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Ten

Huck

The cabin was empty when Stella and I returned from dinner.

Ted must’ve been calling it a night with the guide he went off with.

The knowledge that Stella and I were truly alone here had my heart thrumming faster than its normal pace.

We’d had an amazing meal and an even better time together.

The more I learned about Stella, the more fascinated I became.

I was still getting used to the strange dichotomy of being around her, of my heart racing with anticipation and the rest of me feeling strangely comfortable at the same time.

The air temperature had dipped and the cabin was cool, so I turned my attention to building a small fire in the stove. I liked the idea of making sure Stella was warm enough. While I arranged wood, she toured the small living room, tracing the books on the bookshelves with her fingertips.

We had talked nonstop through the meal, and even though I had used questions I’d borrowed from a New York Times article to get the conversation started amidst my nerves, it had flowed naturally.

My ex-fiancée, Vanessa, was the last person I’d dated, and after she left, I’d essentially gone full recluse.

It’d been so long since I’d been on a date, I hadn’t been sure that it was possible for me not to have some sort of stilted encounter, but Stella was easy to talk to.

Now, the silence that settled between us wasn’t the awkward kind.

It was taut, electrically charged. Exciting.

A little terrifying in how much I enjoyed it.

A flame finally rose from the kindling, and I added another small log for good measure before closing the glass.

I didn’t want to have to go back to the stove again tonight.

I brushed my hands together and joined her at the bookshelves.

“They don’t have the Casablanca Chronicles,” she said, her voice tinged with disappointment.

“I’m not sure it ever sold in Iceland,” I said.

In truth, the series had been translated into over forty languages, including Icelandic.

I just didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was relieved about its absence from the cabin.

Seeing my books, especially the last one, was something that I actively avoided, even now, more than three years after its release.

I kept thinking it would get easier, but the opposite was true.

Without something new to focus on, the voices of real-world critics had space to expand and take over—reviewers, Vanessa, angry fans, my dad… their narrative drowned out my own.

Stella turned to face me. “I was going to say that these owners don’t seem to have much taste in terms of books since they don’t have yours, but actually they’ve got some good ones.

The have all of Eva Bjorg AEgisdóttir’s books, which are incredible.

Look, Fredrik Backman’s Anxious People —I loved that one.

” She pulled out a worn copy of Smilla’s Sense of Snow and flipped through it.

“And I read this one years ago. It was mind-blowing. Chilling and so atmospheric for a mystery.”

“I read that one too,” I said. “It’s fantastic.”

She shelved it carefully. “I meant to ask you, how did your writing go today? Are you feeling inspired at all?”

“I wrote a few pages,” I told her. “They’re probably only good for fuel for the fireplace.

” Even though I had been excited to sit and flesh out the ideas that had started germinating when we’d searched that waterfall the other day, the reality of trying to turn them into something on the page had felt a bit like surgically removing my own organs—painful, exhausting, and extremely ill-advised—until it hadn’t.

It started roughly, but then my fingers were flying across the keyboard.

I could barely remember what I’d written.

She slid Home Before Dark from the shelf and examined the back. “Really? I bet they’re great.”

I shook my head. “Nope. Definitely not.”

“I find that hard to believe. Are you sure you’re not just being too hard on yourself?”

I didn’t think I was, but it was my default to critique myself. Despite the time and distance, I still heard lingering echoes of my father’s harsh judgments ringing in my ears, the acidic way he’d call me Henry because he knew I hated it, the constant admonishments no matter what I accomplished.

Stella was undeterred by my silence. “I could read them, or you could read them to me, if you want a second opinion. It’d be a good distraction from the fact that we’re in this isolated cabin whose owners packed the shelves with crime fiction.”

I’d never been one to share my writing with people until I was done, but the idea of reading to Stella on a couch in front of a fire, running my fingers through her hair as she nestled against me, was surprisingly appealing.

Maybe I’d find myself surprised and like what I’d written when she was the one whose opinion mattered.

Then, I recalled a paragraph that I’d composed in a near fugue state.

In it, I’d spent multiple sentences describing the curve of her cupid’s bow and still more on the slope of the nape of her neck, the compass rose tattoo, the scent of her skin, the hollow of her clavicle and the Piece of Eight necklace seated in the dip between her collarbones.

I cleared my throat. “I don’t really share my works in progress.

” Heat flamed on my neck. I wondered if she could see me flush in the firelight.

“Sorry. I probably overstepped.” She turned from me, returning the crime novel to the shelf. “I’ve been known to get ahead of myself.”

“You didn’t,” I said. This warranted a glance over her shoulder. I wrapped my fingers gently around her wrist; her pulse throbbed beneath my fingertips. “You’re not ahead of yourself at all.”

She turned and eyed me. “Oh.”

“I might be, though.”

Her voice was almost a whisper. “I don’t think so.

” She looked down to where my hand still circled her wrist. It was a dare, or something, I couldn’t be sure.

