The Mating Game by Lana Ferguson - 21

“Five more minutes,” I mumble into my pillow.

It takes me several seconds to realize there’s no one actually calling for me, but rather someone yowling at me—Reginald, sitting up straight a foot away from me on the bed and making disgruntled sounds. I lift my head to peer over at him, trying to remember how he got in here. Did he sleep with me all night?

At least the cat is starting to like me.

I stretch under the covers as my mouth opens with a wide yawn, blinking away the lingering sleep from my eyes. I feel mostly okay, even though I overindulged last night, but I could have definitely used another hour of sleep.

It takes a little bit for the events of last night to start bleeding back into my thoughts. Lying in bed, I can start to remember laughter and drinks and slow dancing with big, warm hands at my waist—but I can also remember a very embarrassing failed attempt at a kiss, unfortunately. I definitely don’t think I misread things, given that Hunter had been so obviously flirting with me—because he was flirting with me, wasn’t he?—so that means I have no idea as to why he would so blatantly turn me down when I attempted to move things along.

There’s a very clichéd warm and fuzzy feeling inside me when I remember him tucking me into bed after bringing me back to my room and even a vague phantom sensation of him touching my cheek that suggests perhaps I wasn’t off base at all about the flirting.

So what gives?

My window rattles slightly as a howling wind slams against it, breaking me out of my early morning musings, and I sit up in bed and frown when I notice the way the snow is coming down outside. I vaguely remember Hunter saying something about a storm rolling in this weekend, but at the time I thought he’d just been making excuses to get us out of the bar and get his mouth far away from mine. Judging by the size of the snowflakes outside though, I’d say it turns out that part was true.

Which probably explains why it’s a little colder in my room than usual. I shiver when I pull the covers away, hopping out of bed and moving to the closet in search of a hoodie and some thick sweats. It’s then I notice the lone glass of water and tiny tablets that look to be ibuprofen, and I have to bite back a grin, knowing it was most likely Hunter who left them there.

I don’t know what to make of it, the way he takes such care of me, doing so more and more often. In fact, it seems like all he does lately is take care of me, and what’s more, he might even enjoy doing it. So why did he turn me down last night after everything we’ve already done?

I settle for grilling him later (maybe, if I can work up the courage), then take the pills and swallow them quickly before resuming my task of finding some sweatpants that don’t leave goose bumps on my legs. I’m shoving my feet through the ankle holes when my phone begins to ring, so I stomp across the room while still trying to pull my sweats up and snatch my phone from the bedside table.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Ms. Covington. This is Alisha with Mr. Cole’s office. Do you have time for me to put you through for a call?”

Nate , I think excitedly.

“Sure,” I tell her quickly. “I have time.”

I hear the line go quiet for only a brief moment before: “Hey, Tess. Did I catch you at a good time?”

“I’m staying in a town with barely ten thousand people in it,” I say dryly. “Literally all the time is a good time.”

I hear Nate laugh on the other end. “Well, maybe this will liven up your day a little. My editor gave me the green light to fly out and do a scoop for the lodge you’re staying at.”

“Shut up.”

“I know. She loved the pictures. Said it reminded her of her favorite Monet painting.”

“Which one?”

“I have no idea, but at least she loves them.”

“Right.” I squeal a little as the realization sets in that some things can still go my way. “This is amazing. When are you flying here?”

“Hmm. What is today…Saturday? I’m showing a winter storm scheduled through the weekend that’s not supposed to break until Tuesday—so let’s say I fly out Wednesday just to be safe? I can probably be there around lunchtime. Do you think you can clean up enough of the main space to get it done?”

We’re nearly finished with the great room, but I’m already compiling a mental note of tiny projects that would make a world of difference.

“We can do it,” I assure him.

“I’ll want to interview the owner…What’s his name?”

“Barrett,” I tell him. “Hunter Barrett.”

“Great. It won’t be too extensive. Just a little history on the lodge and the area and maybe some info on the best times to visit. The standard stuff.”

“That sounds great. This is all so great. I really appreciate you doing this, Nate.”

“Of course. It’s not like I don’t owe you a dozen times over.”

“I’m happy to be able to finally cash in,” I laugh.

