Page 20 of The Fix

“You’re literally the worst person to be stuck on a mountain with,” Anna growls, the sound of her phone unlocking sharp.

“Oh, just you wait, Ms. Prune.” I play into the night, lit by twinkling lights above.

Just. You. Wait.

Chapter Ten

Toby

By the time Anna makes her retreat into the cabin, the ends of my hair are practically icicles and my fingers are too wrinkled to keep playing. The propane heater in the corner of this little setup is meant for keeping the space just on the good side of freezing during the winter days, but now that the night has thoroughly claimed the land, it’s having a hard time battling the cold.

And that’s my cue.

I inhale deeply, then haul out of the water, snagging my guitar and the bottle that I tuck under my arm and make a run for the door.

Thunk.

My shoulder slams into the glass, rattling the pane in the frame, but otherwise unmoved by the impact.

“What the fuck?”

A shiver racks over my limbs as I jiggle the handle a second time, but nothing happens.

“Motherfucker,” I mutter and glance around the porch for a better solution, only to come up empty. “Anna!”

Nothing.

No movement, no shadows. Just a big heap of nothing on the other side of the pane.

“Goddammit.” I cross to the main cabin entrance, my bare feet stinging with the threat of frostbite, and punch the code into the keypad.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Flashing red warns me against what was perceived as the wrong code, the lock remaining firmly in place.

“Son of a motherfucker!” I slam my knuckles into the heavy wood and punch the code in again, this time coming back with a flash of green that has me barreling into the house with heaving breaths. “Fuck.”

My body rattles violently, teeth chattering as I slam the door shut and slam my back against it. My head thunks against the wood as I close my eyes, feeling my muscles vibrating with chills that dislodge trails of water from my wet clothes.

“Hot cocoa?”

Anna's voice, dripping with snark, snaps my eyes open. She stands next to the island with a steaming mug held to her pale lips, eyebrow arched.

“Throw some Bailey’s in it and I’m in.” Another massive shiver takes over my limbs so intense that I prop the guitar against the counter, setting the bottle on top.

My shirt is the next to go, dropping at my feet in a wet plop.

I decide that the shorts really should stay for the moment while I wait for Anna, but when my gaze crashes to hers, she remains mostly unmoved. She sips her coca, her gaze fixed on me.

“Water’s still hot in the kettle. Packets in the cabinet.”

She brushes past me, that damn mug still held high to her mouth and it’s then that I realize she’s using the ceramic to hide a damn smirk.

I draw in a breath through flared nostrils.

Two can play games.

“Thanks,” I snap out and hook my thumbs in the waistband of my shorts. They drop to the floor with a matching wet flop and join the puddle. The air bites at my damp skin, but that doesn’t stop me from snagging a mug from the cabinet and filling the whole thing with the chocolate liquor from above the kitchen sink. I pop the mug in the microwave, the ceramic clanking against the glass turntable obnoxiously, and forty-five seconds later, I’m stalking across the open space to stand in front of the fireplace.

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