Dax

Sunday Night

Grief is heavy. Has a weight to it. My mom and I haven’t been the best company since Dad’s diagnosis over a year ago. Fast-forward to a few months ago, after the funeral and the initial delivery of casseroles to her front door, and we were even poorer company than before. We tended to the unfortunate but necessary business of disassembling Dad’s life.

Getting rid of his clothes. Cleaning out his tool shed. Arranging for someone to take care of the chores Dad used to do. Chores I’d temporarily inherited (like yard mowing) but abandoned once I resumed my life.

When I did resume my life, I found I’d inherited something else: a roomie at a time I wanted to be alone so badly, I could taste it. Not Barrett’s fault. I was the one who told him he could stay at my place, even though I’d bet my left nut the breakup with his girlfriend was mostly his fault. He’s kind of an ass. Has been since we played ball together. He was good enough to go pro and earned the “Bad Boy of the NFL” title, whereas I petered out in college.

After taking care of Mom and Barrett and making sure my bars would run smoothly without me (they do—my managers are incredible, especially Grace), I hightailed it out of Columbus in search of much-needed solitude. After so much company I was drowning in it, I didn’t want anyone by my side on this trip. I wanted to hide in the deep, dark woods with only the sounds of nature as a backdrop.

Then I met Becca.

Becca, who’s now chattering excitedly as we eat our chicken quesadillas. She’s describing how I could offer the option of beef or salmon too. About how she’d change the seasonings and offer an alternate dipping sauce for each. Horseradish for the steak, she decides. Capers and fresh dill for the salmon, she tells me.

One night with her turned into two, and now it’s turning into three. Once the rain has stopped, she’ll probably head back to wherever she normally spends her nights.

To be completely honest, I’m not looking forward to her leaving.

But she will. The news expects the sun to come out and put us under a thick blanket of humidity by tomorrow morning.

Becca takes another hearty bite of her quesadilla, lifting a string of cheese off her chin and sucking it off her thumb.

She’s fucking adorable.

Her choppy blond hair adds to her spunk, but it’s not the source. She slid out of that bedroom in a baggy pair of white pajama bottoms covered in little cartoon wine glasses, her tight white shirt leaving nothing to the imagination. Makeup free, her golden skin is smooth and beautiful.

She’s not the least bit concerned about eating in front of me or being naked with me or talking about anything we’ve done or if we’ll do it again. She’s nothing short of incredible—and nothing like any woman I’ve been with before.

My last girlfriend and I imploded a year and a half ago. I’d purchased my second bar by then—Chaplan’s—and kept myself as busy as I could so I didn’t have to think about Courtney leaving me at the same time I was running two businesses and hiring new employees.

Court left, saying I didn’t value her, whatever the hell that meant. She said I didn’t share with her, that I never opened up. She then piled on how I didn’t take her seriously, which was as confounding and hard to grasp as every other reason she’d listed.

Until a photo popped up online a few weeks later, and then it all made sense. She was standing at a state park with an engagement ring on her finger, her arms wrapped around another guy.

I’m not sure if he “takes her seriously” or “values her,” but I’m guessing the main reason she left me wasn’t my inability to be who she needed. She’d found someone else. Courtney and I dated for a hair short of two years, so yeah, her bailing was a blow.

Becca’s hand lands on mine and I jerk my attention to her.

“What’s up?” she asks gently.

“Nothing, why?”

“You got really quiet.” She wrinkles her nose. “Am I boring you by talking about food?”

“No. I’m just . . .” I recall our agreement not to talk about our pasts. I understand why she laid that rule out. The past can be fucking depressing. “I was thinking about how you have all these ideas and nowhere to use them. Until now. You’re hired.”

She pulls her hand away and laughs, clearing our plates instead of staying with me. “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be flattered. Be hired. I was serious about paying you. You can be my chef consultant. My consulting chef.”

“Is that even a thing?”

“Could be.” I shrug. “Why not?”

“Um. Because I’m not a professional?” she continues arguing.

“Doesn’t mean you’re not valuable.”

For the second time, I watch as her chest puffs with pride. Does no one compliment this woman? I stand and cross the room. When I reach her at the sink, I sift my fingers through her hair.

“You’re talented in the kitchen, Becca.”

“And in the bedroom?” she quips.

“Well, yes, but I was trying to give you a compliment outside of great sex.”

