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“Yes,” I answer slowly, feeling like he’s leading me somewhere, but I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got a non-refundable reservation to be right here where I am. Non-bear, grumpy, likely-murderers, notwithstanding.
I’m pretty surethathas to fall under some refund clause somewhere, right?
Sighing heavily, he explains, “There was a delay when Anderson pulled the availability of the cabin from the short-term rental website. That delay allowed you to book after he’d already told me I could stay here.”
I open my mouth to argue. Whatever delay isn’t my fault, and I have a confirmed and paid-for stay. The man holds up a hand to stop me, but it’s the stony look he flashes that actually makes me clamp my mouth shut.
“Anderson is concerned about his rating or whatever with the website and wants you to stay. I get that, but this is a work situation for me. I need to be in this area.” He glances out the window at the forest, which is getting darker by the minute. “I’ll be out for the most part and can sleep in my truck, but I’d like to come in for a shower in the evening before bedding down. It’ll be a few days at most, and I’ll reimburse your whole stay for the inconvenience. Any chance you’d be agreeable to that?”
I’m good at reading people, always have been with a family like mine, and only got better at it when I started working at the care center. I see families, patients, and doctors, sometimes at their best and more often at their worst.
It’s those skills that kick in as I evaluate this guy. And the more I see, the more I grow intrigued.
There’s a formality to the way he asks to strike some sort of deal, like he’s negotiated before. He’s dressed in all black, and while there’s a tactical vibe to the clothing, it’s high-end and expensive. He didn’t buy this crap from your average Army-Navy store. He’s laid back in the chair casually, but there’s an undercurrent of urgency as though every muscle is poised for action. He’s dangerous, but I don’t feel in danger. The distinction is important.
And if I’m not mistaken, he’s offering to pay for my entire stay in exchange for a few showers. If he’s not a murderer, it’s a pretty sweet deal. For me.
I give myself a moment to think, aware that I have a well-documented weakness for helping people in need at nearly any cost, including my own well-being. But still, I trust my gut. It’s (mostly) never steered me wrong.
Plus, I remember that drive in and it’s getting late. I can’t, in good conscience, turn him out to traverse that in the dark. I’d never forgive myself if something happened.
“What’s your name?” He blinks like that’s not what he expected me to say. “If I’m sharing the facilities with someone, I’d like to at least know his name,” I explain, having mostly made my decision.
He moves slowly like he doesn’t want to startle me, and I watch warily as he stands and approaches. At the last minute, he reaches for the closet next to me. Huh, I didn’t even notice that door with the eye-catching view out the back windows.
He pulls out a small black duffle and digs in an outside pocket. Holding up a driver’s license to show me the picture and name, he says, “Cole Harrington. You?”
I confirm the picture is him and then offer, “Janey Williams.”
“Janey,” he echoes. One side of his mouth tilts up in the slightest hint of a smile. It makes him look boyish and mischievous, something I sincerely doubt he’d appreciate being told. His whole vibe is serious business in the front, no party in the back.
“Are you here to kill anyone or anything?” I ask bluntly, thinking I might as well get the Question of the Day out of the way.
His blond brows jump up his forehead. “What? No.”
He sounds appropriately shocked at the question and not at all murder-y. Probably.
“I’m a photographer. I left my camera in a hide so I didn’t have to haul it.” He’s smart, answering my next question before I could ask it, but if I’d listed the top ten things Cole Harrington does for a living, photography wouldn’t have remotely been in consideration.
He’s answered my questions, and I’m not seeing any obvious red flags, so I feel eighty-five percent good about my decision to agree to this idea, which is enough for me. “If you’re paying for my vacation, the least I can do is let you sleep here. But I want private hot tub time. I have plans for those jets.”
I point out the back window toward the currently cold and quiet tub. At the sharp look he gives me, I belatedly realize how sketchy that sounds. Whoops.
“No! I mean, for my back. I had to move Mrs. Michaelson to change her bedding before I left, and we were short-staffed. I’m a nurse, and we’re always short-staffed... it’s an industry-wide problem.” I wave a hand dismissively because there’s nothing I can do about that. “So I had to do it alone. Mrs. Michaelson is a tiny woman, but she’s frail so you have to be extremely careful. And ooh, my back’s been aching ever since. I want to sit in the hot tub with a jet aimed at this knot right here.” I rub at a spot on my lower back.
Cole blinks... and blinks again, looking at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language. “I have no idea what you just said, but you can have full access to the hot tub.”
Some sort of deal agreed upon, I hold my hand out. “Good. Nice to meet you, Cole.”
He shakes my hand with the slightest chuckle. “I sincerely doubt that’s true, but thanks for the polite lie.” His palm is a little rough, not callused like he does hard labor, but also not soft and doughy like he’s never worked a day. He releases me and picks up the duffel bag from the floor. “Mind if I shower?”
“Yeah, no. That’s fine,” I say as I move out of his way, though I wasn’t in his way to begin with. “I was gonna make dinner. You hungry? I brought groceries and have plenty. I don’t mind sharing. Do you like chicken? Or I bought soup. I could heat that up for us and toast some bread. Unless you’re vegetarian? If that’s the case, all I can offer is a baked potato because I bought those to go with steaks one night for Henry and me. But you don’t strike me as the vegetarian type.”
Cole is looking at me strangely again, and I realize that I’m rambling.
“Sorry, I talk a lot. Always have. Henry calls me out on it, always wants me to ‘shut up for a single fucking minute’.” I throw my voice to mimic his annoyance. I continue in my own voice. “But it’s hard to keep my thoughts in my head. I talk to patients, like Mrs. Michaelson.” I drop her name like they’re old friends already. “All day, so it feels natural to provide some narrative to the passing of time, you know? But it’s a bad habit, so... sorry.”
“Dinner would be great. I’m not vegetarian.”
