Fi gives me a look, and I sigh. “Okay, fine. Cabin it is,” I mutter. “I’ll call a mechanic in the morning.”
Michaels throws a casual arm around Fi’s shoulder and guides her to the passenger side of his truck, helping her into the cab, while I walk over to the car, open the trunk, and pull out our bags, trying not to slip into the ditch.
I approach the truck, and Michaels follows me around and opens the back.
“You must hate this,” he says with a smile as I toss in the bags.
“Hate what?”
“Me helping you.”
“I don’t love it.” He’s standing really close, and the scent of leather, mint, and something earthy invades my space as his breath tickles my neck. I shiver. “Hey, Michaels. Lay off the cologne,” I grumble.
He looks hurt. “It’s called Swagger, and it makes me feel manly like a pirate captain.”
I step back and raise an eyebrow. “You have a thing for Jack Sparrow, do you?”
“Absolutely. His eyeliner is choice.” Michaels smirks. “Tell me you wouldn’t let him wash your barnacles.”
“For fuck’s sake. Of course that’s what you wear. It’s probably Old Spice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just…something a jock would wear.”
“Not really a jock anymore.”
I shrug. “If the jock strap fits…”
He glares at me. Then he slams the tailgate and leans back against it. “You have a really low opinion of me, don’t you?”
“Do I need to remind you about what you did to my pub?” His hazel eyes bore into me, and I suddenly feel a little guilty for being such an asshole, but I keep my face neutral and give him a hard look. “You haven’t really given me very many good impressions.”
“Yeah, fair enough, I guess.”
He still looks sad, and I hate it, which confuses the hell out of me.Why do I even care? I mean, Idon’tcare. Jesus, the guy drives me crazy.
“You’re very hurtful sometimes, Bastian.”
I grit my teeth because that stupid nickname isnotgrowing on me. “My name is Sebastian,Stitch.”
“Look, if we don’t trade passive-aggressive nicknames, are we even friends?”
“We aren’t friends!” I say it louder than I mean to and Michaels’s smile falters. He takes off his toque, balling it in his fist, and runs a hand through his unruly hair. “I know I fucked up, okay? I’m sorry.” He turns and stalks to the driver-side door and I watch him walk away.
The road windsfarther up the mountain, and we pass the odd residence, but none of the houses seem like they’re occupied—probably summer homes. It only takes us a few more minutes before Fi points out a secluded driveway.
The little cabin that greets us is an A-frame nestled in a grove of evergreen trees. The front yard is a blanket of thick, pristine snow, and stacks of firewood line the property, serving as a fence of sorts. There’s a shed in one corner, and a path runs to the left through the trees, but in the darkness, I can’t see where it leads.
Michaels pulls up and turns off the truck, glancing over at us. Fi is rubbing her collarbone with a grimace.
I frown at her. “I thought you said you weren’t hurt.”
“It’s just a few bruises,” she mutters, lowering her hand.
I sigh. “Let’s go inside.”
We all get out of the truck, and I grab our bags from the back, then walk up the steps. Fi pulls a key out of her pocket and fiddles with the old lock. It’s tarnished brass and looks like it’s from the eighties. In fact, now that we’re standing on the porch, the place is pretty rustic, to put it nicely. The wood siding is weathered, and the slanted roof is covered in a thick layer of moss.
