Chapter Four

Calla

There was rude and then there was just plain being an asshole. The man squatting in front of the woodstove was the latter, I decided. I would like to talk to whomever was in charge of my rescue and give him a little piece of my mind about leaving me overnight with a complete stranger. It wasn’t smart.

The man ignored me, which told me the night was going to be long. I wasn’t sure what he wanted or expected of me. I decided to do what he did, and strip off my cold, wet pants and jacket. I walked towards the stove, ignoring the trail of sludge I was leaving in my wake. In the back of my mind, I could hear my mother’s voice scolding me for walking through the house with my boots on.

“Should I hang my stuff here?” I asked.

There was a grunt that I assumed was a yes. I knew he could speak English, but clearly the man didn’t like to use his words. He didn’t even bother turning to look at me before walking out of the room.

“Rude,” I whispered under my breath.

The man was infuriating. I could feel his anger in the room like a toxic chemical. It wasn’t as if I meant to get myself lost.

“Crap!” I muttered.

What if the man had a woman here? Or what if he had plans with a woman and my rescue mission had interfered? Too damn bad. My life was more important than him getting laid.

I dropped my jacket in front of the stove, knowing it would dry quickly because of the material. I felt a little guilty for not hanging it and did my best to spread it out somewhat neatly. I hung my pants off the spare hook next to his coat. My socks were soaked. I pulled them off and placed them on the floor next to my jacket. I inspected my toes, noting the red nail polish chipping due to the prolonged wetness.

“Damn,” I mumbled, looking at my white, shriveled toes. I hoped he didn’t look at my feet. The black leggings I had worn under my snow pants were a little damp, but I knew they would dry quickly. I hadn’t planned on stripping off the outerwear in public.

The leggings exposed more than I would have preferred in mixed company, but there was nothing to be done about it. He was going to have to get over the rather unflattering look I was sporting. Men these days had this idea that women didn’t eat. My figure resembled the pin-up girls from the fifties. I had long lamented that I was born in the wrong decade. My curves would have been acceptable back then, but by today’s standards, I was plump.

I liked food. No man was worth my passing up a brownie. Deal with it.

My large Viking rescuer emerged from the room he had disappeared into wearing a pair of gray sweat pants. I turned away, looking at the small living room, and shook my head. This cabin wasn’t big enough for the both of us. It was very tense, like the kind of tension you can quite literally feel in the air. I was too embarrassed to look at him for a multitude of reasons. I felt somewhat naked in my current attire, and being trapped in this tiny space felt very intimate.

I felt the rush of cold air when he opened the door. I spun around to see what he was doing, but quickly figured it out.

A large, yellowish dog ambled in and raced straight for the woodstove where it gave a good shake, spraying water and snow all over the room. I watched in horror as he sniffed my coat, spun around a few times and settled right on top of it.

“Uh,” I groaned out, hoping my obvious frustration would inspire the man to tell the dog to lay down elsewhere.

I looked at the man to protest, but froze. The cold had clearly done a lot more damage to my brain than I suspected. I was seeing things. I had to be.

“No, fucking way!” I screeched. “Jake? Jake Thelwis?” I said, nearly choking the name out.

My brain was spinning and pulling up images that had been tucked away for more than a decade. I felt my head shaking, but couldn’t seem to stop it. The movement was completely involuntary. I was trying to deny what my eyes told me I was seeing.

The man grinned, rubbed his long blonde beard and then chuckled. “Calla. I knew there were no two sets of parents that would name their kid Calla. I couldn’t believe there were two Callas in Maine, or the damn country for that matter.”

My mind felt like it was in a hamster wheel. It just kept spinning, rewinding and replaying the night we had spent together eleven years ago.

“What the hell,” I murmured, not actually expecting an answer. “Jake?” I repeated.

I was too focused on taking in the man that had given me the best sex of my twenty-nine years. I could see the young man I knew, hidden behind the beard. He was far more muscular, but it was him. I would recognize those blue eyes anywhere. I guess that solved my problem about staying overnight with a stranger.

He was not a stranger by technical standards, but he was far more dangerous. He knew my body better than I did. He had made me do things no proper woman should. No, he didn’t make me do anything. I had pushed the boundaries on my own free will. The man had given me power over myself and I didn’t have to worry about society’s standards about what was proper in the bedroom. The thought of the things we had done that night made my flesh heat.

“Hi, Calla,” his voice was like smooth silk, washing over my body.

I shook my head and body as if to slough it off. It couldn’t be. This wasn’t happening. I squeezed my eyes shut, counted to three in my head and then opened them again. He was still standing there.

“Well, this is unexpected,” I said, once I realized fate had plopped me into a very strange situation.

