Page 7 of The Uncut Wood

I picked up my shirt. Pulling it over my head kept me from having to make eye contact. “Jim said I could get ready in his apartment.”

“Wait.” Gunner watched me until I could no longer keep from meeting his gaze. “Is this like not seeing the bride before the wedding?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. I continued to look him in the eye though, because being coy about my intentions at this point was cowardly. It also might be misconstrued as a joke. This was important to me. It meant everything, and I should be able to show him that. “I don’t want this to feel like any old day of the week together.”

His expression was only a little bit smug. “Milking the anticipation?”

“I want it to be special.” I sounded a bit defensive. Maybe even scared.

Gunner blinked slowly and cocked his head to the side. “Of course. We only get one first date.”

3

By the time I stumbled out onto the porch of the lodge laden with a cooler, a backpack, and the gift bag they’d given me with the new axe, the snow was coming down pretty hard. It was like stepping into a snow-globe version of Bear Mountain.

Gunner waited for me at the bottom of the steps wearing a backpack, a turquoise puffer jacket, and a sky-blue knit cap with earflaps and a little ball on the crown. If it hadn’t been for his red beard, he would’ve looked like a big kid bundled up for a snow day.

The weather had driven everyone else inside. In the surreal hush of fresh snowfall, I could’ve easily pretended Gunner and I were the only two left on the property.

“Oh, now you wear gloves.” Gunner’s tone was admonishing, but his brown eyes twinkled. “How’s your hand?”

“It’s fine.” His concern for me made everything fine.

Gunner inclined his head. He wasn’t buying it. “Hank…”

“I’ll live.” I would’ve been fine in a full-body cast—he could’ve dragged me on a sled—so long as we went on this date together. “Fortunately, I’m right-handed.”

“At least let me carry that.” Gunner took the cooler from me and offered to take the gift bag too. “Do you really need to keep your trophy with you?”

“I thought I’d rub it in a little bit more.” I’d let him think whatever he wanted in order to protect my surprise.

“They should’ve given you a tiara.”

“Can’t I just borrow one of yours?” I tapped his backpack. “Did you bring any with your costume changes?”

“Dick. I brought our pillows from the bunkhouse.” Gunner raised his eyebrows. “So, I take it we’re not going into town for this dinner?”

“It would’ve been nice to get off the property, but…” I gestured helplessly at the flakes falling thick as feathers at the end of a pillow fight.

Gunner nodded. “Yeah. Sawyer was lecturing everybody in the bathhouse about black ice on the roads.”

“Sorry I missed that.” I rolled my eyes. “There’s a plan B, though. If you’re up for a little hike.”

“Sure.”

“I booked us the Lone Ranger.” I held my breath thinking Gunner might protest.

The Lone Ranger was the most isolated cabin on the property. Probably an old hunting shack, it had existed long before Bear Mountain Lodge had been established. It couldn’t be reached by vehicle. The trail through the old-growth forest was too narrow for UTVs or golf carts. Despite its remote location, there was one regular guest who preferred it, an old leather papa who rented it a couple of times a month during the summer season. He was rarely spotted during the day—he never came to the pool or to meals at the lodge—but he could be found skulking around the bathhouses at night wearing chaps and a robber’s mask. Hence the name.

Gunner’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you taking me out there to murder me?”

I snorted. “Jim asked me the same thing. I was just kinda hoping we could get away from everybody else. You know, make it special. Not just another day at camp. But we can go ask for Cabin Twelve or—”

“Nah. Too many ghosts of parties past.” It was pretty common for men around here, upon entering a particular cabin or room, to loudly recount the previous times they’d fucked in the space. The Lone Ranger was the one place I knew neither Gunner nor I had ever seen any action. “The Lone Ranger’s virgin territory. Good call.”

His tone was nonchalant, but I don’t think I imagined the mischievous look in his eyes.

There were all kinds of silly nicknames for different areas of the property: the loop of RVs with opulent outdoor living spaces known as Trailer Park Avenue, the cluster of inexpensive sleeper cabins called Cocksucker Alley, the more expensive cabins with bathrooms and amenities known as Homo Highlands, the tent camping area along the creek named the Soggy Bottom, and the old-growth forest we now trudged through called the Uncut Wood.

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