Writing?"No problem. There’s a desk.”
The cabin sits in a stand of old firs, and it is exactly what I said it was: a work cabin. Woodstove, desk, radio base station, gear lockers, a wall of topo maps, a kitchenette the size of a phone booth. And one bed.
I knew there was one bed. I spent the entire drive here trying not to think about it—and failing miserably.
I get the stove going while she looks around, and I watch her clock it all, the maps, the logbook, my spare jacket on the hook,the shelf with the coffee and the emergency chocolate, and the single, narrow bed. She sets her laptop on the desk and runs a finger over it.
“Feel free to work if you need to.”
She looks at me shyly. “I’m writing a novel. Or trying to, anyway.”
"That’s amazing,” I say, meaning it. “I love to read, but I wouldn’t have the first clue how to write a novel.”
As Neely types, the rain starts to fall. Before long, the warmth of the fire and the soothing sound of Neely’s fingers on the keyboard begin to lull me to sleep. I try to focus on the log book, double checking my most recent entries.
She stops typing. In the window glass, I can see her reflection watching mine.
"Tate."
"Neely."
"How long are you going to pretend to read that logbook?”
“I’m not pretend—”
“It’s upside down.”
I blink in surprise. “Is it?”
She smirks. “No.”
Busted.“How am I supposed to focus on anything with you in the room?”
CHAPTER 7
Neely
Heturnsthechairaround to face me, unhurried, elbows to knees, and the lamplight does unfair things to his forearms, and outside, the storm gets closer to us. The thunder grows louder, more intense.
I close my laptop. “Maybe I’m having a little trouble focusing too.”
He looks at me intently. "Then come here."
I cross the cabin. He doesn't stand, doesn't reach, just tips his head back to hold my eyes while I step in between his knees. And when I put my hands on his shoulders, I can feel how still he's making himself, all that big careful body holding at idle, waitingon me. It's the waiting that undoes me. The obvious effort to be patient. To not push me into something I don’t want.
But of course, I want him. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t?
"I'm leaving in the fall,” I remind him.
"It’s a good thing it’s still summertime." His hands settle on my hips, warm through the fabric, and squeeze once. "Neely. I'm not asking you to promise me forever tonight. But I'm not going to lie and say I’ll be okay with watching you leave.”
“But when the time comes—”
He shrugs. “It’ll suck. That’s all I’m saying. Do with that what you will.”
What I do with it is kiss him. Hard.
We kissed on Main Street,with tongue, and it was amazing. But it was nothing like this. Tate rises from the chair with me in his arms like I weigh no more than a bundle of wood, and then there's a wall of topo maps against my back and his mouth at my jaw… my throat… my earlobe.
