Page 34 of Cabin Fever

"I assumed you had a credit card like everyone else."

"My father warned me that credit cards made it too easy to spend money. A person would think twice about buying something if he had to go to the bank to get the cash for it."

"Your dad was full of helpful advice." I rolled my eyes and was thankful that Carter couldn't see me.

I may not have known Carter very long, but I picked up on his admiration for his father. While I never met the man, there were some things he told Carter bordered on conspiracy theory nut talk.

Two days ago, as Carter was cooking breakfast, he mentioned that his father explained to him the less the government knew about him, the better. I asked if he paid taxes. He said he did . . . with a money order—he never used checks.

With Carter not having friends, his father passed, and the crazy ideas he had been taught growing up, I worried about him.

"He was the best father a kid could have."

The last person in front of us stepped up to the teller. I watched them interact, hoping it wouldn't take long. That cocoa was going right through me.

"Do you know where the restroom is around here?"

Carter pointed toward a hallway at the end of the teller window.

"I'll be right back," I said and made my way toward the hall. The entire back was dark wood paneling. I wondered if the designer was attempting to create a retro feel or if the bank hadn't been updated since the 1970s. I assumed it was the latter.

Once I had found the bathroom, emptied my bladder, and washed my hands, I took a look at myself in the mirror. For the first time in almost two weeks, I saw what everyone else was seeing—a haggard twenty-eight-year-old with tangled blond hair in a dirty pink coat.

I missed my hair serum and my cozy cashmere sweater—my signature winter piece. I looked ridiculous. Damn Carter's bathroom mirror for being so faded; I couldn't tell if my hair needed to be combed.

Carter needed my help, so I had to stay with him. Maybe when I called Bea, I could ask her to ship me my things. Oh, and my faux Ermine throw. It's the softest, warmest blanket in the world. It had better be for what I paid for it.

I gasped. Never in my life had I concerned myself with how much something cost. I didn't even look at the price tag when I was in that quaint shop in Milan. The only reason I knew how much it cost was because my maid, Ellen, couldn't find scissors to remove the tag. I gave her my Gucci nail clippers and she finally got the tag off.

This wasn't me. Being trapped in a cabin all this time was screwing with my head. The longer I stayed with Carter, the more I worried about paying him back. I had stayed over at friend's villas or chalets during vacations, and never had I concerned myself with paying for anything. I was the guest. And when I invited them to vacation at my parents' chateau in France or the beach house in Maui, I made sure they were taken care of.

Carter was different, I guess. He didn't have the financial security that my friends and I had. Every cent was accounted for. Maybe his father's crazy advice wasn't so silly after all.

I stepped out of the bathroom and heard a man mentioning Carter's name.

"Carter Fitzwilliam is here?" the man said, and I stepped closer toward the sliver in the doorway across from the restrooms.

A woman's voice filtered through the door. "Yes. He wants to remove five hundred dollars."

Oh, no. I bet he doesn't have enough money. That must be the teller talking to her manager. I had a credit card if Carter needed something—I would make sure he had it.

"That's it? Did you mention the paperwork?" the man asked.

"I have, Mr. Goode. Perhaps if you speak with him—"

"No. That's not possible. Uh, I have to . . . um, take a call. I mean, I have a phone meeting," the man stuttered and coughed.

"Okay, then I'll give him what he asked for and do my best to get him to sign the paperwork."

My eyes widened as I heard the woman move closer to the door. I scurried back into the lobby and found Carter standing in front of the bank partition with no one helping him.

"Where's the bank person?" I smiled, slightly out of breath.

"She's a teller, and she went to the back." Carter lowered his voice and leaned toward me. "I asked for a lot of money. I think they had to go into the safe to get it."

I bit my bottom lip and nodded.

"Well, Mr. Fitzwilliam, here is your money." The woman appeared, and I recognized her voice as the same one I heard in the back. "Now, if I could just get you to sign the paperwork for your father's account."

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