22. Marcus

22

MARCUS

W e're having a fantastic time. Bella is…surprising, to say the least. The only part I don't like about this entire arrangement is sleeping on the sofa. I'm a big man, and coaxing the entire length of my frame onto this infernal, albeit soft, thing is a bit of a challenge. The groan that rips from my chest as I pry myself from the cabin's sofa is more akin to that of a wounded bear than a morning greeting. My body feels like it's been tangoing with a tornado, each muscle a symphony of protest. "All right, all right," I mutter to my aching limbs, "I get it, you're not a fan of impromptu sleepovers." But the timber isn't going to cut itself, and a little discomfort never stopped a man from doing what needs to be done.

I limp toward the kitchen, the linoleum protesting beneath my boots, and brew a pot of coffee strong enough to jump-start a horse. The scalding liquid burns a path down my throat, kickstarting my system into gear. With a grunt of satisfaction, I down the rest, throw on a worn flannel shirt that smells of woodsmoke and sweat, and step out into the icy embrace of the morning.

The storm's aftermath is a frozen battlefield, snowdrifts piled high like fallen soldiers, icicles glistening like shattered glass, and the wind still howling its mournful song. I push through the drifts, cursing the elements with each labored step. "C'mon, Mother Nature," I grumble, "is that all you got?" I'm not feeling too bad. This isn't my first rodeo with her fury, and it damn sure won't be my last.

The barn looms ahead. As I near it, the atmosphere shifts, and I breathe in pine and freshly cut wood with a huff of relief. Over the next hour, I take stock of the damage and get to work. Everything goes like clockwork until I, with the practiced overconfidence of someone who's done this far too many times, make a mistake.

A towering pine, its roots weakened by the relentless assault of wind and snow, begins its descent. I dive aside, dropping on the cold, hard ground a second too late. A rogue branch, sharp as a viper's tooth, finds its mark. A guttural curse erupts from my mouth as a blinding flash of pain takes root in my leg, a scream tearing from my throat before I can stifle it.

Goddammit.

"Well, that's just peachy," I mutter. My body groans in protest as I try to stand up. A fresh stream of curses pours forth with every labored step. Nope, this isn't good.

I take my phone out of my pocket. The damn thing blinks at me, mocking my desperation with a No Signal message. But then, miraculously, a single bar flickers into existence. I punch in the cabin's number with numb fingers. Bella answers on the second ring. "Bella, it's Marcus," I growl, my voice rough as sandpaper. "I need a pickup at the mill. Got myself a little souvenir from the storm, nothing serious, but I don't think I can walk back alone in this condition."

Her voice, laced with concern, washes over me like a warm summer rain. "Hang in there. Help is on the way."

I hang up with a little heave. What do I do now except stare mournfully at my injury? I hobble to a warmer part of the mill and huddle against a wall, feeling more pathetic than a cat in a rainstorm.

The barn, usually bustling like a beehive, is eerily quiet today. Thanks to the snowstorm from hell, I had to tell the workers who take care of my animals and the garden to steer clear until things calmed down. Clearly, I didn't figure an injury into the timeline. From the open door in front of me, it looks like someone went wild with a giant snow cone machine, covering everything in sight. Thankfully, it's not so bad inside. Massive wooden beams crisscross the ceiling, probably whispering about the good old days when they weren't holding up this place. The air smells like fresh-cut wood, with a hint of… seriously, Marcus, why are you here?

I do try to give back to Mother Nature, though. We've got solar panels on the roof soaking up the sun on the rare days it shows up. The logging here is selective, so we only take trees that are ready for harvesting and plant two for each we cut. Everyone wins, especially the pine that got me earlier.

But with the snowstorm, I stopped all operations. The usual symphony voices and tools is replaced by the solo performance of a heater trying its best in the corner. Piles of lumber, looking like they're part of some wood-themed Tetris game, line the walls. Sawdust covers the floor like a crunchy, golden carpet. I glance back at the entrance, marveling at the clash of warm, earthy tones of the mill and the blindingly white landscape outside. The snowstorm has left everything looking fresh and pristine, ready for an Instagram photo op. But for now, it's just me, my throbbing leg, and the mill, sharing this oddly peaceful, yet painfully ridiculous, moment.

Time stretches and distorts. I grit my teeth against the throbbing in my leg, the cold gnawing at my exposed skin. I've faced down grizzly bears and raging wildfires, but this forced inactivity is a new kind of torture. Just when I'm about to succumb to a full-blown self-pity party, a figure emerges from the swirling snow. My heart leaps into my throat. But the sight that greets me is not what I expected.

Bella, her cheeks rosy from the cold, her hair adorned with a dusting of snowflakes, stands before me, looking like a stubborn snow angel. She's bundled in layers of winter gear, her boots leaving a trail of resolute footprints in the snow, and she's carrying a big bag on her shoulder.

