Chapter 2

Chapter Two

I may hate him. I can’t feel my face, my feet, my legs, or my nuts.

Shit. I seriously can’t feel my nuts. The jackass froze my nuts off.

Yeah. I hate him.

Bursting through the cabin door, I disregard any sense of the manners my parents taught me, shouldering past Ronny toward the little space heater in the kitchen. It’s every man for himself, as far as I’m concerned. After a half hour of tromping through the snow in blinding wind while he gave me an in-depth explanation of Minnesota winters, I’m tempted to lock him outside and see if he can survive.

We’re stuck here now, judging by the grave outlook the weatherman on the truck’s radio gave, and this space heater—the only source of warmth in the cabin—won’t cut it. I’m going to miss my date and die from hypothermia. Perfect.

The thermometer on the kitchen wall reads forty-five degrees. That’s all well and good to keep the pipes from freezing, but not preventing a human being from getting pneumonia. Scouring the closets, my search for sources of warmth produces one wool blanket. Finder’s keepers. Nice knowing you, Ronny.

Mr. Chatterbox hasn’t spoken in ten minutes, so the sound I hear in the living room has me curious. Maybe his body went into shock, and he collapsed on the floor. That would mean the backpack he hauled out of the truck is mine for the picking. I’m only slightly embarrassed by how instantaneously that savage instinct came to me. I’m cold and this is all his fault, after all.

Is that a fire?

Wow. Maybe he is good for something other than harassing me with annoying jokes.

Three logs; that’s all I see as I shuffle toward the hearth, not caring how close it puts me to Mr. Minnesota. It won’t last long, and I need to dry my clothes if I have any hope of getting warm.

I sit in silence, swaddled by the coarse wool blanket, side-eyeing Ronny. There’s nothing else to look at but the feeble flames. My teeth chatter, watching him remove his boots and then as he opens his backpack.

Why does he have a sleeping bag? Is he Bear Grylls or does he bring one to all his jobs? I guess I would too, if I worked as slowly as he does.

He unrolls it and faces the hearth. I hear a button unsnap and then the sound of a zipper. Is he going to take his pants off?

Some logical part of my brain suppresses the urge to criticize him. My jeans are soaked from mid-thigh down. The wet denim is plastered to my legs, chilling me to the bone. I should really take mine off, too, but I can wait ten minutes, so it isn’t obvious he gave me the idea. He doesn’t deserve any praise after dragging his feet to leave and then getting us marooned.

When his hair-speckled legs appear in my peripheral, and he flips the sleeping bag over his lap, my vision clouds in jealousy over his state of comfort. It’s going to be a long, miserable ten minutes. Why do I have to be so proud?

“This is just great,” I mutter, hoping that speaking will produce more body heat. “Now, I’m going to miss an important meeting all because you’re from Minnesota.”

“A meeting? Do you double as a stock trader, or is this meeting with your anal-retentive anonymous support group?”

Him and his endless jokes about my precision. I’m a woodworker. Of course, I need to be precise. I still don’t understand how he got this job. Granted, he’s not a terrible carpenter. I’ve noticed his improvement over the last two years whenever I’ve been stuck working with him, but he came to Sal’s with no experience.

“It was a date. Okay? Or…a pre-date.” Whatever. Why am I even explaining anything to him? “I put a lot of effort into arranging it, and now that’s shot,” I digress. “So, thanks. Your complete disregard of my suggestions to leave hours ago has officially ruined my Christmas.”

“Wow. There is so much to unpack there.”

“What?”

“First off, how can Christmas be ruined? It’s still four days away. Something can’t be ruined if it hasn’t happened yet. Second, what the heck is a pre-date? Is that some new thing where picky people meet the person before a date and tell them how they’re supposed to act on the actual date?”

Now I know why I’ve avoided getting assigned to the same work sites as him. I called it the first time I met him. He showed up twenty minutes late and smacked a kiss on Sal’s niece’s mouth, thanking her for getting him the job. His happy-go-lucky attitude and rugged looks are just nice wrapping paper for an irresponsible, clueless, selfish human being.

“No. It’s a first date, but not really a date since we haven’t met yet, thus why I’m calling it a pre-date.”

“Uh… I’d call that a first date.”

If I felt like moving, I’d go talk to the wall. It’d be just as effective.

“It’s not or…wasn’t. We had things to discuss. Okay? You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh man, you were going to tell them how to act on the date.”

“No! It’s a holidate arrangement app. They pair up people who need dates to accompany them to holiday events they have to attend. We needed to discuss the functions each of us has to go to. Now he’s going to think I backed out and blew him off, thanks to you.”

My tense, frozen muscles become even more rigid. He just baited me so much that I admitted I’m gay. Shit. Not that I give a damn what Ronny- Snowstorm Master -Carmichael thinks about that, but I don’t feel like finding out while we’re isolated here.

“You’re taking a stranger to your family Christmas?”

That’s all he has to say?

“No, not now, in case you didn’t figure out that part yet.”

“Why would you do that?”

How is he still attractive even when his face is scrunched up in repulsion over my plan? I have a baby face that didn’t get the memo I’m thirty-one, and a layer of love handles around my middle that rarely gets the chance to be handled. Life is not fair.

“Trent,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

“Ah,” he coos. “The plot thickens.”

“Just like the fucking snow outside, huh? Ironic, isn’t it?” I retort, hugging the blanket tighter around me.

I take no joy in his snicker. That wasn’t supposed to be a joke.

He lets out a long sigh, like I’m the exasperating one. “Okay, easy killer. Who’s Trent? Ex-boyfriend, married your sister?”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“Ouch. He married your brother?”

“I’m an only child.”

“ That actually explains a lot.”

My plans getting screwed up are one thing, getting psychoanalyzed by a guy who kissed the office secretary, then told her he ‘owed her a baby’ for getting him the job is entirely another. I don’t understand him. He’s surprisingly quiet at the shop, barely a peep to the other guys. It’s like he goes out of his way to push my buttons. I don’t know why he has it out for me, but I’m in no mood to find out today.

“It explains nothing.”

“Are you this touchy because of the truck getting stuck? ”

“I’m not touchy. I’m just not in the mood to explain anything. Actually, I’m not in the mood to talk, period. Does your phone have a signal?”

He blinks at me as though that was too blunt. What does he expect?

“Uh, no. It hasn’t for most of the day.”

My point exactly. That should have been a red flag about the weather conditions earlier, the idiot.

“Well, until it does, I’d prefer to pass the time without chitchat.”

I can feel him studying me. I know I must sound like a diva, but I’m doing future me a favor, saving myself from more Ronny quips. He must get the hint, because he has no snappy comeback for once.

After the uncomfortable feeling of being haughty finally passes, I make as nonchalant a production of slipping out of my jeans as I can. It brings on another round of shivering when the air hits my bare legs before I can bundle back up in the itchy blanket.

I refuse to think that Ronny stoking the fire and tossing in pieces of leftover wood from our work today are for my benefit. Minnesota native or not, he must be cold too.

The sun sets with no reprieve from the howling wind outside nor the new onslaught of thundersnow and sleet. My phone is still useless, and the realization that we’re trapped here for the duration settles in.

Knees drawn up to my chest, I rest my chin against them and close my eyes. I don’t even care anymore that my holidate with Henry should be happening right now. I just want to go home to my warm bed. With any luck, someone from Sal’s might realize we never returned and come looking for us. As my eyes droop, I vow to work extra hard on whittling bookends, coasters, and doors for my craft booth when this is over, so I can turn down any winter jobs that pop up, threatening to put me in proximity to Ronny Carmichael.