“Well, be careful out there. Forecast is showing this storm is gonna be a doozy. Don’t freeze before I get there.”

“No promises,” I chuckle. “I’ll see you next week.”

“See you then.”

I think I’m actually beaming when I hang up the phone, doing some strange little dance number in place. I already can’t wait to see the look on Hunter’s face when I tell him.

Thinking of him gets me excited all over again, and I rush out of my room, still pulling on a fresh pair of socks, to bound down the stairs. I don’t see him in the main entrance at his desk when I step off the landing, so I start to wander through the rooms at a quick pace, shouting his name excitedly as I move throughout the lodge.

It takes a few minutes for him to appear from the back door that leads out to the deck where the hot tub is. He’s rushing inside with a concerned expression when he finds me running around and shouting his name. I’m only a little distracted by the sight of him in black coveralls and a thick buffalo plaid coat that makes his dark hair seem darker and his big body seem bigger—but seeing him look distressed brings me out of it.

“Tess? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

I grin even wider, rushing up to him and grabbing his hands. “Nate called me back!”

“Nate?” Hunter glances down between us where I am still gripping his hands, raising an eyebrow before finding my eyes again. “Who is Nate?”

“Sorry, sorry.” I shake my head to clear away my excited energy. “My friend. The one from the magazine. He wants to interview you! They’re going to fly him out next Wednesday, after the storm passes so he can get pictures of the place.”

Hunter’s mouth parts in surprise. “Wednesday?”

“Okay, I know that’s sort of short notice, but we can totally spruce things up around here with very little effort. We just need to clear out the paint cans and stuff…fix some of those railings outside, polish the wood surfaces a little—oh, and we definitely have to give this place a major dust-over. I’m talking top to bottom. And those Santa hats should probably come down from the elk head until he leaves, at least. Also, I think we should—”

I finally notice the way Hunter is looking at me—sort of a mixture of shock and confusion as his eyes move from my face to our joined hands and back again—and it’s then I realize that in my excitement I marched down here and rushed him with this wild news, the memory of the kiss he rejected only last night momentarily forgotten.

But I’m remembering it now.

I release his hands quickly and let mine hang limply at my side, unsure for a moment what I should do in this situation.

“I’m sorry,” I offer, feeling shy now. “I didn’t mean to bombard you first thing in the morning.”

Hunter shakes his head slowly. “No, it’s fine. I thought you might be hurt or something.”

“I just got so excited when he called…I didn’t think. You might not even want all this. God, I’m such an idiot. I didn’t even confirm that you wanted all this to happen before I just set up a damn interview for you.”

“No, I appreciate it. I…” He still looks a little stunned. “He really wants to come out here?”

I nod emphatically. “His editor loved the pictures I sent. Said this place reminded her of some old painting or something or other. I don’t know. The point is, yes, they want to come if you want them to.”

Hunter’s brow furrows as he looks down at his feet, thinking. His hands come to rest on his hips as his jaw works subtly, and now I notice the bits of snow clinging to his hair. I reach unconsciously to brush them away, but his head snaps back up right as my fingers slide against the dark curls near his temple.

“Sorry,” I squeak. “You’ve got some…”

“Oh.” He runs his own hand through his hair to shake away the snow. “Yeah. It’s really coming down out there. I was making sure we were going to have enough wood if the power goes out.”

“Does that usually happen?”

He turns to grimace at the patio door and the increasingly thick flurry that continues to come down. “If it gets any worse than this…I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Awesome,” I deadpan. “I’ve always wanted to freeze to death.”

Hunter laughs enough I can see that dimple hiding behind his scruff, and I have the odd urge to touch it.

“So,” I prod gently. “What do you think? I can cancel this whole thing if you like. I don’t want to overstep.”

“I just…” He reaches to rub at the back of his neck. “Are you sure you want to be wasting your favors on me? I mean…on this place?”

“I told you last night,” I remind him. “I want to help.”

“You never said why though.”

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, shrugging. “I know it sounds silly, but when you said you didn’t know how long you might stay open…I guess…it made me sad to think about something happening to it.”

“It doesn’t sound silly,” he says quietly.

