Page 11 of Out on a Limb

What if he says no? What if he can sniff out my secret crush? Or what if Stig woke up this morning ready to make the deal, then took one look at my bedhead and changed his mind?

What if this whole thing is a joke? What if he’s just humoring me?

What if, what if, what if.

When Stig sniffs and places his mug on the deck, I brace myself for rejection. At the very least, I figure he must have conditions of his own; non-negotiables that he needs from his fake wife. Because let’s face it: Stig Hansen can afford to be picky. With a face and body like that, the adventurer could wander into Flint’s or any other bar in town and have his selection of local women. They wouldn’t even need a glimpse of his humor or gentleness or the daring spark that fuels him up those mountains; this man is a bonafide snack.

But Stig doesn’t list his own demands. He doesn’t say anything at all. He clears his throat, pushes to stand, and strides back inside the cabin.

Suddenly alone on the deck, I gape at the empty doorway. When the cold breeze washes over me and tousles my hair, I wrap the blanket tighter around myself. Leaves rustle and branches sway.

Muffled footsteps echo inside the cabin, and there’s the sound of a drawer rattling open and closed. Is Stig finally calling the cops? My gut sinks, but I stay huddled on the carved seat, ready to face my fate.

Can’t blame him, really.

I did break and enter, and he offered me a way out. Then I went and made a list of demands.

Still, surely this is better than entering an insane fake marriage without negotiating at all. Raising my chin, I square my shoulders and wait for Stig to come back, staring out at the trees.

I’m not sorry.

I mean—I am sorry for changing the locks and squatting in his cabin. That is well and truly my bad. But I’m not sorry for listing those conditions just now. A girl’s gotta have some pride.

When Stig steps back out onto the deck, probably only a minute or two has passed, but I’ve gone through all the stages of grief. I’m already at acceptance, solemnly watching the squirrels and wondering what the food is like in prison. I’m guessing not great. Definitely no orgasmic coffees in there.

“Here.”

Stig kneels in front of me on the deck, and pops a little faded velvet box open. Inside, a sapphire ring sparkles on a tiny cushion.

“What,” I say stupidly, staring at the ring. My mouth is suddenly bone dry. “How did you have that ready?”

“It’s a family heirloom.” Stig ducks his head, trying to meet my eye, his forehead creased in concern. “I know it’s not especially big or fancy, but it was my grandmother’s, and… wait, are you crying?”

“No!” Swiping the blanket beneath my eyes, I glare at the adventurer kneeling before me. Even kneeling down, he’s still an inch or two taller. “I—you took me by surprise! And I haven’t slept. Then you made me that coffee, and then you went inside, and I thought—you didn’t—then that ring, and it’s so pretty—”

Stig’s mouth twitches, like he’s fighting back a laugh. A wave of emotion rises up inside me, and I’m not sure whether I want to burst out laughing or curse like a sailor or punch this man in the shoulder. Maybe all three.

I’m losing my mind.

“Put it on.” Thrusting my hand out of the folds of blanket, I waggle my hand a few inches below Stig’s face. He catches it with a huff of amusement, and slides the ring carefully over my fourth finger. “Put it on before I melt down over nothing again. This is crazy, but we’re doing this.”

“Yes, we are.” A bristly mouth brushes my knuckles before my hand drops back to my lap, and it takes me a moment to realize that the adventurer kissed the back of my fingers. The skin there tingles. “So. Breakfast?”

My stomach rumbles louder than an earthquake in answer. Stig booms with laughter and stands up, ruffling my messy head on his way back inside.

Clangs and thumps drift out to the deck—cupboards opening and closing; the thud of a knife against a chopping board—but I barely hear it at all.

I’m too busy staring down at the sapphire ring sparkling on my finger, a nervous glow spreading through my insides.

Seven

Stig

The next few days are kinda hazy—like I’m living in one long, drawn-out dream.

For one thing, I’m home. Back in the cabin I built with my own two hands. This place is both achingly familiar, and not quite how I remembered it—the curtains are a shade lighter than in my head, and Jana’s rearranged some of the furniture. Plus I’m sleeping on the sofa rather than spread-eagled on the bed, getting a whole different angle of the room at night.

The place smells different than I expected, too, because usually when I come home after a long stint away, the air is laced with dust and neglect. One time, a mouse family broke in and made a nest in the tea kettle, and that time it smelled like warm bodies and sweet, nutty fur.

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