn. “Becca lives in Tennessee, and she’s not interested in permanence.” With her relationships, with her jobs, or seemingly with anything else.

“I like that name. ‘Becca.’ And she cooks. She sounds fascinating! How do you know she’s not interested in permanence? Did you already have a big relationship talk in the few days you were stranded together, I imagine wearing very little?”

Told you she was sharp.

“First off, that’s none of your business,” I tell her, and earn a sage laugh for my comment. “Second, it was only two days. We rode out the storm together. I’m not sure it’s turning into more.”

“But you’d like it to.”

That wasn’t a question.

“If she came knocking on my door again,” I say, “soaking wet or no, I’d let her in.”

I’d let her in, throw her over my shoulder, and put her flat on her back. But I’m too much of a gentleman to share those details with my mom.

“Beyond that, I’m not sure we have much to offer each other. We’re seven hours apart. She’s also a few years younger than me. She’s not looking for anything beyond a good time.”

“If that’s the case, Dax, then it’s because she doesn’t know you very well yet. You’re irresistible. You’re handsome, you’re strong, and you have a huge heart. Just like your father.”

At the mention of Dad, we both go quiet.

“You have to say that. It’s in the mom rule book.”

Her laughs comes through the phone and smooths over the grief I feel.

“I like the new landscaping company you set me up with,” she shares. “They’ve done a lovely job with the edging and the mowing.”

And so goes the rest of the phone call. Mom gives me the household rundown and doesn’t lecture me further about my mountaintop relationship. I remind her to take a walk and drink plenty of water before telling her I love her and ending the call.

I pocket my phone, leaning against the railing of the front porch as I look out into the surrounding woods and the street at the end of my driveway. Everything feels more real since I told her. I used to update Dad about my life. About girls. He always told Mom. Those two were close. No secrets between them.

Honestly? I always imagined I’d find that. Like it was a rite of passage. You grow up, meet someone, and fall into line with marriage and forever the same way my parents did. Then I ventured into the dating realm for a decade and found that it wasn’t as easy as I’d thought. After Courtney left, I wasn’t sure it existed.

I’m still not.

For a long while I’ve lived by the rule that I have no rules. I take what comes, pursue what interests me, and don’t think more about it.

No reason to change my rule, or lack thereof, after a few rainy days with an incredible woman. Becca accepted me at face value. I’d be smart to return the favor.

When she made us promise we wouldn’t talk about the past, there was another implied promise there with it: no talking about the future.

I can live with that.

I descend the wooden porch steps leading to the drive and start clearing sticks and other debris downed during the storm. I’ll pile them up at the top of the driveway to make it easier for Ray to remove them. I decide it’ll give me something to do before Becca comes back with my key to cabin 7.

But as time passes and the pile of sticks grows, I find myself counting down the hours until I see her again.

Becca

Tad relieved Dominic this morning, so my brother’s already at the desk when I step into the office. I pull the laptop out of my bag and set it on the desk, but he already has his out and he’s pecking away at an email.

“I came in here to do exactly what you’re doing,” I tell him. “You don’t have to work around the clock, you know.”

Without looking up from his frantic (if clumsy) typing, Tad says, “Well, somebody has to do it. Not all of us can answer the call of every whim that wanders by. Some of us are married, have kids, have responsibilities.”

Yowch.

“That’s hardly fair,” I say, unable to keep from defending myself. “What was I supposed to do? Sleep in the supply closet with Dominic? Dax was nice enough to offer me his spare room.”

Tad spears me with a glare that says he doesn’t believe I slept in the spare room.

“I didn’t sleep next to him the first night I was there,” I argue, then mumble, “Only the next.”

“You can go back to the house. I don’t expect you to stay and work after you’ve been stuck here for three days.” His voice is tired, like he hasn’t had much sleep.

“I’ve had access to a shower, a full kitchen”—and the best sex of my life—“so it’s not like I’m in need of rest. I came to work. Let me work. Anyway, I already told Dax that I would bring by the key to cabin seven the moment it was ready.”

With a heavy sigh that I’ve grown used to hearing from my brother, Tad returns his fingers to the keyboard and his eyes to the screen. “Fine. I have to get back out to the restaurant in case someone comes in. You can have the desk as soon as I finish this email.”

That feels like such a win that I have to resist punching the air. Amazing how his agreeing to let me do my job is like taking first prize. I’m more trustworthy than he gives me credit for, and I intend to prove it to him eventually.

Later that day, I tend to a visitor to the front desk. It seems the flooding put a damper on the stay of at least one set of guests at Grand Lark. The family of four who booked through Wednesday have decided to cancel the remainder of their stay.

Mr. Wachowski returns the key. I take the cancellation, trying in vain to talk him into another cabin. When that doesn’t work, I promise to get Ray out to their current cabin posthaste to clear the downed limbs from the driveway so that their stay would be more pleasant. Sadly, that leads to Mr. Wachowski confessing to his shoes that his wife has already booked a new cabin in Pigeon Forge. Being rained in was too much for their kids, so his wife promised them amusement parks. Our little town’s idea of amusement is quaint shopping, so I feel for him trying to entertain a six- and eight-year-old. After minimal arguing, I bend the rules and give him his money back for the remainder of his booked stay, and wish him well.

Tad probably won’t like that either.

When the bell rings over the door for the second time an hour later, I worry I might be greeted by the other couple on the mountain coming in to do the same thing.

My fears are justified.

“Hey, guys,” I greet the freshly married couple. “Did you come in for lunch? The bar and restaurant just opened.”

But no, they didn’t come for lunch. They request to leave early too. Something about how they have to be home for work, but I can tell by the way the missus stands with her arms crossed over her middle and an angry expression on her face that maybe those two didn’t have the most pleasant weekend rained in together. Thankfully they don’t ask for a refund, simply accept the cancellation policy as it’s written and return their cabin key before stomping out the door.

“I guess being trapped in a confined space brings out the worst in people,” I say to Tad after they leave. He’s wiping down the seats ringing the bar and not looking at me. Hmm. Perhaps I’ll tell him about the refund later.

Like, next month.

“I hope Dax doesn’t check out on us next,” I sort of joke. “He’s our last guest standing.”

“Guess that depends on how your time together went,” Tad snidely returns. He lifts his eyebrows and dares me to say more.

I accept that challenge.

“Things went really well. Dax and I have a lot in common. In fact,” I add, without putting too much thought into it, “I wrote him a recipe for his restaurant.”

Tad frowns.

I stand taller. “That’s right. He hired a bunch of expensive chefs to revamp his bar’s menu, but evidently their recipes weren’t to his liking. My chicken quesadilla, on the other hand . . .”

“Did he pay you for it?” Tad snaps.

“He tried to. I wouldn’t accept.”

“Why the hell not? Are you under the delusion you don’t need any money?”

This right here is exactly the reason I never tell Tad what’s going on.

“It was a gift. I’m not charging him.”

“He’s going to profit off your idea. Use your brains, Bec. If he turns a profit, you should too. What an asshole.”

“You know what?” I practically shout. “Forget it.”

Leave it to my stupid brother to twist something fun and generous into something heavy and burdened by worry.

“I’ll be in the office if you need me.” I raise my voice as I cross the bar. “Doing my job!”