The intoxicating scent of perfectly brewed coffee wakes me up. For a moment, I’m simply warm and comfortable in a quiet room with the promising smell of life-giving sustenance when I open my eyes. I smile and snuggle into my pillow for just a few more seconds. Then I remember. It’s not Ing making coffee because Ing doesn’t even drink coffee. She’s a cola in the morning kind of girl, which I’ve never been able to understand. If I want coffee, I’m going to have to see Aiden and at some point let him lecture me on all his rules for the next few weeks. Ugh.
I roll out of bed and reluctantly find some jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt to put on. I back down the ladder and only when I’m firmly on the ground do I look around. He’s nowhere in sight, but I hear some rustling coming from the kitchen area so he must still be in there finding something in one of the lower cabinets. I sigh and head into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. I want a shower at some point today, but for some reason, I’m too nervous to do it while Aiden’s in the cabin. Guess I’m going to have to get over that one soon or he’ll think I’m more than a few screws loose.
A polite smile is pasted on my face as I go in search of the coffee. Aiden stands in front of the stove stirring something. He’s not shaved yet, and the dark stubble is looking absolutely divine. I sigh in admiration of the delectable picture he makes, and he looks up at me, his blue eyes narrowing slightly.
“Morning, Rose. Oatmeal will be on the table in just a minute.”
I make a face. I hate oatmeal. “I’ll just have toast.”
“You’ll have oatmeal. You need fuel and I don’t want to hear any excuses that you were tired later. There’s sugar or maple syrup if that makes it more palatable.”
Right, guess I’m having oatmeal. His face is telling me this is not the thing to go to war over because I won’t win and it might make everything else worse. If this is any sign of what’s coming, I’m in for a hell of a month. I grab a mug and fill it from the carafe on the counter, inhaling deeply before taking a grateful sip. So damn good. I might have moaned. Something caught Aiden’s attention because he’s glaring at me. Great. I take myself out of his space and go sit at the table.
A bowl of oatmeal appears in front of me, along with a spoon. I stare at it with disdain. I thought part of being an adult was getting to eat what you want and suffering the consequences. Of course, Aiden has yet to acknowledge I’m an adult. Perhaps if he forces oatmeal on me for thirty days it will cure me of my crush? I cheer up at the thought and reach for the sugar bowl and the milk. I can practically hear Aiden frowning as I ladle on two generous spoonfuls of sugar. “Stop glaring, I’m eating the oatmeal, a little sugar won’t hurt me.”
“If you knew what…”
I interrupt him, “Life was really all about? It’s not preventing death at all costs, Aiden. Relax, live a little. If a little sugar makes you smile, that alone might just make you live longer.”
He opens his mouth to say something but then shuts it again. Sticking his spoon into his sugar-free oatmeal and proceeding to eat it like it’s a military exercise. Efficient, economic, and boring as hell.
Aiden needs me. He doesn’t know it yet, but he does. And I don’t mean sexually (unfortunately). I see now that fate has brought us together so he can freaking lighten up. I smile with anticipation. This will be fun.
My smile fades though when I glance across the table to find him glaring at me. Again. “What now?” I ask sweetly.
“Now we talk about how this is going to go. Or rather I talk and you listen.”
I raise both my eyebrows, “Oh, really?”
He gets up to take his bowl to the sink and refill his coffee cup. There’s no humor in his eyes when he starts in, but it’s clear he’s so used to giving orders he doesn’t feel the need to raise his voice either, “I will take care of the cooking and you will do dishes and clean the counters. In between that, I expect your ass glued to that chair over there until you’ve written at least five thousand words every day. None of which will feature anyone that resembles me.”
“I don’t know how to write lesbian romance,” I say snarkily. It doesn’t go over well if his eye roll is anything to judge by.
“I can add chopping wood to your chore list if you like?”
I groan, nobody wants me near an axe, at least not without a hospital nearby. “Fine.”
“And when the manuscript is complete, I will read and approve it before you hit publish.”
I nod, I don’t have a problem with that. I can promise you I’d be too embarrassed to base the main character on Aiden at this point, anyway. Although, what I’m going to do instead still eludes me. And I’m not thrilled that I’m acting like a bratty princess. It’s not my usual style; I just can’t seem to resist baiting Aiden.
I have to admit that the oatmeal was filling without being heavy. And that it was sort of nice to have someone besides Dad wanting me to take care of myself. I’m just not sure if Aiden feels that way about the entire human race. I mean, I’m sure he does, that’s why he became a doctor, but would he push oatmeal on them so relentlessly if any of them were sitting across the table? I honestly don’t know. And I’m a little afraid to find out.
I’m glad Rose isn’t fighting me on my rules because I’m seriously on edge after her breathy little moans over coffee, of all things. I’m sorely tempted to throw her over my shoulder and give in to what my cock clearly wants. It’s been hard enough to pound nails ever since she came down the ladder, and I need to put some distance between her and me stat. If I can get her to stay in one place with her laptop, then I can go chop wood until my cock gives up the fight and acknowledges that sinking into Rose is never going to happen. Then maybe I’ll be able to get some reading in, so I at least have some semblance of a strategic plan for my new job.
I leave Rose to do the dishes and go take a shower. I need to shave and remind myself that I am not a mountain man, at least not for more than a week or two at a time. When I emerge, she’s fidgeting at the small desk. I can see her screen over her shoulder and it’s completely blank. “What’s the matter, you must have some ideas?”
“I have ideas, they’re just not jelling into a story. I need to know the characters better.”
I’ve never written anything more creative than a five-year plan. I wish I could help her find her new direction without stressing about it but I’m clueless so I shrug and head outside to work on restocking the woodpile. It’s not needed now but come autumn it will be an important backup if the power goes out which it frequently does up here.
I keep myself busy outdoors until I can’t put lunch off any longer. I’ve chopped and stacked wood until my shoulders are sore, cleared brush from the trail that leads to the small lake, and made a list of supplies to get for patching some of the loose siding. The manual labor feels good.
When I head inside, I’m sweaty and hot. Wood chips and pine needles have worked their way down the back of my shirt and are starting to itch. It doesn’t occur to me that pulling my shirt off is a problem until I hear Rose inhale sharply. When I look over, her gaze is slightly glassy and glued to my chest. I can’t help feeling a little bit smug about that. I shrug it off as fast as I can, still wondering how Rose’s mind works. In the bedroom, I pull a clean t-shirt out of my bag and tug it over my head and then head into the kitchen to make sandwiches.
I’m half expecting her to complain about the food again, I made some simple tuna fish and spinach sandwiches on whole grain but she eats it like she can’t taste it so it doesn’t matter. That doesn’t seem like her, but maybe writers get this way when they’re working. As soon as she’s done, she heads back to the computer and I decide to take my journals outside to the deck. Maybe the fresh air will make them easier to read.
Certainly, I get a little further than I did before, but I find myself frequently stopping and wondering how Rose is getting on. And every now and then I take in the same view that held the sunset we watched last night and remember how nice it was to simply pause and appreciate.
In a weird way, I like that Rose is having trouble thinking up a hero that’s not me. Twisted, but there it is. Guess I’m more of a narcissist than I ever gave myself credit for. Maybe I should find some kind of excuse to send her home early. Let her off the hook for the day-to-day stuff and just preview everything at the end. I should, but I’m not going to. At the very least, she’ll know just how boringly human I am. I force myself to go back to a study of life expectancy among rural citizens. It’s depressing enough to suit my mood.