“So…does that mean you want to do the interview?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, and I keep quiet as I let him mull it over. I can sort of tell when he reaches the decision, nodding to himself as he breathes in deep, then expels a sigh noisily between his lips.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Yes!” I half shout. I’m beside myself all over again as I awkwardly hug him without thinking, my arms barely reaching around his middle just as his come up in surprise to make room for me. “It’s going to be great,” I say against his coat as I give him a squeeze. “And I will totally help you.”

Shit , I think, Hunter’s scent assaulting my senses as I realize I’ve gotten ahead of myself again. I pull back carefully, feeling embarrassment heat my cheeks and my neck and even lower in my chest.

But Hunter doesn’t look embarrassed.

In fact, Hunter is sort of looking at me like he was last night. He’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me.

And that only raises more questions.

Questions I’m still afraid to ask, if I’m being honest. I think there’s a part of me that won’t like his answer if I prod him about why he doesn’t kiss me. I’ve had my fair share of heartache and disappointment and downright bullshit in the men department over the years, and adding not the hot lumberjack’s type to the list might actually be the thing that pushes me over the edge.

But apparently the universe still hates me—or loves me, depending on how you look at it. The loud sound of a tree limb banging against a window robs me of any chance to ask Hunter anything, even if I could find the courage to do so. We jolt apart as the branch gives another loud bang, and Hunter curses under his breath as he scowls at the glass.

“I have to take care of that,” he sighs. “Don’t want another broken window. I need to finish bringing in the wood anyway before the snow gets too high.”

“Right,” I say airily, weirdly feeling like pouting all over again. “I’ll just…go shoot Nate a quick confirmation text.”

“Okay.” Hunter’s eyes linger on mine for a moment as if he wants to say more, but he finally nods. “I’ll find you later?”

“I’ll be here,” I say. “Nowhere else to go and all that.”

His mouth quirks. “Right.”

He turns back to leave and is nearly through the patio door before I call after him, “Oh, hey, where’s Jeannie, anyway? I want to tell her the good news.”

Hunter looks at me pointedly, with one hand gripping the doorframe and the other on the handle, his brown eyes seeming to darken a little as they lock with mine. “Jeannie went back down to her place in town this morning. She’s riding out the storm there.”

“Oh.” I feel a bit dazed by the implications of that, especially since even in my hungover state…I’m remembering my brothers were supposed to head to Denver early this morning. “So it’s just…us?”

Hunter nods. “Until the storm passes.”

I nod back because that’s all my brain can seem to manage, and Hunter gives me one last lingering look before he disappears outside. He leaves me standing there as I try to remember how to take steps, the reality of what he just said beginning to set in.

Because until this storm passes…I’m all alone on a mountain with a hot lumberjack.

One who may or may not want to kiss me.

“Fuck,” I huff, pulling off my goggles.

The last of the old carpet I’ve torn up has yielded a nasty surprise, and I stare down at the gaps in the original wood with a frown. Of course, I should have been skeptical when we made it this far without a hitch. Thankfully, I’ve already filmed a short TikTok highlighting the wood before I found this problem. Usually this far into a project we’re up to our eyeballs in issues, so I suppose I should be grateful that this is our first one.

The only problem is…I’m not entirely sure how to proceed. I wrestle my cell from my pocket, muttering obscenities under my breath as I scroll through my contacts. There’s a fifty percent chance he’ll just let it go to voicemail because he’s lost his phone again, and I wait patiently to see what type of day he’s having in that regard.

Fortunately, he picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad,” I say, feeling warmth bloom in my stomach at the sound of his voice. “What’re you up to?”

“Same old,” he grunts. “Watching Pawn Stars reruns.”

“Anyone bring anything good?”

“Some rip-off of Elvis’s signature.”

“Ah,” I answer. “I’ve seen that one, actually.”

“Pretty sure we’ve seen most of them,” he chuckles. “Did you need something, kiddo?”

My brow wrinkles as I stare down at the problem at my feet.

“Right, yeah…I’m restoring some original hardwood here at the lodge, and I had a question about some gapping.”

“Gapping,” he echoes.

“Yeah. Some of them seem too wide for filler. I wasn’t sure of the best way to move forward.”

