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Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
My eyes crack open to a dull, repetitive sound coming from outside. Dim daylight filters through the tiny portals, illuminating just enough so that I can make out the medley of frying pans dangling from nails against the wall.
I’m alone in our makeshift bed and the air is cold. I tug the sleeping bag tight under my chin and curl into a ball, instantly feeling the pull of sore muscles. I can’t tell how much of that is from sleeping on this thin foam mattress, and how much is because of my night with Jonah.
The rain has stopped, at least, I note. That constant drum against the roof was a soothing white noise for me to finally drift off to in the wee hours, but now the ensuing silence is all the more deafening.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Curiosity finally wins me over. Throwing off the sleeping bag, I step into my rain boots and grab Jonah’s flannel jacket from the clothesline, knowing it’ll cover enough of me. Hugging it tightly, I step outside. A thick, gloomy fog has settled over the soaked forest, shrouding the tall spruce trees and the narrow pathway to the plane. Even the outhouse has disappeared. It’s almost ghostly in mood, this morning.
Jonah is off to the left, his back to me, bent over a sizeable tree stump to position a log on its end. An axe sits nearby, next to a small pile of freshly split wood. He’s wearing nothing but his baggy jeans and unlaced boots. I settle against the door frame and quietly admire the stretch and strain of the muscles in his naked back as he reaches for the axe.
“How’d you sleep?” Jonah calls out suddenly, his voice especially gravelly with the morning.
“Pretty good.” I clear the scratch from my throat. “A bit thirsty.”
“Well, that’s a huge surprise,” he mutters wryly. “That water we had should have lasted us a week.”
“Yeah, if you’re a camel.” And you’re not used to polishing off a two-liter bottle every day, like I do back home.
He glances over
his shoulder, his gaze stalling on my bare thighs for a brief moment, before returning his focus to his task. He swings the axe, bringing it down on the chunk of wood. It splits in two.
If there’s such a thing as beautiful form while chopping wood, Jonah has it. Or maybe it’s just him that’s beautiful, because I could watch that broad chest and tapered waist all day long. A flash of his powerful shoulders and arms tensing over me last night comes to mind and my lower belly instantly stirs with the memory.
On impulse, I duck back into the cabin to grab Simon’s Canon. I manage to snap a few candid in-action pictures before he turns and catches me. “What are you doing?” he asks warily.
“Nothing. Just . . . I want to remember this.” I smile, setting the camera aside. As if I could ever forget it.
He makes a grunting sound, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just being Jonah. “I’ll have the fire going again soon.”
“What time is it, anyway?” The battery on my phone has long since died.
“Just after six.”
I make the reluctant trek toward where I know the outhouse is, unable to ignore my bodily needs and just wanting to get it over with at this point. Jonah walked me out in the rain three times last night and howled with laughter every time I ran out of the dingy, dark little box. I’ve never peed so fast in my life, and I hated every second of it.
Shockingly enough, despite the lack of other basic comforts, it’s the only thing I’ve hated about being stranded out here. Probably because Jonah has kept me well occupied.
“So, I’m guessing we can’t take off yet?” I ask on my way back, slathering sanitizer over my hands. Tall, damp weeds lick my bare legs as I trudge through the grass, leaving wet trails against my skin.
“Not until this fog lifts. A few more hours, at least.” Two halves of another log tumble to the ground with his powerful swing.
My stomach lets out a well-timed grumble. “Is there anything else besides that meat?”
“Protein bars.”
“Right.” Dried meat and protein bars. This can’t be good for anyone’s digestive system. “What would we do for food if we were actually stranded out here for a while, anyway?”
