Page 32 of Kind of a Bad Idea

“I’m usually a shower guy, but right now, I’d be on board.” He laugh-groans as we climb the steps onto the porch. “I could call my account Cranky Old Man in a Tub.”

I hum beneath my breath. “Yeah, no. We can think of a better name for your account than that. I’ll work on it while you’re relaxing. Point me toward the fireplace, I’m a whiz with a fire. It’s always my job at family functions. I get the firepits roaring while Melissa sets up the fire snacks station.”

“Speaking of, I have s’mores supplies in the kitchen,” he says, pausing to punch a code into the keypad on the back door. I didn’t expect something so technological on an “off the grid” cabin, but it appears to be powered by a small solar cell on top of the device.

“Heck, yes,” I say, my mouth watering at the thought. “Oh my God, toasted marshmallows sound so good right now. The only thing better would be a glass of wine.”

As I follow him past a small, but simple dining table by the back door, into the partially renovated kitchen, it’s like my words magically summon my wish into existence.

“What the…” Seven stops by the island at the end of the kitchen, staring at the large wicker basket on the coffee table in the small living room. It’s filled with all sorts of treats, including a loaf of freshly baked bread from my favorite bakery in town, salami, popcorn, apples, oranges, bananas, and two bottles of wine—one white and one red.

“Looks like our kidnappers were worried about us going hungry,” I say, still holding up my pants as I circle around Seven to pluck a card with our names on it from between two especially juicy-looking apples. I glance up at him with the envelope between two fingers. “Mind if I open this?”

He shakes his head. “No. But fair warning, this is making me even madder.”

I arch a brow as I take in his stormy expression. “Noted. Maybe if you put down the bags, you’ll feel less like punching something.”

“Good point.” He unburdens himself with stiff jerks of his arms before sagging to the ground and stretching out on the worn hardwood beside the coffee table. “My back needs a moment on a hard, flat surface. Traction would probably also be good.”

I shake my head as I open the note. “You’re definitely getting that bath. And a glass of wine while you’re in there. You deserve it. Thank you, again, for carrying my pack.”

“Never thank me for shit like that,” he says, his eyes sliding closed. “You would have done the same thing.”

I’m not certain I would have been capable of doing the same thing, but he’s right—I would have tried. I may be a pint-sized hero compared to him, but I’ve always tried to be someone other people can count on in times of trouble.

I’m sure that’s part of the reason Bettie did this. She was so grateful for what I did to help raise money for Sprout’s surgery, and she knows I have a crush on her son. I’ve tried to hide it, but I’m not great with concealing my feelings, and Bettie reads people with the accuracy of a woman who’s been a bartender-therapist for thirty years. She probably felt she had no choice but to help play matchmaker.

But when I open the card, the note inside isn’t from Bettie.

It’s from the other two members of this conspiracy…

“What’s it say?” Seven asks, still stretched out on the floor with his eyes closed. Which is probably good. He should definitely be sitting down for this.

“Dear Binx and Seven,” I read aloud, “Sorry we lied and went to extremes, but you didn’t give us a choice. Anyone with eyes can see that you’re…” I clear my throat, a little embarrassed to read the next part, but muscling through. “Can see that you’re perfect for each other. Hopefully three romantic days sharing a cabin in the woods will bring you to your senses. We’ve left all the supplies you’ll need. There are snacks here in the basket, more food in the refrigerator, and clothes and toiletries in the drawers in the bedroom.”

“I hate them,” Seven rumbles from the floor, “but I’m not sad about a clean pair of clothes.”

“Me either,” I say, with a pointed look at my borrowed pants, which are currently rolled up on one side and tucked into my underwear to keep them from sliding down. Turning back to the card, I read on, “We put fresh sheets on the bed and left a speaker on the mantel with an old iPad loaded with songs, so you can play music. There’s a charger in the basket, too. You should have everything you need, so please don’t be stubborn goofballs and try to walk all the way back to Bad Dog or anything stupid like that.”

Seven grunts.

“They know us, that’s for sure,” I reply before reading on, “Wendy Ann will be here to pick you up Friday morning. If you haven’t realized you belong together by then, we promise we’ll leave you alone to ruin your lives in peace. Love, Wendy Ann and Sprout (But mostly Sprout because this is my life you’re trying to ruin, too. I love you guys, and I know you love each other. Please just kiss and live happily ever after already.)”

By the time I’m finished, my throat is tight, and I’m even sadder than I was before.

I wonder what Sprout would think if she knew we’d already kissed and all it had done was make Seven even more determined to push me away?

“Well, that’s going to be a fun conversation,” Seven mutters, his eyes closed again.

I don’t ask him what he’s talking about. I already know.

He’s planning what to say to Sprout once he’s home on Friday, how to tell her that her plan failed and there isn’t going to be a happily ever after.

“At least we have food and shelter and don’t have to walk the rest of the way home,” I say, trying to look on the bright side. “I’m not sure my thighs could take two more days of hiking right now.”

“And I can get some work done around here,” he says. “It won’t be a complete waste of time. I have everything I need to stain the new cabinets and get them hung above the sink.”

His tone implies that it will be a partial waste of time, however, and about as much fun as getting his colon flushed.

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