Page 9 of Mountain Man Crush
I step inside and hold the door open for him. He almost looks confused, but then he walks in and stops next to me.
“The kitchen is through here,” I tell him, leading him into the kitchen. He sets the crate onto the table. “There’s some homemade bread, some fruit preserves, canned fruits and vegetables, and some homemade peanut butter.”
I cross my arms over my chest as I lean against the counter. “Thank you, but I have more than enough to last me a while.”
He nods. “Well, you can never have enough. Other than the bread, none of this will go bad anytime soon.”
I smile. “You must be really worried with all this stuff you packed up.”
He slides his hands into his pockets. “You wouldn’t leave me to freeze, so I’m not going to let you starve.”
“Or freeze,” I add on, reminding him of all the wood.
“Right,” he agrees.
“Would you like to sit and have a cup of hot tea with me? I’m dying for some entertainment.”
“I should get going. I have a lot of work to do,” he says, heading back toward the door. His legs are so long I feel like I have to run to keep up with him.
He walks out the door, down the steps and climbs onto his four-wheeler without so much as a goodbye. I smile and wave, even though he’s not looking at me and watch him drive away. When he’s out of sight, I close the door and go back to the couch to sit by the fire and warm up. In a weird way, it feels like he’s warming up to me. He said more today than the other days and he keeps finding excuses to see me. Maybe he’s realized how nice it is to have someone around to talk with. Or maybe he is just suddenly concerned about my well-being and he has to bring me this stuff to get his mind to rest. Next time I see him, I’ll tell him that there is no need for him to worry.
I go back to reading my book and about forty-five minutes later, I hear the sound of his four-wheeler again. I close the book and stand up, moving toward the door. When I open it, he’s on the other side, a bag hanging over his shoulder.
He looks at me and I look at him with confusion. He shrugs. “I figured I’d just stay here so I know you’re safe and taken care of.”
I think on that for a moment. I don’t know this man, but I know he won’t hurt me. If he was going to hurt me, he would’ve already. He wouldn’t be bringing me supplies. He wouldn’t check up on me.
I step back and open the door wider, allowing him to walk in. He does and walks to the lounge chair beside the couch. He drops his bag beside it and then unzips it and pulls out his book. I close the door and sit on the couch, picking mine back up as well. The only sound is the crackling of the fire.
For the first few minutes, things feel awkward, and I can’t keep my attention on the book, but after a while, it’s clear that he’s not going to talk any time soon, so I’m able to focus a little better.
Then out of nowhere, he asks, “Why would you just let a strange man into your house like this? I mean, I could be a murderer.”
I look up at him and shrug. “I read people pretty well. You’re no murderer.” I look back at my book and resume reading. Every so often, I look at him from the corner of my eye and catch him looking around the room. He looks at the framed family photos I have on the walls, checks out the books I have on my shelf, and then examines at all the plants I have setting in front of the windows. He never talks or asks any questions. It’s almost like he’s trying to learn something about me just by studying my surroundings.
I finally close my book and stand up and when I do, he looks up at me. I shrug. “I can’t sit that long. I gotta move around,” I tell him.
He nods and goes back to reading. I walk over to the window and look out, but there’s nothing exciting out there other than a few squirrels running up and down a tree. I pace back and forth and let out a sigh. Then I look at my bookshelf and think about switching books so that when I get bored with one, I can move onto another. I decide against it, not wanting to read any longer. I go to the bathroom and wash my hands before deciding to do a deep clean on this room, too. I scrub the tub and shower walls. I clean the toilet and the sink, dust everything, clean the mirrors, and then sweep and mop the floor.
When I finish, I walk back into the living room and find that he hasn’t moved. I toss another log into the fire and look at my watch to see that it’s only two in the afternoon. I lay on the couch and my eyes land on him. He’s easy to look at. His blue eyes are racing across the page he’s reading, and his dark brows are drawn together, causing two line to form between them. The scruff covering his face is a little thicker today, but I guess that he hasn’t been able to shave without power. He’s taken off his coat and hat, and he’s wearing a casual t-shirt that hugs his chest and big biceps. It’s red in color and somehow makes his eyes seem even more blue. His hair is a shaggy mess and it’s easy to see that he hasn’t had a haircut in a while.
“Why are you staring at me?” he asks, not taking his eyes off his book.
“How long has it been since you had a haircut?”
He looks up now. “What?”
I shrug. “I was just wondering.”
He shakes his head, doesn’t answer me, but goes back to reading.
“I could cut it for you if you want. I used to cut my dad’s hair all the time.”
“No thanks,” he says, not paying me any attention.
I let out a sigh. “What do you do to pass the time?”
He closed his book with a quiet thump. “Excuse me?”
