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Those forearms are impatiently crossed at his chest while he stares at the ceiling. He has that look of someone awaiting a third round of bad news from customer service.
All eyes pivot to take me in when the screen door smacks shut behind me.
The mama and the papa bear change their faces as if getting ready to apologize. The third bear looks like he could eat me for breakfast with some berries and wild honey. I would let him, and I would say “Thank you very much, sir, would you like some more?”
The woman looks at her counterpart, urging him to take the lead. “Uhh, it seems we had a mix-up. The cabin that came open was unintentionally double-booked. I’m so sorry. But we are doing our best to take care of you and find you another place to stay,” he says.
Shocked and disappointed, I look from the man to the woman I assume is his wife. “I don’t understand. I made the reservation yesterday over email,” I say.
The husband, who introduces himself as Matthew and his wife as Gretchen, nods and replies, “Yes, and my wife took this gentleman’s reservation over the phone early yesterday morning and didn’t enter it into the spreadsheet.”
I look at the feet of “this gentleman,” because if I keep looking at his piercing eyes, I might fold like a chair under the pressure to change my reservation. His cheap flip-flops and ratty cotton shorts remind me of every other bro I’ve ever met. At least his toenails are trimmed. Nothing worse than a dude with unkempt toenails.
Gretchen pipes up, “And my husband didn’t check the physical logbook before taking yours, dear.” She appears to be on hold, looking for some other place for me to stay.
I gather my courage and lift my gaze again to meet the other guest’s eyes. Still looks like he wants to eat me for dinner. I can’t tell if he’s upset or trying to intimidate me into giving up my room. Matthew continues to explain and apologize, but I’m not even mad. I feel this stranger’s stare, and I’m digging his frustrated energy. He needs to lighten up; How recently has he gotten laid? I wonder.
The slightly naughty corner of my mind dares him to lick his lips while he eyes me like that. The dirtier place in my mind imagines how talented those full lips of his might be. The filthy me says his talents won’t matter as much if I’m the one riding his face.
If Matthew and Gretchen find another place for me to stay, I might be sad to leave now. Because Mr. Forearms is a snack and a half.
Gretchen places the receiver back in its cradle and looks sheepish. “I’m so sorry about this. Every place is booked solid, up and down Lake Huron from here to Saint Ignace. Nothing even in the Soo unless you’re okay with a motel room,” she says, using the local nickname of Sault Ste. Marie, the biggest town on the peninsula. “Otherwise, best I can find is an extremely rustic place up on Whitefish Bay near the shipwreck museum in Paradise, but it’s more than an hour’s drive from here and has no electricity. Again, I’m so sorry.”
I’m not sure what to do here. I can’t go all the way to Whitefish Bay. That would tack on hours to the day trip I need to take with my mom’s remains. I don’t know if I can afford a hotel room on the island where I’m taking her. The stranger sees my worry, and his expression shifts. Softens. A look passes between us. I feel like I know him, have known h
im for years. The only solution in this scenario is for one of us to leave and take our chances elsewhere, or for us to share a cabin. My brow lifts in a question; the stranger returns my question with a nod, a silent agreement. He needs me to be the one to suggest it; he doesn’t want to look like a creep.
Are you sure this is wise, Penny? I glance over at Matthew’s beefy shoulders and stern face. If this stranger isn’t safe, if I complain about a single crossed boundary, I’m pretty sure Matthew would knock his ass down. And so would Gretchen, for that matter.
I glance back at the stranger, and he lifts his eyebrows in anticipation. He’s waiting for me to say it. If this goes south, I can always get in my car and drive away.
This is unlike me, but I’m jumping in with both feet.
I tear my gaze away from Mr. Forearms to address Gretchen. “Oh, it’s all right,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “I’ll take the cabin here. It has one bed and one couch? Then he can have the bed since he technically booked first. I’ll take the sofa. We’ll just have to find a way to put up with each other.”
“Well, if you insist,” grumbles Teddy Bear McForearms. The grumble feels like a show for Gretchen and Matthew. I can read right through it. He’s happy about this.
Am I going to let this total stranger share a bathroom with me? A tiny kitchenette? Yes, I am. Do I know him enough to trust him? No, but there’s something oddly, cozily familiar about this guy, and I can’t put my finger on it.
I smile. “It’s not ideal,” I tell him. “But as long as we stay out of each other’s way, we should do just fine.”
We gather our keys and head out, to the astonishment of the owners, and I think I’m going to reward myself with a good look at the stranger’s ass as he walks ahead of me toward our cabin. Yet another memory comes rushing back like a boomerang to smack me in the head when I take notice of his swagger, the way he holds his head, rubs the back of his scalp for no reason.
He’s Joshua. That’s why he feels so familiar. That Joshua.
My heart pounds, my head explodes, and the inner child in my soul lights up like a sinking ship’s signal flare.
He holds open the cabin door and I step inside, enveloped in the scent of wood and floor cleaner. Even the light fixtures and the sink spouts haven’t changed. I’m now taller than the vintage fridge that had at one time housed the gallons of homemade lemonade that my sister and I used to make with far too much sugar (which I now realize we were allowed to do on rainy days just to keep us occupied with projects).
And now I have all of this to myself, as well as Joshua, my vacation crush, after more than 15 years.
I wonder if he remembers. If he doesn’t remember, how embarrassed will I be when I eventually blurt it out because I can’t take the suspense?
Chapter 4
Josh
When I see her haul in a three-piece set of matching luggage, I know there’s no way I can let her stay on the futon in the great room.
