Safe and sound in a house full of people.
All the other people I don’t want to kiss and touch.
All the other people I don’t want to spend the night with all alone.
9
River
“I’m a polar bear. Wait. Make that a popsicle,” I say, shivering in this icebox of a house.
“You’re so California,” Owen says, as he shuts the door after me. But his voice is flat.
“Says the guy from Vancouver,” I point out as I head to the kitchen, opening cupboards with renewed vigor.
“I’m hardly from there. I just lived there till I was eight,” he says, joining me in the task, jerking open the cabinets.
“But it made you sturdy. You’re like a mountain man,” I say, trying to keep the mood light.
“Yes, River. I’m practically a lumberjack,” he says drily, as he heads to the sink, turning the faucet on a smidge.
Tantalizing images flick past me thanks to that word—lumberjack. Owen in flannel. Owen chopping wood. Owen in front of the fire. A low rumble escapes my throat.
My friend snaps his gaze to me. “Do you have a lumberjack fetish?”
No, I have a you fetish.
Apparently, I’m just fully realizing it today.
And it’s radically fucking with my head.
Best to deny everything. That’ll keep me focused. “No, I don’t.” I gesture to the Travel & Leisure cabin that requires gawking. The kitchen is modern and new—white counters and a steel fridge, and it opens into a sunken living room. A stone hearth frames that room, rising to the ceiling. My eyes travel up, taking in the logs for days above us, and yet this is hardly a log cabin.
“Damn, Declan takes care of his mom,” I say, admiring the place.
“He sure does. I kinda love when these superstar athletes I work with have soft spots for their families,” Owen says.
“Me too,” I say, and I want to just gawk and talk and ask why he loves that, and if it’s because maybe it makes them human and real and not quite so larger-than-life.
But there’s no time to linger.
“Anyway,” I say, gesturing to the rest of the home, “we have to do the rest of the taps, right? Other cabinets too?”
“Yes. That’s the point. Anything can freeze so you want the water to be flowing through the pipes. At a trickle, that is,” he says.
“Too bad. I kind of wanted to take a tour,” I say, then glance at the time on my phone. “But we’ll have to be speedy, so we won’t be stuck here. No time to stare.”
Owen shoots me a look like I’ve gone mad. “I wasn’t staring. I was just answering your question.”
“I know, but there’s no time to lose,” I say, shooing him along.
“Got the message. I’m going,” he says, then bends, unties his motorcycle boots. His gaze drifts down, and he points at my shoes. “Take off your shoes too. It’s rude to walk around in shoes in someone’s home.”
“Obviously. I’m not a troglodyte,” I say, as I toe them off.
“I wasn’t saying you were.” Shoving his hand through his hair, he hoofs it down the hall. Like he can’t get away from me fast enough.
Owen darts into the hallway bathroom, turns on the faucet, then wheels out of there before I can reach him. He continues down the hall, passing the framed photos on the wall—pictures of mountains, sunsets, and seascapes. At the end of the hall, he turns through the doorway. “Guest room,” he says.
“Is there a bathroom in there?”
Not answering, he pads softly over the beige carpet, around a king-size bed, then to the en suite bathroom.
He’s in and out in a flash. “Done. Opened the cupboards too.”
“You are indeed speedy,” I say, injecting even more cheer in my tone.
Owen doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t pick up from our texts earlier in the day about speed. He simply pushes on, through the cold, eerily quiet hallway, continuing the task, and I follow him, as if I’m some sort of puppy.
Silence has fallen over the house, and us.
“We’re almost done,” I say, just to fill the emptiness.
Owen jerks his gaze back, locks eyes with me briefly, then shakes his head.
“What? We are,” I say, like I need to emphasize just how on track we are with every task.
“I know,” he mutters, then pushes past me to the stairs going up to the loft-style second floor. His feet fall heavily, the loud clops of a pissed-off man.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he mumbles, but it doesn’t seem like nothing.
It sure as hell seems like something.
It’s not in my nature to let things go. I come from a family who works shit out, that airs grievances so we can talk through them, move past them, hug it out. “Owen,” I say, insistent as he climbs the steps.
“What?” It comes out caustic. He’s never used that tone with me before, not even when I forgot to get him Arcade Fire tickets that one time.