“Uh, no, I haven’t…” But I would certainly be considering it now. Huh.
I left my boss’s office in a kind of daze. He’d told me he didn’t require two weeks’ notice and that I could leave whenever I was ready. So, that was what I did. I packed up my desk, said my farewells, and went straight home to pack.
No matter that I told myself the hard work was done, we still had plenty of I’s to dot and T’s to cross. I found a sublet for my apartment to cover until my lease was up, and Guy flew down to help me pack up my belongings. Even without all the furniture, which absolutely wouldn’t fit in his tiny cabin, we had enough boxes to fill the small rental truck to the brim. And then began the great drive home.
I was too pregnant to fly, which meant our options were limited. I had no interest in taking a bus, stuffed into a muggy, too-warm cabin with a bunch of strangers, sharing a cramped bathroom stall. With my luck, I would get wedged in there, my belly getting in the way of the door and needing the jaws of life to extract me. Nope, not happening. We almost chose a train, but that would be expensive and would still leave us having all mybelongings shipped, not to mention it wouldn’t get us all the way there.
So instead, Guy had declared, “Road trip!” with such childlike enthusiasm that I was carried right along with him in believing it would be an amazing time. We could stop to see Old Faithful and Mount Rushmore, and every single oversized windmill or ball of twine in between. We brought the stuffed beaver along to photograph along the way, posting it all to my blog.
Except, the thing about road trips was that the novelty began to wear off pretty quickly. My ankles swelled and my hips hurt from too much sitting, and while the scenery was beyond gorgeous, from mountains to mesas, from deserts to lush forest landscapes, by the third day, I was just ready to be home. My real,foreverhome with Guy and his lodge.
Somewhere in Quebec, though, I awoke from my road-trip stupor. All through that final day on the road, my blood seemed to rush through my veins, pulsing with a beat that saidhome, home, home. Even without the GPS navigation, I probably could’ve found my way. I pressed a hand over my heart. “I feel it,” I whispered with reverence.
Guy reached across the bench seat and took my hand. “Almost there.”
“Presque,” I said in my poorly accented French, and Guy beamed at me with pride.
“You are so sexy when you speak French,” he said, reaching down to adjust himself in his pants. “If I weren’t driving…”
I was constantly surprised to find he could still make me blush. I hoped it never changed. “Keep your eyes on the road, buddy. I want to make it home in one piece,” I sassed.
I’d downloaded an app to try to learn his language. It only made sense, since I would be living in a French community, and our children would no doubt pick it up without even trying. It wasn’t easy, though. The verbs made no sense to me, and nomatter what I did, I just could not roll those R’s. Guy’s sexy reinforcement, though, did wonders for my confidence. Most of our lessons were conducted between the sheets.
Pulling into the town brought an immense sense of relief—and not just to my hips and lower back, as I hopped down from the truck and groaned into a deep stretch. This relief I felt at finally being home, knowing I was here to stay, relieved me of a burden I hadn’t even been aware of. The air in my lungs was fragrant with pine and rich earth, instead of car exhaust and sewer overflow, and the breeze carried only the sound of wind and water and birdsong. Not a single honk or crash or road-rage curse. There was only peace here.
“You’re back!” Vivienne, Guy’s mother, called from down the street.
I waved. “Bonjour, Maman!” I called back, butchering the language with just two words, but her joy at my attempt was worth it.
“You’ve been practicing your French, I see.Très bien!” She pulled me into a hug, as warm as my own mother’s.
Behind her, I saw Guy’s dad, Jean, followed by Pierre and his mate Olivier. One by one, members of the lodge trickled from their cabins to welcome us home and to help with unpacking the truck. Nobody here cared that I was foreign, that I didn’t speak their language, or even that I was human. All that mattered was love.
Guy hauled up the back of the truck with a clatter, and everyone grabbed a bag, box, or tote and began to carry them inside. When I went to grab one, though, Guy stopped me.
“No, not that one. It’s too heavy,” he said, plucking up the box before I could get my hands on it. It certainly didn’t look heavy, the way he picked it up with ease, but maybe it was just his shifter strength.
I huffed, frustrated. “Okay…” I looked through the stacks until I found one that looked to be filled with pillows, but even that one was not to Guy’s liking.
“Nope,” he said, thwarting my attempt to help again.
“Come on,” I griped. “I want to help too! It’smystuff!”
“But you don’t need to. There are so many people, we will have it done in ten minutes. How about you sit right here and direct where everything goes.” He nudged me toward one of the Adirondack chairs on the porch.
“Grrr!” I growled, loud enough to make any beast proud, digging my heels in. “Would you just let me carry a single box? I’m pregnant. That doesn’t mean my arms don’t work.”
He sighed, eyes narrowed, and I thought for sure he would turn me down again. But then his lips twitched with a smirk, and he surprised me by relenting. “Fine. Pick one light box.”
I felt like I’d won a small battle, and chest puffed up, I grabbed a small box marked “bathroom.” But as soon as I’d picked it up and settled it on top of my belly, Guy came up behind me and hauled me up off the ground! “Guy!” I squealed, hugging tight to the box.
“What? I said you could carry the box. I said nothing about me not carryingyou.” Smug bastard.
I probably would’ve fought more, but as soon as he carried me through the doorway, my jaw dropped in a gasp. “Guy, your cabin…”
“Do you like it?” he asked, carrying me straight through the house, but his shit-eating grin said he already knew exactly how I felt.
Because how could I not love it? He’d been busy since I was last here. There was a skylight letting sunlight pour through into the living area, gleaming off the new appliances in the kitchen. He’d added a butcherblock island to increase counterspace, andI could already imagine it covered in cooling racks of maple-soaked baking.
