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“If you turned it, so that side was in the back, where it’s kinda bare, and cut off these low hanging branches, it could work.”
He smiles, and damn that smile is more than I was expecting. “My mom always went for the Charlie Brown trees, guess I take after her.”
“So you always root for the underdog?” I ask, crouching down to lift the branches so he can access the trunk easier.
“Yes, ma’am.” He begins sawing at the stump, the snow still falling as he moves, his saw against the grain.
The trunk is only six inches across, and he saws it down in a few swift strokes. When he stands, he lifts the tree easily.
“You can’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old,” I tell him as we begin walking to the cabin that is now within view.
“What should I call you, then?” he asks.
“Genevieve, but everyone calls me Evie.”
“I’m Everett.”
“Evie and Everett. That’s....” I stop short of saying cute because that would be more awkward than this already is.
“Similar,” he finishes, in a much more matter-of-fact matter, continuing to drag the tree behind him. We’re crossing a wide expanse of cleared land complete with a workshop and a large red barn. The cabin is one-story, with a stone fireplace, and a wide front porch.
“Right. Similar. Anyways. This your place?”
“Sure is.”
When he doesn’t offer me anymore, I realize he may have a wife and kid inside the cabin. He’s wearing gloves so I can’t check out his ring finger, but damn, do I want to. Just to know what I’m working with.
At the front door, he stomps off his boots. When I attempt to stomp my feet, I realize they’re too frozen.
“Ouch,” I wince, my poor toes aching.
“You need help?” Everett asks.
I nod, realizing that even if I got the snow off these boots there’s no way in hell I’d be able to untie them and slide them off my feet.
“Come on in,” Everett says, “I’ll help you.”
I follow him inside, noticing at once that it’s a minimalist bachelor pad.
Not in a run-down sort of way, no. Everett’s place is full of order.
As if there is a home for everything he owns. The wood is stacked with precision. The counter boasts a clear work surface. The floor is polished and shoes are lined up next to the door. And beyond being tidy, there aren’t enough things in here to make it messy.
He would have a hissy fit in my place if this is the way he likes to live.
“Your place is so neat. And organized,” I tell him taking in the soft glow from the dying fireplace, the drying herbs over the sink and the braids of garlic hanging near the stove. An open cupboard is stocked with canned vegetables in an array of colors and I see a bookshelf lined with how-to manuals and classics.
“Yeah, a few years back I read a book,” Everett explains, taking off his coat and gloves. I discreetly assess his ring finger. Bare. And there are no hints of a woman and child in this very manly abode. “It was called something like the 100 Thing Challenge?”
I nod, as I sit in a rocking chair beside the fire.
“Yeah, I think I remember picking that up,” I tell him. “And then promptly setting it back down.”
“Not into the minimalist lifestyle?” he asks.
“Let’s just say I’m more of a messy artist. I’m organized, for sure, but no one else would understand my system. I swear, my sister comes over and she nearly has a heart attack every time she goes into my workroom. I like sparkles. And confetti. And I don’t think there’s such a thing as too much washi tape.”
Everett kneels before me, in an oddly intimate way. His eyes reach mine as I look down at him. He doesn’t say a word in response after my rambling about craft supplies. He just begins untying the knots in my laces.
My heart pounds and I have a feeling I would let him unlace anything I was wearing.
This man is trouble.
“You work at home then?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m a writer. And a crafter. I make money on my blog. A crafty writing blog.”
He nods, not looking up. “That’s cool.”
That’s cool? What are you even supposed to do with that? Is he being sarcastic? Genuine? Indifferent?
And what does it say about me that I want to know exactly what he means when he says that’s cool.
It means that I like him.
I like the way his fingers are untying my boots and sliding them off my frozen feet.
I like the way his hands run over my toes massaging them softly through the wool socks I’m wearing.
I like the way he doesn’t make eye contact with me as he slowly and surely defrosts me.
“You okay?” he asks me.
“Yeah, that feels better. Much better. Thank you.”
