Page 42 of Craving Chaos

God, Shae. What idiotic fantasies have you been entertaining in that head of yours?

Admiring the man’s mouthwatering body is one thing, but being jealous of the women he dates is entirely different. It makes me realize my interest in him is getting away from me. My attraction to him has become intertwined with emotions like respect and admiration. That is a fucking dangerous combination. I have to put an end to it.

First and foremost, I need to tell him the bet is off. I can’t even chance the remote possibility that he wins because it wouldn’t just mean a delicious orgasm. I would be laying the groundwork for my heart to be shredded to pieces.

My hand goes inadvertently to the pendant at my neck.

Renzo Donati is not an option. He is not, nor will he ever be mine. Letting myself pretend otherwise would be unforgivable. That slippery slope will lead to devastation, and considering I’ve already started to fall, I need to catch myself immediately.

I tell myself to say the words—to back out of the bet—but my mouth won’t cooperate. A voice in my head whispers that it probably won’t be an issue. The chances are so slim. And if it should happen, I can back out then.

And in the meantime? Am I going to let things linger or be up front with him?

I should tell him. Woman up and be honest with him.

“I need to pee.” Not the words I had in mind.

I inwardly grimace but note that it was at least an effective end to the conversation. Sometimes I can’t even believe the crap that comes out of my own mouth.

“You can try to brave the wind, but I figured while it’s at its worst, we’d use one of the empty Mason jars.” He grabs one of the three jars and sets it on the table. He’s not grossed out or even fazed for that matter. Peeing is natural enough, but in my experience, men tend to get squeamish about bodily functions beyond an orgasm.

I suppose peeing in a jar with him in the same room is one way of cockblocking myself without having to say the words. Just one of the guys—that’s me. Always have been, and I suppose I always will be.

“Sure, sounds like a plan.” I get up and take the jar from him. “Turn around. I don’t need an audience.”

I take exactly two squares of toilet paper—we only have two rolls, so we’ve been careful to ration them—and I pee in the damn jar. It’s awkward, and I hate that. I have a perfectly good reason to be doing what I’m doing. I shouldn’t be ashamed, but no matter how many times I tell myself that, it doesn’t stop my cheeks from flushing what I can only assume is a bright crimson.

When I’m done, I set the jar down and pull up my pants. “What now? Put on the lid and ignore it?” There’s not all that much in it. Probably because I didn’t need to pee so much as I needed a distraction.

“Yeah, I’ll pour it out when I go out to pee.”

“You’re going to go out in that?” I gape at him. Some of my reaction is surprise and the rest is frustration that I look like a ninny for not braving the weather, if that’s what he’s going to do.

“I only have to take a step outside the door. If I was in your shoes, I’d use the jar, too. No reason for you to have to squat in this storm or trudge all the way to the outhouse.”

His answer is sufficient to quell my indignity.

I appreciate how he handles himself. He could have easily laughed at my insecurity, but that’s not Renzo. He’s surprisingly empathetic for a man in his line of work.

Aaaand, there I go again.

“Food,” I blurt. “You ready to eat?”

I’m stranded in the wilderness, and my greatest concern has nothing to do with survival. Who would have guessed?

CHAPTER 21

RENZO

The storm pummels the walls of our tiny fortress for two solid days. And when the winds finally subside, we spend another two days dealing with the aftermath. The snowfall totals wouldn’t be an issue if the incessant wind hadn’t formed giant snowbanks. We’re lucky the front door wasn’t covered, but a wall of snow formed on one side of the cabin all the way to the roof—the side we’d used for our wood pile and the storage locker.

We don’t have a shovel, but it turns out the bucket is an excellent alternative. Once we clear our access to the outhouse, wood pile, and the storage locker, we re-rig all our traps down by the creek. The two days of energy stored while we were stuck inside helps make up for the extra activity.

We work companionably and return to some semblance of normal, but I can’t escape the feeling that Shae seems distant. She’s been awfully quiet for days now. If it were anyone else, I’d say a little moodiness along the way was normal. We’ve had to endure a hell of a lot in the past ten days. Shae isn’t like most people, though. A wellspring of energy flows within her. She vibrates with optimism and ideas and purpose. The Shae I’ve been living with for the past few days is a deflated version of the woman I know. She’s withdrawn, and I don’t know why. Something’s weighing on her. It could be a simple case of homesickness, though she’s not exactly the type to get depressed over that sort of thing.

As I sit at the table and watch her re-organize a cabinet that doesn’t have enough crap in it to need reorganizing, something dawns on me.

“Is your period coming soon?” I feel like a dumbass for not considering it sooner. If I was a woman, having to deal with that sort of thing out here would stress me the fuck out, too. And she could easily be uncomfortable mentioning it to ask for help.

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