Page 21 of Fight from the Heart

“Better bundle up, buttercup,” he says and hangs up.

Driving to his house, I curse him during the entire ride.

Insufferable. Egotistical. Wretched jerk. Just who does he think he is? A better question might be why am I so easily doing his bidding. However, the simple answer is he pays me. Our friendship grew out of the blogger-author relationship, but we also have a kindred spirit that Jacob doesn’t see. He needs someone to love him for who he is, and I think I could be that person.

Perhaps, I’m a bit of a masochist.

When I pull into Jacob’s driveway, the garage door opens as if he’s expecting me. His house is built on a bit of a hill, with the garage underneath the north section of the home where both his office and bedroom stand. As soon as I enter the garage, the door closes behind my car. I have a key to help myself into the house but find the doors unlocked.

Jacob meets me at the top of the steps.

“What took you so long?” he questions, and I glare at him, tempted to turn back around and leave his sorry backside.

Too bad his backside is not sorry in the least but perfectly sculpted, firm, and tight.

“Have you seen the weather?” I ask. It’s starting to really snow, and it’s not pretty and gentle but coming down sideways. “We need to make this quick so I can get home before I’m stuck here.”

I’m in a mood, which the weather matches, and I can’t deal with Jacob’s moodiness.

Jacob stares at me without an ounce of consideration for my fear. I cannot stay here with him again. If he was half as evil as the villains he writes, I’d think he planned this snowstorm. As I don’t believe he’s able to dictate weather patterns, I dismiss the thought.

“I want you to read these three chapters. Mark them up. Bleed on this thing.” He hands me the pages, old-fashioned in his ways to print and proof with a regular pen. We’ve also done edits electronically, but he prefers a first draft in this manner at times, and apparently during a snowstorm is the time. Thankfully, I didn’t have to work at the garden center, so I take the papers thrust at me and help myself to one of the two couches in the living room. The leather couches are at a ninety degree angle to one another with one facing the large wall of windows with a view of lake while the other faces a stone fireplace reaching the vaulted ceiling. The room is considered a great room with the dining room table large enough for twelve behind the couch facing the fireplace.

Without glancing back at Jacob, I begin reading while I feel his eyes on me. Finally, he steps back into his office. It’s been an unsettling day for me, and I decide this is what I need—to get lost in a book and rip apart Jacob’s writing.

Unfortunately, roughly twenty minutes later, the lights begin to flicker. Oh God, no. The snow outside the glass panes is so thick I can’t see the lake, which is out there somewhere. It’s like being inside a snowglobe with the snow on the outside. It’s beautiful and frightening at the same time. The wind whistles, and the lights flicker again.

Jacob enters the living room and glances around the lit room. “It’s getting bad out there.”

“Yes, thank you, Sherlock,” I mock. I told him the weather wasn’t conducive to me being here. I’m still angry that he demanded I come here as if it’s so urgent I can’t read these chapters from home, but I have calmed a bit from my original irritation.

“Maybe we should start a fire,” he states, just as the lights blink again. I swear it’s as if he willed them to flicker to prove his point. Walking up to his fireplace, Jacob stops and stares at the large opening.

“It’s not gas,” I tell him, knowing he loves convenience.

“I know that,” he snaps at me while glaring at the fireplace as if it could build a fire itself. I set the chapters I was reading to the side and stand next to him. Ignoring his sass, I continue.

“You need to set wood in there and start the fire with kindling and newspaper.”

“Thank you.” His sarcasm is warranted. We’re both on edge, but he still doesn’t move. Instead, he glances toward the window, which we can’t see out. “You’ll be stuck here again for the night.”

His tone has me questioning if this upsets him or concerns him. Either way, he has nothing to worry about. We will not be having a repeat of what happened while I was sick. I’ll sleep on the fricking couch by the fireplace.

The thought of a fire reminds me of my dad and being a kid on camping trips. “Did you ever go camping as a kid?” The question pops out as I’m curious.

“My dad didn’t believe in camping. It was dirty and for people without money for hotels.”

Yikes. That’s rude, and one of the first real mentions of his father. Jacob never talks about his parents while Ella has spoken of them on occasion.

“Okay. Newspaper and kindling.” I glance up, and Jacob stares back at me. He has neither of these items. “Cardboard?”

“Maybe some frozen pizza boxes in the recycling bin,” he suggests. That will have to do.

“If you could go get more wood from your garage, I can look for cardboard and get this started.” Giving him something to do other than building a fire seems to please him, and I grumble my way through his bin, finding some scraps of paper and the boxes he suggested. A set of matches rests on the mantel, and I set up the fire, recalling how my father taught me from nights of camping as a kid and bonfires on the beach as a teen. Jacob makes several trips, really piling up the wood in his living room and accepting the reality of things.

As he dumps his third stack, the lights give a final wink and go off. “Your furnace runs off electricity,” I remind him.

“Yes, Mrs. Electric Company. I know,” he grouses, and I smirk. This means the only heat source is this fireplace, so we’ll both be camping on couches tonight.