“If they’re that bad, might as well just rip ’em up.”

I frown. “The owner wants to keep everything as original as we can. We can’t just rip them up.”

“Sounds like the owner is kind of fussy,” he laughs.

I smile despite myself, finding it mildly hilarious that my dad could be so spot-on about Hunter without ever having met him.

“Maybe a little,” I say. “But you’d like him. He’s just as ornery as you are.”

“I’m nothing of the sort,” Dad scoffs.

“Sure you aren’t,” I laugh. “So do you have any suggestions?”

He hums as he considers, and I hear the creaking sounds of his old recliner as he situates himself. “I reckon you could make a patch out of glue and thin strips of wood.”

“Have you done that before?”

“A few times,” he tells me.

“Okay, that could work.” I clear my throat. “It’s looking pretty good so far. We’ve nearly finished the flooring, and the paneling has been refinished. The boys are in Denver today picking up some more supplies, and once they get back we’ll—”

My voice cracks, and my dad doesn’t miss it.

“What’s wrong?”

I stand there, clutching the phone too tight, feeling my eyes prickle for reasons I can’t pin down. “I don’t know,” I say. “I just miss you, I guess.”

“Oh, hon,” he sighs. “You can come visit anytime, you know that.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I will. As soon as I finish here.” I hesitate, knowing he doesn’t love talking about it, but I can’t help it. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” he snorts. “Healthy as a horse. Those doctors don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Dad,” I chide. “You’re doing what they say, right?”

“I’m being good,” he huffs.

I nod to myself. “And when is your next appointment?”

“Next Tuesday,” he tells me. “We’re supposed to go over options.”

“You let me know what they say, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckles. “You’re almost as bad as your mother.”

“I just worry about you,” I admit.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got some more good years in me, don’t you worry.”

“Sure, Dad,” I manage. “I’ll call you later?”

“Sounds good, kiddo. Be safe out there.”

“I will. Tell Mom I said hi.”

“Can do.”

The line goes dead, and I stare at the phone in my hand for a few seconds as I think back on the conversation. He sounded…tired. He always sounds tired lately, and that does nothing but worry me. I know from my own research that he does have options besides getting a pacemaker put in, but none of them will give him the same life expectancy. Which is why I need to get back to work.

I glance at the gapping wood in the corner I’ve been working myself into, staring at it like it’s the enemy, and maybe it is at this moment. At the very least, it’s a good outlet for my frustrations. Deciding that this thinking isn’t something I have time for, I pull my goggles back down into place and do what I always do when I’m avoiding my feelings.

I get back to work.

It might be all the nervous energy I’m still carrying after having been told I’ll be alone for the weekend with Hunter in a snowy cabin like some sort of cheesy Hallmark movie—only with a heavy dose of sexual tension—but I’m almost grateful when Hunter keeps busy throughout lunch, getting ready for the storm. I scrounge up a sandwich that I eat in my bedroom as I text back and forth with Ada, doing my best to resist the urge to peek out my window every so often to see if I can catch a glimpse of my quiet innkeeper.

Not my quiet innkeeper , I mentally correct.

Even an hour after lunch, Hunter is still outside doing this and that (how he isn’t freezing to death, I’ll never know), and I decide my energy would be better spent doing something productive rather than sitting around.

It takes me a little while to locate what I’m after, but I find a stash of cleaning supplies in a closet just off the kitchen and then a ladder stored away in another on the opposite side of the house. I get to work in the main entry first, ridding the old elk head of his Santa hats before I start dusting and cleaning all the cobwebs from the walls and ceilings. And there are a lot of both, it turns out. I’d wager no one has done this in years, and it takes me a good hour and a half to finish this room. Granted, I polished and organized the front desk after I finished with the walls, then gave the floors a good mopping and the staircase banister a thorough wipe-down. The room looks like a whole new place by the time I’m done.

I figure if we can clean the main rooms and the best bedroom in the place for pictures, that will be more than enough for Nate and his team to print up in the magazine. We can worry about the rest when the interview is over and we have more time.

I notice I’m definitely still thinking we . Is that weird?

Probably best not to analyze that one too much.

