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The three of us are so silent, the only noise is the branches swaying in the wind.
“You know what? You don’t need to answer that right now,” Owen interrupts. “What do you say we head back to our place? Let’s get warmed up in our hot tub. How about that?”
I bite my lip and look up at each of them. Hardy is right, I don’t want to leave them behind, but I don’t think I can promise more time. Hell, I probably shouldn’t be here now. But I can’t make myself leave. Not when I could be up in their hot tub feeling both of them explore me, owning me, filling me.
“I’ll come to your cabin,” I agree.
10
Mary
The first streaks of sunlight are dancing across the morning sky. My arms are curled up over Hardy and Owen’s bodies, my hands are cupping each of their faces. I stroke my fingers over their bristly cheeks and smile. Being between them, it feels so natural it makes me wonder how anyone could judge this. Why am I so worried about what other people think, anyway?
Still, I can’t shut off this nagging voice inside me. The one that sounds exactly like my agent, her voice high and scandalized. “Two men?!?”
Heat stains my cheeks and I wriggle free from Hardy and Owen’s arms. After a long night, we finally collapsed in Owen’s large bed together. All of us completely spent after an epic day and night of exploring just how far they could push my limits as they stretched me further than I could ever imagine.
My body is sore, but it’s an amazing pinch that reminds me what it is to be alive. I slip my clothes back on quietly and softly slip out of the cabin. The cold air wakes me fully. It’s more potent than ten espressos. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to block it from penetrating my clothes and quickly hustle up the hill to my cabin.
Yesterday was fun, but today I need to put my nose to the grindstone. Today I need to get words down on the page. I shove the door open to my place and slam it shut behind me. I’m not going to waste time making a fire, I’ll just bundle up in my loft bed and get my writing done up there. The frigid air chases me up to the loft and I block it out by burying myself deep in a cave of blankets. Opening my laptop, I pull up my blank document and stare at the screen.
Okay words, let’s go.
My fingers hover over the keyboard but they don’t move. That magic writing spirit doesn’t possess me. Instead, I struggle to think of a single sentence.
Obviously, time moves in mysterious ways when you’re in a child-like blanket fort trying to type. However, the clock on my computer tells me that a half hour has passed and not a single word has flowed from my fingertips.
Not a single word.
I think I’m officially broken. I’m done. There’s no way I can maintain my career if I can’t pry the words free from inside me. Pushing my glasses up my nose, I sigh and check my cell phone. My agent texted me a news article in the New York Times about me. Clicking the link, I scan the glowing article.
My eyes slide over the words, picking up little bits here and there. Things like: “sweet, sincere romances that will fill your heart with joy.” Things like: “only the most wholesome Christmas books ever written, from a woman who loves love.” Things like: “swoon-worthy tales that you can share with your own daughter.”
I cringe.
And then I cry.
Tossing the covers back off, I gulp for air, suddenly feeling suffocated. It’s like I lost who I was and I don’t know who I’ve become. When did this all change? The screen on my monitor turns black and I glimpse my tear-stained reflection. But who is that girl? She might as well be a stranger. These glasses, these books I can’t seem to write anymore, they’re all a lie.
I am a fraud.
Sniffling, I twist my sheets in my hands and dab my eyes. Now, what am I going to do? If I’m not Mary Gordon, queen of cozy cottage Christmas romances, then who am I?
“No,” I whisper. “I can fix this. I can go back, it’s not too late.”
Springing from the bed, I yank my suitcase from under the bed and toss it on the mattress. I know what I need to do. I need to get back to my real life and forget this little path I stumbled down. I need to push Owen and Hardy free from my mind. Even better, I need to forget them entirely.
I pile my belongings inside my bag in no order. It looks like a big pile of dirty laundry. And if there’s one thing I know about dirty laundry, it’s that you don’t hang it outside for everyone to see. I’m going to keep this time, these men, a secret. I can go back to my career. No one even knows what happened up here except for me and the guys. And no one ever will.