“I’ll get some coffee started,” he said, walking past me into the small kitchen.

I watched as he flipped on a light and filled the pot with water. I shouldn’t have stared, but couldn’t stop it. I drank in the sight of him. He was as tall as I remembered, but so much bigger. Maybe it was all the hair, I silently mused.

“You do have electricity,” I stated, feeling completely stupid, only then noticing the switch on the wall. I had assumed when he didn’t turn on the lights the second he walked through the door, that he lived without the luxuries of modern day society.

He shrugged a shoulder. “Sometimes.”

“What do—” I’d started to ask what he meant by sometimes, but I wasn’t curious any longer.

The light he had just turned on went dark.

I heard him make a sound that I thought was a snort, but it could have been a grunt. Was it a laugh? The soft glow from the woodstove was barely enough to outline his large form. I could see him moving down the short hall. I panicked. Where was he going? I didn’t particularly want to be alone in the dark.

“Jake?” I squeaked out his name. “Uh, hello?” I said, not moving from where I stood in the room.

“There,” he said, in a gruff voice and the room began to glow with a soft, orange light. “Relax. The power goes out all the time. You get used to it.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I happen to like electricity. And light.”

Another scoff.

I watched as the candle seemingly floated into the room before he put it on the kitchen counter. He lit a few more candles and suddenly the room was awash in soft candlelight. It was beautiful. If only I hadn’t been there with Jake. I could see this as being a very romantic retreat with the right man and could think of several interesting ways to pass the time that didn’t require electricity.

“I guess you lose power often?” I asked, trying to keep my thoughts out of the gutter.

“Yes.”

I moved forward and stepped on a chunk of snow with my bare feet. I yelped.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice full of concern.

“Nothing. Just cold snow.”

“Hold on,” he grumbled, putting the coffee pot on the stove and disappearing down the hall again.

He was back a second later, holding something out. I reached out and felt coarse wool.

“What’s this?” I asked, not sure what I was supposed to do with whatever it was he was giving me.

“Put them on. They’re wool socks. Here’s a sweater. Take off anything wet,” he instructed.

“I’m fine,” I said, taking the socks and sweater and heading for the couch. I plopped down and pulled one sock on. It was huge and stretched well over my knee. I felt ridiculous, but the socks were warm. I put the other one on and rubbed my feet together, relishing the warmth.

“Don’t be an idiot. Take off the shirt and anything else that is wet,” he ordered.

“Fine. Where’s the bathroom? Please tell me you have an indoor bathroom?” I said, fearing I would have to trek outside to some disgusting outhouse.

“I have a bathroom. Down the hall on the right.”

I started that way and realized it was very dark. I turned around. “Can I use one of these candles?” I asked sheepishly.

He thrust one of the jar candles at me. I took it and headed back down the hall. Once inside the bathroom, I stripped off the wet shirt only to discover my bra was wet as well.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I muttered, pulling off the undergarment. I grabbed a towel that was neatly folded on the back of the toilet and dried off as best I could. Once the warm sweater was on, I instantly felt better. I pulled off the leggings that were already starting to dry and quickly yanked off my panties. The wet satin dropped into a ball on the floor. If I were home, I would have no problem lounging as I was, but I was not alone.

I tucked my wet panties and bra in my shirt and headed back to the living room.

“Feel better?” he asked, and I suddenly felt as if he knew I was bare underneath.

“Yes, much, thank you,” I said, tucking my wet items under the sleeve of my jacket. The damn dog wasn’t about to move.

I stared at the dancing flames in the stove, getting a little lost in the moment. My eyes drifted down to the floor where the dog was curled up and softly snoring. The scene was stunning. I glanced around the rest of the cabin and saw no real signs of human habitation, but it felt homey. A small table with two chairs divided the kitchen and living space. The kitchen was small and I didn’t see any fancy appliances taking up space on the counters.

I had to write the scene.

“Uh, Jake, do you have a pen and paper by chance?” I asked, wishing like hell I had my laptop.

“Probably, why?”

“May I have a couple sheets please?”

I heard a drawer opening and rifling around.

“Here,” he said, thrusting a notebook and a pen at me.

“Thank you!” I said with glee.

It had been a long time since I had put pen to paper, but I felt I had to write down what I was seeing. It was all very romantic. I wasn’t quite sure how the moment was going to play into my next book, but I just knew it was too good to pass up.

With the pen in hand, I began to write. All my focus was on my writing. I blocked out my discomfort and chilled bones and focused on recreating the scene on paper.

“Here,” his voice cut through my concentration. “Drink this. I’ll see if I can scrounge up some soup or something. You need to get warm.”

I mumbled something I knew was indecipherable, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t lose my train of thought. My unwilling host would have to wait.