After a few hours of working up a sweat, I notice it’s getting dark outside, the chilled gray of the day deepening into a dusky bluish-black as the sun goes down, and I reckon I could use a shower before dinner. I smile a little to myself as I think about Hunter coming back to a (mostly) clean lodge. I’m smiling at just the thought of Hunter, to be honest.

I peel off my hoodie and sweats and everything else when I’m back in the attached bath off my room, cranking on the shower and sighing in contentment when I feel the hot spray splash across my palm before I step in. My arms are a little sore from reaching to clean the walls for so long, and the hot water feels like heaven against my shoulders, so I stand under the showerhead for a solid minute or two before I finally start lathering shampoo into my hair. The sweet scent of tangerines fills the shower as the steam clouds around me. I close my eyes as I work my fingers through my hair to coat the entire length, spreading the shampoo from roots to ends, taking my time with it.

Which quickly reveals itself to be a massive mistake when all the lights go out.

A lot of things happen all at once when the power is cut. The water keeps running, so that’s a plus, but I let out a scream, and the way I push myself against the back wall somehow causes the thick lather I’ve created in my hair to gloop right into my eyes. Instant burn. And if that’s not enough, I do a panicked little dance, still squealing over the sting as I frantically try to wipe the bubbles from my eyes with already-sudsy hands (reason went out the window with the lights, apparently), which means that my feet aren’t as steady as I’d like them to be, and I’m a little more off-kilter than I should be when standing under an active spray.

So I find myself falling right on my ass.

Well, more accurately, my ankle, I guess. The pain is instant, the scream is delayed, and the water is constant, spraying down somewhere on my thighs as I continue to yelp from the sharp throbbing just above my foot. And I might think that my bad luck would end there—probably, given that there is little else I can imagine could happen in this tiny little window of five minutes or so—but I would be wrong.

“Tess?” Hunter’s slightly panicked voice is in the other room. I can hear it over the shower. “Are you okay? I heard screaming.”

“I’m naked!”

Probably not the most pertinent information, but it feels like it at the moment.

I can hear him right outside the door now. “Power is out. Are you okay in there?”

“I slipped,” I whine, eyes shut tight and still stinging from shampoo. “I think I might have messed up my ankle.”

“Can you move it?”

I give it a try, and I’m able to move it back and forth, but doing so causes a major ache. “Yeah, but it hurts like hell.”

“Probably just sprained then. Can you stand up?”

“About that…”

“Do you…I mean…I can help. I won’t look.”

Oddly enough, I’m more worried about him seeing me in this clumsy state rather than him seeing me naked. Again , that is. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“I can’t see. I have shampoo in my eyes.”

I hear the handle click before the door squeaks open, a bit of cold air creeping into the warm bathroom. “Yeah, it’s pitch-black in here anyway. No worries.”

“Can you get me a towel or something? My eyes are burning.”

I can sense him rummaging around in the cabinets for a second before I hear the rustle of the shower curtain. I reach above until my fingers collide with terry cloth, and I yank down the little hand towel he’s given me and rub the suds from my eyes. Then I reach up again to grab one of the corner shelves to try to hoist myself up afterward, but my ankle throbs sharply, making me yelp.

“I don’t think I can get up by myself,” I groan. There’s a moment of silence on the other side of the shower curtain. “Hunter?”

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Okay. I’m just—Just raise up your arms, okay? I don’t want to…I just want to make sure I get your hands.”

I do as he says, feeling about as mortified as I possibly can at this point, but after a second I feel his hands curl around mine, and he gently starts to tug me upward. It takes a little maneuvering to get me on my feet, and even then I have to sort of stand on one foot while he supports my weight by holding on to my hands. After that we stand there for a bit, neither of us knowing what to do next.

“I have to get this shampoo out of my hair,” I say resignedly. “Before the water goes cold.”

“Okay,” he says a little roughly. “I’ll just—Maybe I can—Okay. I’m going to keep hold of your hands, okay? Hop a little to your…right? I think? Just hold on to my hands and lean back to rinse your hair. I’ve got you.”

