Page 21 of Cabin Fever

But not anymore. I could cook for myself, clean, and I even helped with the sheep.

"What do you think about me taking up sheep farming?"

Carter came out of the bathroom with a shirt on, socks, and his hair wet. I was disappointed but it's best he stays warm, I guess.

He stopped pulling out the chair from the table and stared at me. "Is that a joke?"

"No." I plated his food, which was only bacon. I had tried making potatoes, but they turned out burnt on the outside and raw on the inside. That obviously required more skill. "I think I'd make a good farmer. I know how to cook bacon." I placed the plate in front of him and went to get him a mug of coffee.

"Cooking bacon has nothing to do with farming." He lifted a piece and gave it an inspecting sniff.

"I know, but what I mean is . . . I'm getting better at doing everyday stuff. You know, like learning to take care of myself. And with some more time, I can learn how to take care of sheep. I cleaned out the barn floor yesterday and only threw up twice."

I sat at the table with my breakfast and took a bite of the bacon. If I was being completely honest, it was the best bacon I had ever tasted in my life. I had a gift—an untapped talent, suppressed from years of pampering.

Maybe taking care of animals was another skill of mine that lay in wait for the time when I would learn how to wield it. Like a superhero, just with sheep.

"It takes time to learn how to be a farmer. I may not have been born here, but I spent most of my youth here, learning from my father." I noticed he gobbled up the bacon and tried to speak between mouthfuls. Clearly, Carter enjoyed my meat candy.

"You weren't born here? I thought you lived here all your life? Where are you originally from?"

I took a sip of the addictive coffee, letting the warmth of the liquid glide down my throat as I eased back in the chair.

"More to the south," he mumbled and immediately lifted the mug to his lips.

"Where to the south? Somewhere in New England?"

His jaw tensed as he lowered his cup. "It's not important. My goodness, you ask a lot of questions."

"I'm curious. Like a cat."

"More like a hyena," Carter mumbled.

I ignored his negative connotation and his attempt for me not to know anything about the man. This was the eleventh day since I ran from my wedding. I had lived with Carter, knew his quirks and temperament almost better than I knew Derrick. Yet, I understood nothing about his past.

"I don't even know your last name."

Carter grumbled, eating another piece of bacon.

"Come on. You know my last name . . . Love. How can I write you a thank-you note when I get back home if I don't even know who to address the envelope to?"

He took a moment and glanced at every spot in the kitchen before finally lifting his gaze to me. "It's Fitzwilliam. Carter Fitzwilliam."

I frowned. I knew a few Fitzwilliams through my father. They were a political family in DC, but I doubt Carter was related to them. I couldn't see the Fitzwilliams having sheep farmers in the family. Must be a common name like Smith and Jones.

"See. Now was that so hard?"

"Yes."

He tried his best Mr. Grumpington impression, but I noticed before he could hide it with his cup of coffee, the corners of his mouth curved.

"Whatever you say, Mr. Fitzwilliam."

His eyes widened and pain stole Carter's amusement in a flash.

"D-Did I say something wrong?"

Was he teased as a child about his last name? I couldn’t imagine the name Fitzwilliam producing taunts, but you never know what kids will find amusing.

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