When she raised her gaze to mine, her hazel eyes were all mischief.

She lifted a hand to my chest. Could she feel my heart pounding?

Was she breathing fast? I didn’t know. There was only the fact that her eyes were still locked on mine. The heat in our gaze was searing.

It had been so long…so long since I wanted to be this close to someone, since I was willing to take a risk.

I took a step toward her, closing the distance between us, and then another, backing her up into the bookshelf.

She smiled at me when some of the books toppled over onto their sides with a thump.

God, she was so freaking beautiful when she grinned at me like that.

I let her wrist go and laced my fingers through hers, pinning her hand above her head against a shelf.

I traced her collarbone softly with my other thumb and she caught the back of my henley in her free hand, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.

I was conscious of each point of contact, wondering if it was too much or not enough.

I wanted it to be perfect for her. But then her lips parted slightly, an invitation, like she knew what I was asking and she was answering me.

Somehow it was too much, it was not enough, it was perfect all at once.

She was perfect. I leaned down and she met me halfway, bringing her lips to mine, soft but certain.

Keep cool , I told myself, but there was a hot hunger rising in me that was hard to control.

Her mouth was sweet from the red currant jam, her lips plush against mine.

We matched each other, naturally finding the right tilt of our heads, shifting our hands and bodies in response, falling into a rhythm.

I couldn’t help but think that this was supposed to happen.

I could’ve written an entire volume without finding the exact words to adequately describe this kiss and yet, it was the kind of kiss that deserved a whole book devoted to it.

We were spiraling, twisting our limbs together until it was hard to tell where I ended and she began.

I slid my hands beneath the bottom edge of her sweater.

“Okay?” I asked, starting to lift it.

She nodded. “Get it off of me,” she said.

Everything stopped for an instant. I don’t think my heart beat, and I know I didn’t breathe.

And then I was racing, pushing the sweater up, sweeping my hands over the silk camisole she wore beneath it, flinging the sweater down on the floor beside us.

I found her mouth again, hungrily this time. She reached for the button on my jeans.

A horn beeping in the driveway caught our attention. We broke apart, breathless, startled. I’d been so caught up in her, in the feel of her, in her taste, that I’d forgotten where we were. I barely remembered that a world outside of the space we occupied against the bookshelf existed at all.

“What the hell?” Ted stood silhouetted in the doorway by the blinding headlights of a departing car.

“Teddy,” Stella said, her tone unreadable. She stooped to pick up her sweater. “You’re back.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s a fuh-king reunion.” His voice was singsong. Not angry, I didn’t think, but very drunk. He swayed as he took a step forward.

“How was dinner?” Stella asked, tucking her passion-tousled hair behind her ears.

“Fantastic. I brought home dessert to share”—he held up a small bag with handles—“but I see you two were already partaking in your own version.”

“I’m full,” Stella said.

Ted took a step toward her and stumbled on the edge of the rug. I reached out to help him get his feet back under him. He smelled unfamiliar, like a drunk pickle. I sniffed again. “Is that dill?”

“Yeah, I had this special drink called Brennivín, aka Black Death, icy cold. Apparently I love Brennivín. Who knew? We had two kinds—caraway and dill—so good guess, Sully. You win the prize. Good old Sully. So smart.” He patted my cheek a few times, hard enough that the collective impact stung like a slap.

“You guys should try it.” I helped lower him to the couch. “It’s the national drink of Iceland.”

“I’m glad you had fun,” Stella told him, gently taking the bag of desserts from his hand and starting on his shoelaces. I got some water from the kitchen.

“Not as much fun as you,” he slurred. “Black Death had unintended side effects.” He curled his index finger dramatically and glanced down, and I closed my eyes in embarrassment. Stella, to her credit, pretended not to understand.

I handed him the glass. “Take a couple sips, Ted.”

Stella pulled a blanket over him. “Time for bed,” she said.

“Bossy,” he slurred, but closed his eyes.

We walked down the hallway, silent tension between us like a coiled spring.

“So…” I started, running a hand over my hair.

She stopped and turned toward me in front of the guest room door.

Did she want me to invite her into my room?

She beckoned me with a subtle curving of her fingers toward her palm, and I leaned across the distance in the small hallway.

“Just tell me one thing,” she said, “did you kiss me so you didn’t have to tell me what your new book is about?”

I shook my head. If only she knew—she’d asked me to read it to her, and I’d gone ahead and lost my composure and practically acted it out.

It would’ve been so easy to pick up where we left off right here, or in one of our rooms. But I didn’t want to push my luck and mess this up before it even began.

If we were going to do this, it needed to be right.

Not just hooking up in the hall while Ted snored on the couch.

I cleared my throat and tried to dismiss the daydream that was quickly burning its way into my memory.

“We just got caught up in a rogue moment of fun, then?” she asked.

“I can only speak for myself, but that was way more than a moment of fun for me. You had me feeling…inspired.”