This too, proves difficult, given that I can’t put a lot of weight on my foot, but I manage to sort of sideways moonwalk under the spray like a hobbling magician and finally feel the warm water pouring over my face. I tilt my head back to let it rinse the lingering shampoo from my hair, keeping my eyes shut tight until I’m almost positive I’ve gotten it all out.

“Okay,” I tell him. “I think I’ve got it. I had a towel on the toilet. Do you think you could…?”

“Yeah,” he answers quickly. “Grab one of my hands with both of yours. Keep steady.”

I do it, gasping a little when I feel the brush of his hand against my hip.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Sorry. I’m just trying to turn the water off.”

“I-it’s fine,” I manage, my skin feeling too warm where he’s touched me. “Hurry up with the towel. It’s cold in here now.”

“Okay, I’ve got it.” He gives my hands a tug. “Can you step out?”

“Maybe? Let me just— Fuck. ”

He catches me, because of course he does. I’m fully aware that my naked, wet boobs are pressed to what I think is flannel (let’s be real, of course it’s flannel), and I can feel the bite of a shirt button pressing into one of my nipples. One of his hands is still wrapped in both of mine, but the other—the one that was holding the towel—is now wrapped around my upper arm, holding me steady against him.

God, and his scent . It’s not a combination that should be mouthwatering, but I find myself wanting to lick him all the same.

Neither of us speaks at first—hell, I might not even be breathing—but it really is getting colder by the second, and a cold, wet ass is one heck of a motivation to not let awkwardness get the best of you.

“Don’t say one word about me being clumsy.”

His hand might flex at my arm, but I’m not sure. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“The towel,” I mumble, my voice still sounding too loud now that the water is off. “Can you wrap it around me?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Just…hold still.”

No trouble there , I think. Even though when I’m standing this close, I’m assaulted again by the warmth and scent of him. So much so that it makes something pulse low in my belly. Makes me even more aware of the fact that I’m naked with him. Again.

His hands move over me carefully when I release my grip on him, and I feel the terry cloth gingerly meeting my skin as he slowly works the towel around my body. I replace his hands with mine as soon as my fingers can find the towel’s edges, quickly covering myself with it for some semblance of modesty as I attempt to straighten.

“I can help you to your room,” he tells me. “Just grab my hand.”

Once again I find myself holding Hunter’s hand, but this time he pulls my arm up and over his shoulder to tuck me into his side, no doubt trying to support my weight so I can hobble to my room. If I weren’t so painfully aware of how close my naked body is to him, I might actually die from embarrassment.

But I am aware. I am very aware.

It’s hard not to be aware when the thin light of dusk is still spilling in from my bedroom window, less so now than it was when I got into the shower, but still enough that I can make us both out as Hunter guides me to my bed. I peek up at his face to find it dutifully trained upward at the ceiling, his lips pressed into a tight line as he helps me along.

“I’m not looking,” he assures me.

A childish part of me pouts somewhere in the back of my mind. I mean, doesn’t he want to look? Even a little? It’s not as if he hasn’t already seen it. I quickly squash that ridiculousness though. Mostly because I’m still hobbling and growing increasingly colder by the second—it’s hard to feel indignant when your nipples could cut glass.

“My clothes are on my bed,” I tell him. “If you could help me sit down, I think I can—”

“Right,” he cuts me off, guiding me toward it.

He gently helps me into a sitting position on top of the quilt, quickly turning his broad back to give me privacy. “Do you want me to step outside?”

“Um.” I’ve got one foot in my underwear at this point and am struggling to get them on with my throbbing ankle, and I know the pants are going to be twice as difficult. “I might…need your help. But stay turned around. Just in case.”

“Okay.”

I manage to get my underwear on after a minute of huffing, and I grab for my sweater next, figuring it will be an easier task to tackle. I shrug into it sans bra, thinking that the material is thick enough to hide that fact. Not to mention it’s growing darker by the second. The pants do indeed prove to be a problem—it’s hard to pull them up while I’m in a sitting position. I have one pant leg mostly to my knee, but the other—the one that goes over my injured ankle—is being a little bitch about it all.

“Hunter,” I whine. “I can’t get my pants on.”

I think he makes a sort of groaning sound in the back of his throat, but I might be imagining it.