Page 54 of For the Win
Bex: …
Me: You’re still running that sex ed program for your players, Coach. You have to know that’s not how things work.
Connor: It works in that werewolf book Bex read last month #mpreg
Me: Erase! Erase! Erase!
Bex: Hah. Val needs me to help him with something. Go make some babies and I’ll talk to you later.
Connor: Shit. Forgot to tell you Seamus said we could come and get you soon. Ready for a snowmobile ride?
I rollmy eyes and set down my phone to stare at the two tiny dogs on my lap. “I’m not ready for babies or snowmobiles,” I inform them as they lick my arms. “And didn’t I tell you I wasn’t made of bacon?”
Either they don’t know or don’t care, because the licking only gets more exuberant.
Smiling a little sadly, I set them down beside me and get back to my feet. It’s early, but I’m not that surprised about Connor’s last text. I was actually already showered and dressed in my own clothes when I came down the stairs to see the sun shining as brightly through the bay and kitchen windows as it had been upstairs. The view outside tells me the snow must have been melting all night.
Reality is coming to Honeymoon Cabin, I think glumly.
This might be the first time I’m not looking forward to seeing my crew. When I do, it will mean the isolation bubble Michael and I have been in has officially burst, and all of this is over. The fantastic sex. The unexpectedly deep conversations. The cuddling and bathing together. All of it. Our island is going to beinvaded and I’m just wishing for another sudden change in the weather.
Bex isn’t wrong. I’ve been appreciating snow more every day.
I decide to cook breakfast to keep myself busy. Michael is in the shower, and he might like to be off kitchen duty this morning. “I should make enough for Connor too.”
Why? Because you know he never turns down a meal and it might delay your departure?
Maybe.
As I gather the ingredients—luckily the baker in this cabin brought a lot of eggs with him—I think about how we spent the rest of yesterday to cheer myself up.
We had a class—Finns 101—where I doled out information about the different couples and throuples he might run into at the party. There are a lot of them, and remembering all the details wasn’t easy, since Michael had decided he learned best when his teacher was sitting on his lap with no clothes on.
Not that I’m complaining.
Then, after we took a break to finish the pastry puffs, make the filling and banter over another episode of our show, he convinced me that I needed to get over my hang-up with the upstairs bedroom so we could break it in.
He found a sleep mask in the welcome basket and covered my eyes before kissing and caressing every inch of my body. In the darkness, the sensations were so much more intense. Each whispered breath was a shout. Every lick of his tongue made me shiver. In the end, I took off the blindfold to return the favor, and all I could see was him.
My breathing is a little uneven just remembering it. But I have to focus, because I need to chop the chicken and veggies and I’d like to get through that with all my fingers still attached.
When I’m done and the knife is safely in the sink, I beat the eggs, then sauté onions and mushrooms for my one guaranteedcrowd-pleaser, the Leftover Scramble. (I joke about pizza rolls but I do occasionally cook other things.)
What started as a way to stretch a meal actually became a delicious breakfast dish that I’ve been perfecting over the years. And it works for everything. Chicken. Chinese takeout. Italian. Just add eggs, a few secret spices and whatever else you have in your pantry, andvoilà!You too can pretend you’re an actual chef.
To keep from worrying about whether or not Michael will appreciate my offering, or when Connor might be showing up, I find the song Bex was talking about and turn up the volume on my phone. It’s one of the current favorites at Royale’s. If I were still performing, I’d choose it too. It feels eerily close to the reality of that time in my life. The chorus even includes a disapproving mother.
I let the music roll through me as I cook. Stirring with a wooden spoon, I bump and grind burlesque style. I add in the extra ingredients for flavor, then slide a hand down my leg, flipping my imaginary wig and throwing a sultry look at my invisible audience.
Ever since I mentioned it to Michael, I’ve been remembering how much joy it used to bring me, donning glittering outfits and different personalities before putting on a show. I wasn’t lying when I told him it wasn’t a necessary part of my life, but it did make me feel sexier and more powerful than I have before or since. Until I got to this cabin.
I’ve been considering giving him a private performance at some point. Or a not-so-private one. I bet the gang would welcome me back for a night if I told them I had a date to impress.
You’re still a teacher. And you still don’t date. They all know that and so do you.
I’m on a break, in a remote cabin, and I can do whatever I want as long as I’m still surrounded by all the wood I’ve grown so fond of. I can also imagine whatever I want. Like dancing for Michael wearing nothing but a sultry smile…and maybe some pasties.
I let myself get lost in the music, my body instinctively moving through my favorite old moves—even in jeans, I’ve still got it—while I use the wooden spoon as a microphone and sing along to the lyrics.