She loops her arms around my neck, leaning against me for a kiss that could get out of control really fast. She doesn’t let it, pulling back and gazing up at me instead.

“Speaking of bedrooms, how’s your bed?” I ask.

“My bed?” Her eyebrows rise. “Fine. How’s yours?”

“Bigger than yours.”

“You’re bigger than me, so that only seems fair.”

“There’s room for you in it.” It’s a blatant invitation and one I’m not sure she’ll accept. Becca has a bunch of strange boundaries I haven’t quite figured out yet. “There’s a rule, though.”

“Just one?”

I pull her closer, lacing my fingers at her back. I like her in the circle of my arms.

“Let me guess.” She tightens her hold at the back of my neck. “I’m not allowed to wear clothes.”

“If you’re as good a psychic as you are a cook, you should start working the fairs.”

“Ohh.” Her eyes pop wide. “A career to fall back on.”

I match her smile with one of my own.

She takes my hand and leads me to the living room. “I demand we watch television before we disrobe and climb into bed together. Think of it as a date.”

“A date?” I allow her to tow me to the couch. I don’t mind sharing a cushion with her in the slightest, but a date? After we had sex on this very piece of furniture?

“Sure, why not?”

I can’t think of a single reason why not, so I sit and she sits, leaning against me, remote in her hand.

She flips through what feels like a thousand channels, lingering on each one for about two seconds before flipping to another. Until she lands on the Cooking Channel. She sends me a questioning gaze.

I answer by taking the remote from her, tossing it on the coffee table, and tucking her closer.

We watch Giada De Laurentiis work her magic.

Me? I don’t believe in magic. But I don’t believe in coincidence either.

The woman who smells like sweet sugar lying delicately against me isn’t a coincidence. “Fate” isn’t the right word either . . . but I don’t believe it was an accident that I ended up trapped on the same mountain—in the same cabin—with Becca this weekend.

Becca

Monday Morning

Dax’s bed isn’t only bigger. It’s better. The one in the other room has a notable sag in the center. I make a mental note to talk to Tad about upgrading the mattress in there.

I stretch and the sheet slides over my bare breasts, startling me. I don’t sleep naked—I’ve always had roommates and now I live with my brother—but when I move out on my own, maybe I should start. Then again, given how frisky I feel, maybe I shouldn’t start. Waking up nude and not next to someone doesn’t sound as fun.

I roll over to greet my bedmate, but it looks like I woke up by myself after all. Dax isn’t in bed, and after I check my phone I understand why. It’s after eleven. I’m not an early riser by any stretch of the imagination, but I never sleep this late.

I pull on last night’s jammies and walk to the kitchen to find the coffeemaker off, a few inches of cold brew in the bottom of the pot.

“Dax?” I squint in the sunlight streaming in through the blinds. Last night while we watched TV, the rain stopped. No storms meant my first full night of sleep since they started.

In the middle of pouring out the cold coffee in the carafe and scooping grounds into the basket so I can make a fresh pot, I hear the unmistakable buzz of a chainsaw. I leave the kitchen and walk to the front door. Then I pause in the doorway, leaning on the frame, arms crossed over my chest.

The sight before me is nothing short of glorious.

Dax stands atop the fallen thick tree trunk, chainsaw in hand, buzzing through limbs. He’s shirtless. He’s sweaty. Sawdust sticks to every ridge of manly landscape above the waist.

And I thought he was hot minus the manual labor.

Mercy.

Movement to the left catches my eye and I look over to see our maintenance guy, Ray, give me a wave. He isn’t shirtless, and let’s all take a moment to be grateful for that.

I wave back, slip into my tennis shoes to the right of the doorway, and on second thought . . . I dart back to the bedroom to put on a bra beneath the leaves-nothing-to-the-imagination tank I’m wearing. Once I’m decent, I walk up the short driveway, skirting several big puddles that haven’t dried up yet.

The sawing stops and Dax turns, the blubbering machine vibrating beneath his gloved hands, his muscles flexing as he holds on tight. He pegs me with a smile that makes me wish we were both still in bed.

“She rises!” he shouts over the noise.

“Beauty sleep!” I call out.

He kills the motor. “It worked.”

I try not to visibly bask, but with my hands clutched in front of me and my smile prominent, I’m pretty sure anyone looking can tell I’m basking.

“Who knew she could get more beautiful?” he asks Ray.

Aw. That’s sweet.

“Can I help?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Ray answers. “Have any coffee?”

