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Grant’s short burst of laughter went straight to her sex.
“Pretty sure my stuff is bunched up over by you.” He jutted his chin in her direction, hands on his hips. His fingers strummed the satiny skin of his hip, and she was immediately lost in his anatomy again. Stubble lined his jaw already, she noted. It suited him.
Grant cleared his throat.
What had he said? Right—clothes. Clothes? His clothes! Melinda scanned the floor beneath the futon. He was right, they were there. She passed him the boxers, pants, and socks, but kept the shirt. She might as well have some compensation for being trapped in a snowstorm with no underwear.
Grant donned what she’d given him, slowly, as per her instructions, and then turned to her in surprise when he failed to find his shirt.
“You’re fine as is, Man Candy,” she said, grinning.
He made as if to grab the shirt in her hands and she thrust it toward the fire. “One more step and it’s cabin food.”
He froze. “That’s better,” she said. “Now, how’s about you stoke our fire,” she said. His eyes flashed. “I’ll scrounge up something to eat. Post-coital comestibles.”
What was a good after-sex companion? Cinnamon rolls would do nicely, she decided, and lamented that they couldn’t use the oven. What else was indulgent and celebratory? Nothing else has a gooey center for a prize.
Melinda paused in her reverie to realize he was staring at her. Eyes on hers, he circled the couch to crouch in front of the stove.
“I’ll do the fire,” he said. “But I’m reporting you for harassment.”
Melinda burst out laughing. “Just for that, I’m using your shirt as an apron.” She scooted across the futon away from him. She thought about making good on her threat but instead tossed the shirt to the couch and fled to the kitchen, his chuckle floating after her.
But seriously, what was there to eat? Besides that beast in there. Melinda turned halfway for another peek of a shirtless Grant building up their fire. This is where the going got tough and the tough wished for a coffeemaker and pastries.
At least there was tea. Melinda set about boiling water and selecting bags from the tea canister. She returned to the pantry and waited for it to speak to her. This was getting trickier by the day. Should she use the mung beans? No, she’d spring those on him for lunch. Oats, dried fruit, chia seeds, nuts... Lost Cabin Muesli? Perfect. Okay, not perfect, but it would do. She stacked the jars on the counter.
Melinda poured half a cup of the super-small chia seeds into two stoneware bowls. She added boxed almond milk to each, gave them a quick stir, and set them aside to thicken up. Time for tea. The water was boiling, so she dropped in a few fragrant tea bags, added the lid, and wrapped a towel around the pan to keep it hot.
Back to the muesli. The oats, she set aside. The cashews and walnuts, she diced into small chunks, and gave the same treatment to the dried apricots and apples. Cinnamon? Yes. Nutmeg? Of course. Cardamom? Why not?
That was the theme of this insane adventure, wasn’t it? “Why not?” Why not, indeed. Why not forget to charge your phone? Why not get into a car with a stranger? Why not cook for and sleep with said stranger?
Melinda’s hands froze and her stomach tightened. Here came the guilt storm. The panic attack at having done something wild, out of control and out of character. The panic at who knew what the consequences of this would be. They would be crippling.
She knew nothing about this man and had all but launched herself into the sack with him. Was he anything like what she looked for in a man? Who knew? Would he disappoint her like every other man had? Probably. What on earth had she been thinking? And what about her safety? Had anyone even wondered if she was missing?
Melinda set the spices on the counter, unable to concentrate. Max? No, she disappeared from her brother for months at a time. Remy? No, her editor wouldn’t hound her until Friday of this week and it could only be...Wednesday. Melinda blinked. Mom and Dad? Why should they? She’d shut them out for years. Pain knifed her chest and she stiffened against it. No, that’s not true, she haggled. It wasn’t a complete shut-out. She emailed them annually.
But she told them nothing. Asked them nothing. Believed in nothing. Maintained nothingness. Melinda’s hands trembled against the counter. What the hell had she been doing with her life? Who did this to their family and friends? Who did this to themselves? Deep breaths. No one had a panic attack in a chalet.
She had to get it together.
What had actually happened? What had she done that was so wrong? If she examined it closely enough, broke it down into a simple sentence, maybe she could deal with it.
It.What was it? She was the princess and there was a pea in her mattress. What was it? Embarrassment? Pain? Shame? Melinda squeezed her eyes shut.
Disappointment. That was it. Grant hadn’t had the balls to seduce her, so she’d done it herself. She had to do everything herself. Why would a roll in the hay be any different? There was the nutshell. She’d found it. She inhaled. Exhaled strongly. Repeated it a few times for good measure.
And there was nothing she could do about it now, so she might as well cancel the pity party.
Melinda yanked a mug from the dish drainer, filled it with hot tea and got back to her stupid muesli. She added half and quarter teaspoons of the seasonings to the chia mixture, then added the dried fruit and nuts. The chia would turn breakfast into more of a porridge than a muesli, but who the hell cared? She poured a generous splash of almond milk into the bowls, then added the uncooked oats for texture.
“Do I smell spice?” asked Grant from the doorway.
What now? Could she speak with him after her breakdown in the kitchen?
She tightened her stomach. Socially palatable. Jaunty, spunky, witty, cold. Keep him over there and you over here. She’d done this before, she could do it again.
