Page 47 of Dirty Fighter

Then it’s like the ancient Etch A Sketch my dad played with when he was a kid and somehow survived my youth and is now living out its golden years in the cabinet under the window. The slightest shake of her head wipes her expression clear.

I want to ask her where she got the idea. Who was spreading the rumors, but really what difference does it make now what some kid said about me ten years ago.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have⁠—”

“Don’t worry about it. Whatever you heard ten years ago is probably nothing compared to what’s out there today.”

“Does it bother you?”

I shrug. “Not like it used to. Yeah, it’s weird the first time you encounter that kind of bullshit and it’s not from some jealous asshole you’ve known since the second grade. It’s a stranger you’ve never met, and I don’t know. It almost feels more personal, even though it’s actually less. But as a professional, you have to get used to it. And you’ve got a team that helps you. An organization that supports you.”

And then, because this is Rowan, I confide, “But yeah, sometimes it still bothers me.”

16

Rowan

The games were fun and the conversation… too easy to fall into.

After years of silence, how is it even possible that this man is the one reminding me what it feels like to connect with someone. To lose track of time talking about this and that, only to discover that it’s somehow late afternoon and the rain has finally let up enough to check out the extent of the storm damage.

Jason hands me a pair of women’s rubber boots from the very back of the utility room closet, and it takes me a second to connect the dots.

“My mother’s?”

He nods, pulling on his own. “Dad wanted her to have everything she’d need out here. And then, I guess he felt like getting rid of them would be too final. Or maybe he thought you’d be out here, like this.”

I don’t think Ed ever would have imagined me coming to pack up the cabin he inexplicably didn’t leave to his son after a death that came decades before it should have.

Jason must be thinking along the same lines, because he huffs a short laugh. “Or not like this. But, you know.”

I smile. “Yeah, I do.”

The boots are a little small, but I’m glad to have them traipsing through the storm’s aftermath. The grass and earth are soaked, and with every squishy step we take, our feet sink into the ground and more mud and muck builds up.

There’s debris everywhere. Nests, twigs, and smaller branches light enough to get caught in the wind litter the paths and the clearing around the cabin. There’s a larger leaf-covered branch on the roof, along with tons of smaller ones. But it’s the downed tree across the path to the dock and the fallen limb from a mature oak that’s roughly the size of a truck and completely blocking access to the shed that take priority.

Jason rubs his neck, looking around. And even though I don’t know this man that well, I have the distinct sense he’s searching for someone who’s no longer here to chime in with some sage advice or maybe just a commiserating chuckle.

This time, I don’t stop myself from reaching out to lay a hand on his arm.

He turns to me and swallows hard. And then after a bracing breath, he says, “One guess where we keep the chainsaw.”

The shed. “Think we could pull this thing out of the way enough to get to the door?”

“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure we’ve got some cordage in one of the upper utility cabinets. Wait here, and I’ll grab it along with my axe.”

Oh, no. Lumberjack Jason is the dead last version of this man I need to be confronted by right now. Not after the way we woke up together.

The whole flex-and-release mega-muscles show starts running through my mind, and an involuntary hum of appreciation slips free.

“You okay?” he asks from a few steps away.

“What? Oh yeah, fine.” Idiot! “Just thinking about how good that… umm… hot chocolate was last night.”

Brow lift.

Then, “Sure, okay. Well, umm, if it stays cool like this, we can warm up with some more this afternoon.”