“I was about to make some. How about an egg sandwich to go with it?”

“Yes,” Ray and Dax answer at the same time.

“Bacon?”

“Yes,” they again answer in unison.

I make quick work of their breakfast, using Dax’s laptop to jot down the recipe for the spicy mayo I slathered onto the buns. I deliver theirs and return to the stove to make myself the same sandwich, this time adding sun-dried tomato hummus and determining it’s not as yummy as the mayo.

A little later a few more guys arrive to help saw and remove the rest of the tree. I walk up the driveway to check on everyone’s process as a truck loaded with wood is puttering down the mountain.

“There are lots of trees down. We’ll be at this all day,” Ray says with a head shake. “Your brother wanted us to free you up first.” He gestures at my Toyota. Other than a few smaller branches sitting on the hood and nature’s debris covering the white paint like confetti, my car is virtually unharmed.

“I appreciate it. I can work from anywhere on my laptop, but Tad insisted on stepping in to help.”

I cut my gaze to Dax. He’s sitting on a fat limb. He’s still sweating. Still covered in sawdust. Still sexy as sin and I don’t care how stinky he might be. Right now he’s the manliest man to ever man, and I intend on being the woman who claims him at least one more time before I leave.

Ray climbs in his truck and I thank him again. He nods and heads up the mountain in search of the next downed tree.

I return my gaze to Dax. “You look like you need a shower.”

“You offering to join me?”

He’s so disarming slouching on that log, a playful tilt to his lips, squinting in the bright sunshine.

“I sure am.”

“In that case.” Dax hops off the log, sets aside the chainsaw and, in a move he hasn’t attempted since our first night together, hauls me over his shoulder. He marches me toward the house and I’m laughing the entire way, mostly because his shoulder is nestled squarely in my diaphragm.

He sets me on my feet in the shower of the master bathroom and spins on the shower knob. Mind you, I’m still dressed in my jammies and the water isn’t hot yet.

He climbs in behind me and kisses the frigid laughter from my lips.

Before too long we’re stripping each other out of wet clothes yet again.

“Damn. Wet denim is not cooperative.” Dax’s gorgeous chest lifts and drops from the effort of wrestling his jeans off and tossing them outside the shower door. I divested myself of my own wet clothes much more easily, since my pants had a drawstring.

I palm the bar of soap and swirl suds over his pecs while he watches, amused.

“This could be my other part-time job,” I murmur, swirling down, down until I reach the army of ripped abs lining his belly.

“Again, Princess, you’re hired.” He sticks his face in the spray and swipes away the sawdust sticking to his cheeks.

I watch, mesmerized by every part of him.

“Gimme.” He extends a palm.

I slap the bar of soap into it and he goes right for my breasts. I stop him but maintain my playful side. “I could’ve guessed that’s what you were going to do.”

Dax shrugs just as playfully.

“Try here instead.” I turn and point to my back.

His soapy palms start on my butt and, really, who didn’t see that coming? I lose the strength to complain when he pulls my back flush against his front and nibbles on my earlobe. His hands return to my breasts, his thumbs and forefingers kneading my nipples.

Mmm.

I can’t resist encouraging him, so I back my ass into his crotch and wiggle.

“Don’t suppose you have a condom stashed in the shower somewhere?” Lifting my arm, I palm the back of his head and pull his mouth close to my ear.

“Nope.” His breath is warm, his tongue teasing my earlobe. Between my legs, his firm fingers slip between my folds. “Guess we’ll have to improvise.”

My “I guess so” comes out as a weak breath of air. I don’t know that I’ve ever been touched with this much accuracy. No matter what we’re doing, Dax knows exactly where my hot buttons are.

In a matter of a few steamy minutes, I’m lost, coming and grinding against his hand. He cups my sex and kisses me hard as I reach for his erection.

Plenty of long, hard inches rest in my hand. I stroke him, accepting his ravaging kisses. I return them as eagerly, until his mouth drops open and he comes. His lips peel over his teeth and his forehead drops to mine. A shake works down his mighty form and all of a sudden I understand how a springtime storm can fell a tree.

It’s not the power. It’s the precision.

“Damn, Princess.” Dax opens his eyes, then sets his lips on mine for a soft but firm kiss. The kiss feels final.

So does the moment he shuts off the shower and helps me step out. Our private bubble has been popped by the arrival of sunshine, of all things.

We’re no longer trapped.

Bummer.