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One thing I knew for certain was I needed to find the bathroom. Thankfully, the clouds had moved, and the moon lit the house enough for me to find my way through the house. I tiptoed slowly, worried I would hit a creaky board and wake him. I made it back to his bed with no issue, pulling the covers around me. In no time at all, I drifted back to sleep.
I woke again, assuming it was still nighttime, but I was wrong. The sun shone through the bedroom window, its rays striping the wooden floor. He hadn’t turned on a light last night, so this was my first glimpse of his house. Not surprisingly, wood was the decor. The cabin looked sparse. It didn’t surprise me. He’d not been here long, and from what I’d read, he didn’t end up with much after paying his debt and medical bills. Plus, men didn’t always care about decorative pillows and art on the walls. I wondered where he wrote. I’d only seen this room. The rest of the cabin was the bathroom, living room, and kitchen.
He’d mentioned not being able to write last night, which was a theory his fans had passed around. It didn’t seem like they knew why he wasn’t writing, though. That he related his writing to what was probably the worst night of his life. I couldn’t imagine giving up something that was so ingrained in my soul. If I stopped writing, it would feel like I’d lost a part of me.
I smelled bacon and eggs, grinning with delight. Sex like that, and he cooked too? I pushed the covers off me, searching for my jeans and bra. I’d slipped my underwear and T-shirt on when I’d gone to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I found them on a rocking chair in the corner. I didn’t remember being that neat when we hit the bed. He must have picked my clothes up for me this morning. Imagine if he saw my room—he’d probably walk back out.
With my jeans on, I breathed on my hand, wondering how bad my breath was. Thankfully, I always carried mints in my purse. Pulling two out, I popped them in my mouth and ran my fingers through my hair. The only choice was to pull it into a ponytail. I straightened my T-shirt and walked toward the smell of breakfast, interested in how he would respond to me this morning.
“Good morning. I didn’t want to wake you.” He smiled, flipping a pancake in the skillet.
“I’m not used to a home-cooked meal. You should probably know I don’t cook. I can toast bread and boil water, but that’s about it.”
He dried his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder as I grabbed a piece of bacon and moved closer to me to kiss the top of my head. It was a sweet gesture that made my heart swoon. Next-morning attraction? Check.
“Cooking is one of the things I started doing since the accident. It was the only thing that calmed the anxiety in the beginning. I’ve added yoga, puzzle building, and working out.”
“But not writing?”
“No, unfortunately, not writing. I hoped getting away from everything and essentially starting over would be a catalyst. I’m still gathering information.”
“That’s fair. You’re still getting used to your new environment. It sounds like Malia might be a great contact.”
“And you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. My initial reason for giving your mother my number was to reach out as a writer. The aftermath was just a bonus.” He winked.
I sighed. “My mother thinks all writers are built the same. She doesn’t always listen when I tell her there are different categories. I even tried to explain it’s like doctors. It still didn’t help.”
He chuckled. “So, you’re not planning on writing your memoirs anytime soon?”
“No. Honestly, I would love to write more human-interest pieces. Editorials would be my choice if given the opportunity.”
I could tell the comment hit home. He swallowed hard, taking his time chewing the bacon he was holding. I wasn’t certain if the lack of response was good or bad.
“The quiet is freaking me out a little bit. Are you good?” I’d never been skilled in patience, and this instance was no different.
“Do you know anything about my writing?” he asked, clasping his hands in front of him. His voice was calm, steady.
When I was growing up, I knew I was in trouble when my parents used that voice with me. If they were yelling, I could most likely talk my way out of it. Quiet? I was doomed.
“My mother is a fan. She has all of your books.” It was a complete cop-out answer, but I was hoping it would get me by. I was distinctly aware that my only options to get home were still to call a parent or Mina. Making the call early this morning seemed easier than what was currently going down. I was furiously trying to figure a way out of this. I couldn’t imagine it ending well, but maybe he wouldn’t be upset? For all I knew, he didn’t mind that I was a reporter and not in the same writing category as him. Or he’d understand that my type of reporting was nowhere near the vile reporting he’d run into ten years ago.
