She hesitates. Pride, politeness, both. Then another gust of wind catches her and she caves. “Okay. Five minutes.”
“The shower’s down the hall,” I say, pushing open the bathroom door to show her the latch. “Second shelf is clean towels. I’ll—uh—find you something dry to wear while your clothes run.”
“Right.” She glances down at her mud-caked clothes. “Thanks.”
Her smile punches higher than it should. I nod, uncomfortable with how much I feel that, and retreat before I say anything stupid.
When I pick up her jeans, a folded paper slips from the back pocket, skidding to the linoleum at my feet. It’s not a receipt. It’s thick with pencil lines.
Curiosity gets there before my manners do.
I unfold it. The air whooshes out of my lungs.
It’s the farm. She’s sketched our fields and buildings in sweeping lines, added flourishes of vines and leaves that make them feel alive.
There are little annotations in the margins: “photo spot?” by the big white birch. “Zipline hours board” drawn like a pennant along the fence. And so on.
She’s even added the forty-odd pumpkin varieties with tiny labels arcing around each patch—Cinderella’s Carriage, Dark Knights, Baby Boo, and more.
It’s all there in black and white.
I fold the paper carefully and set it on the counter.
The bathroom door clicks. She steps out, bare feet and damp hair, donning one of my older flannels and a pair of sweats.
She looks way too damned good in it.
It would look better on my floor.
I shake off the thought. “Doing okay?”
She tugs at the collar. “I look I a lumberjack.”
“You look… good.”
“High praise, I’m sure.” The color is back in her cheeks.
My gut clenches.
“Coffee?” I ask.
Her eyes light up, sending another punch to my gut. “Yes, please.”
I pour two mugs and slide one across the counter. Our fingers brush. Electricity jolts up my wrist.
I point to the folded paper on the counter. “Is this yours?”
“Oh. Did that fall out of my pocket?” Her shoulders tense. “I was doodling on my lunch break. I meant to throw it out.”
“If you toss this, I’ll dig it out of the trash.” I unfold it. “It’s more than a doodle. It’s a work of art.”
She ducks her head. “I used to draw like this all the time when I was younger. Then I had to get a real job. It didn’t leave a lot of room for hand-drawn anything.”
“You worked in marketing.”
“Yeah.” She wraps her hands around the mug. “For a big company. Too big. The work was fine. But somewhere along the way I forgot why I even took the job.” She shrugs at herself. “Anyway. They decided to outsource the art. I took it as a sign to reboot. The cabin up here is free. I figured I could… reset. Meet people who aren’t on Teams.”
“And you’re doing it. Plus, you’ve met a dog with boundary issues,” I offer.
