Page 17 of July's Bad Boy: Blaze
"Who are you looking for, the key fairy?" I ask, hugging myself for warmth.
"These cabins usually have a spare somewhere," he explains, moving to a window. "They're used seasonally. No one's been here for months."
After a few more minutes of searching, Blaze sighs. "Plan B," he announces, and before I can ask what that is, he starts pulling at the windows until one by the door gives and he's able to open it.
"Breaking and entering. Great." I shake my head. "Add it to your rap sheet."
"I'll leave cash for the stay," he says, as he starts to climb inside. "Besides, it's this, or hypothermia."
A moment later, the door swings open with a creak, and I stumble inside. The cabin is small. It’s just one room with a kitchenette in the corner, a wood stove, a small table with two chairs, and only one bed just big enough for two, pushed up against the dark wall.
Blaze immediately moves to the wood stove, checking if there's anything inside. "We're in luck," he says, pulling out matches from a nearby drawer. "Dry kindling and logs. This'll warm us up."
I drop my bag and look around. Dust covers most surfaces, but it's clean enough. More importantly, it's dry.
"Check for some blankets in that chest," Blaze points as he works on the fire. "You should get out of those wet clothes."
I raise an eyebrow at him.
He rolls his eyes. "I'll turn around. But seriously, you're shivering."
Even though he's right, I'm not about to admit it. I rummage through the chest and find several thick wool blankets that smell musty but seem clean. When I turn back, Blaze has the fire going, orange flames licking at the logs.
"I'll step outside while you change," he offers.
"In the pouring rain? Don't be ridiculous." I grab a blanket. "Just turn around."
He does, and I quickly peel off my soaked jacket, shirt, and jeans, wrapping the blanket around me like a toga. My clothes make a sad, wet pile on the floor.
"You can turn around now," I say, and he does, his eyes carefully staying on my face. "Your turn."
I face the wall while he changes, fighting the urge to peek. The sound of wet fabric hitting the floor makes my imagination work overtime.
"All clear," he says after a minute.
Turning around, I find him with a blanket wrapped around his waist, his chest bare. I've seen plenty of shirtless men before, but something about the way the firelight plays across Blaze's skin and across his tattoos makes my mouth go dry. I look away quickly, focusing on hanging our wet clothes on chairs near the stove.
"I found some tea," Blaze says, holding up a dusty tin. "Probably ancient, but it's something."
He fills a kettle with water from a jug we brought from the truck and places it on the stove. I sit on the edge of the bed, blanket pulled tight around me, watching him move around the small space. There's something different about him here. No cameras, no audience, no image to maintain. Just a man making tea in a cabin during a storm.
"You're staring," he says without looking up.
"I'm observing," I correct him. "There's a difference."
He smiles, handing me a mug of tea. Our fingers brush, and I ignore the little jolt that runs through me.
"So," he says, settling into one of the chairs. "Looks like we're stuck here for the night."
"Looks like," I agree, sipping the tea. It's stale but warm, and that's all that matters right now.
The storm rages outside, rain pelting the roof and windows. Inside, the fire crackles, slowly warming the small space. We sit in silence for a while, the tension between us shifting into something more comfortable.
"Your brother," Blaze says suddenly. "Tell me more about him."
The question catches me off guard. "Why?"
He shrugs. "You're fighting so hard for his dream. I'm interested."