A mix of emotions surges through me—relief, irritation, and a warmth I can't quite define. Relief at seeing a friendly face, irritation at her impulsiveness, and a warmth that spreads through my chest like a shot of whiskey on a cold night. "You look like you've had better days," she says, her voice laced with concern and just a hint of teasing.

"Yeah, well, falling trees tend to ruin the mood," I bark harshly. "What the hell are you doing here? You shouldn't be out here alone in this weather. It's not exactly a picnic."

She shrugs, a nonchalant gesture that belies the steely glint in her eyes. "I wanted to be the one to help you," she says, her voice firm and clear despite the biting wind. "Besides, who says I can't handle a little snow?"

I scoff, my gruff exterior masking the worry that gnaws at my gut. "This isn't a walk in the park, Bella. It's risky, and?—"

"And I'm not the one with the bum leg, am I?" she retorts, her chin jutting out defiantly. "So, unless you've got a better plan, I'm getting you back to the cabin."

I open my mouth to argue, but the words die on my lips. She's right, damn it. And there's a spark in her eyes that tells me she won't back down.

"All right," I concede, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. "You win. But we're doing this on my terms."

With a grunt of effort, I hoist myself up, leaning heavily on Bella's shoulder. The pain in my leg flares, but I ignore it, focusing on the warmth radiating from her body, the strength in her grip.

We make our way to the lumber mill's office. Bella's arm around my waist keeps me steady, and her presence is the cream on top of a good old-fashioned chocolate cake. The office, while small and cluttered, is warm and dry. Bella guides me to a worn-out chair and kneels beside me. "Let's take a look at that leg," she says calmly. She digs into her bag, pulling out a first aid kit that looks surprisingly well-stocked.

"All right, this might hurt a bit," she warns, carefully rolling up my pants leg. I wince as the fabric pulls away, revealing the angry gash and splintered wood embedded in my skin. Blood has caked around the wound, but thankfully, it doesn't look too deep. "Okay, it's not too deep, but you've got a nasty gash. Hold still," she instructs, her tone steady and reassuring.

I brace myself as she skillfully extracts the splintered piece of wood lodged in my leg. Despite the pain, I'm quite impressed. I watch, half in awe, as she cleans the wound, applies antiseptic, and wraps it with a practiced hand. "You're pretty good at this," I say, trying to distract myself from the sting of the antiseptic. She glances up and grins cheekily at me. "I volunteered with a first aid squad in college. Figured it might come in handy someday."

"Well, wow," I mutter, genuinely surprised. The pain starts to dull.

"There. That should hold you over," she says, sitting back on her boots. She wipes her hands clean and begins rummaging in her bag again. A thermos and wrapped sandwiches surface. "Hungry?"

I blink, not expecting this turn of events. "You brought sandwiches and coffee with you?"

"Always be prepared," she replies with a wink, handing me a sandwich and pouring coffee into a mug. She reaches into her bottomless bag once more and brings out napkins, a little bottle of water, and ketchup. I scowl at the plastic packet. "None of that," I tell her. "No red swill on my sandwich."

Bella unwraps a sandwich and hands it to me before slathering ketchup on her own. I roll my eyes to the very back of my head as she sticks out her tongue before taking a bite.

I take a bite of the sandwich. Of course it's delicious. It has bacon. "Where were you all these years?" I sigh as the food and coffee work wonders on me. "You're full of surprises, Bella."

"I try to keep things interesting," she says through a mouthful. "Sure about the ketchup?"

"God, yes."

As we sit there, eating sandwiches and sipping coffee, the pain in my leg somehow manages to dissolve into something much more tolerable. "Thanks for this," I say, breaking the comfortable silence. "I don't know what I would've done without you."

Bella shrugs, but her eyes soften. "Just doing what anyone would do. Besides, it's nice to have company, even if you are a bit grumpy when injured."

I chuckle and dust some crumbs from my beard. "I'll try to be more pleasant next time I get impaled by a tree."

She smiles, and for a moment, everything feels right. The conversation takes another route and flows easily. Bella opens up about her life as a single mother, her voice filled with a tender love for her daughter. I know about Ginny. I've seen pictures of her at Jonathan's house.

Everything is going well until I put my foot in my mouth. "How about the dad?" I ask, downing the remaining coffee with a hasty gulp. I have a good idea who the dad is, but damn, this was not the right time or place for this question. The change in Bella is instantaneous. Her shoulders stiffen, her smile vanishes, and a shadow falls over her eyes. "He's not…" she says, her voice clipped and cold. "He's not in the picture."

I regret my question immediately.

Before I can apologize, Bella breaks the silence. "How bad is the injury, Marcus? Will it…will it keep us from having sex?"

The question catches me off guard. But a flicker dances in Bella's eyes, and I am but a man facing a goddess.

"Well," I reply wryly, leaning back in my chair, "that depends on how adventurous you're feeling."