Except those movies don't usually feature BDSM dungeons in the basement.
The thought makes me laugh out loud, the sound strange in the empty cabin. I've never been prone to hysteria, but something about this situation brings a giddy edge to my emotions. Maybe it's the isolation, or the aftermath of adrenaline from the generator crisis, or simply the absurdity of my circumstance.
Whatever the cause, it leaves me singing "Jingle Bells" at full volume while cutting out cookie shapes. The domestic scene feels surreal, like I'm playing house in someone else's life.
The first batch emerges golden and fragrant. I set them to cool and move to the living room windows. The storm shows no sign of abating, snow whirling in hypnotic patterns. Will Dario make it back today? The thought brings a confusing mix of anticipation and anxiety.
What happens when he returns? Will we address what I found? The question he asked? Or will we retreat to our business arrangement, pretending the tension between us doesn't exist?
The satellite phone rings, startling me from my thoughts. I answer immediately.
"Hello?"
"Judith." Dario's deep voice sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. "Status update."
Always direct. "Generator failed during the night. I restarted it. Everything's fine now."
A pause. "You restarted the generator? In the storm?"
"Yes." I can't help the pride that creeps into my voice. "Your manual was very thorough."
Another pause, longer this time. "Good work. Most people wouldn't have managed that."
"I told you I wasn't helpless."
"Clearly." Something like respect colors his tone. "Storm's clearing here. I should make it back by early afternoon if the road crews work fast."
"The cookies will still be warm." The words escape before I can stop them.
"Cookies?"
"Gingerbread. I stress bake, remember?"
A low chuckle, the first I've heard from him. The sound does unreasonable things to my insides. "Save me one."
"If you're lucky."
"I make my own luck."
After we disconnect, I stand motionless, phone clutched to my chest like a lovesick teenager. This is dangerous territory. The arrangement is clear: business only. Temporary. Expiring December 26th. Getting emotionally entangled would be disastrous.
And yet.
I return to the kitchen, focusing on the tangible task of decorating cookies. The precision work requires concentration, pushing all other thoughts aside. By midday, I've created three dozen gingerbread people in various festive outfits.
I'm contemplating starting another batch when I hear it: the distant roar of a snowmobile engine. My heart leaps traitorously in my chest.
I move to the window, watching as Dario's broad form materializes through the swirling snow. He manages the machine with effortless skill, navigating the deep drifts that have transformed the landscape. Power and control embodied.
For a wild moment, I consider running upstairs to change from my leggings and oversized sweatshirt, maybe apply some lip gloss. The impulse horrifies me. Since when do I care how I look for a man? Especially one who's essentially my business partner?
Instead, I stay where I am, watching his approach with a outward calm that belies my racing pulse. When he finally kills the engine and dismounts, removing his helmet to reveal snow-dusted dark hair, I realize I've been holding my breath.
I step away from the window before he catches me staring, busying myself with arranging cookies on a plate. The door opens, bringing a blast of frigid air and the solid presence of Dario Wallace, snow melting on his broad shoulders, blue eyes finding mine immediately.
"Welcome back," I say, aiming for casual but hearing the slight breathlessness in my voice.
He stamps snow from his boots, shrugging out of his heavy coat. "Quite the storm."
