Page 141 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
The cabin is owned by Mr. Greene and up for grabs to any player who wants it. During the summer and the post-New Year’s snow, it’s busy. But now, reading into the Thanksgiving holiday, it will be available. It’s simple, rustic, the place where you can hear yourself think. No wifi, no cell service, no distractions.
And most importantly, plenty of isolation. The idea of spending a few days holed up with Juliet, fucking her, teasing her, making her laugh… It sounds downright dreamy to me.
“I’ll send you a plane ticket and pick you up at the airport in Vancouver. The team has a week off after, so maybe I can convince you to stay for a few days?”
She nods slowly. “If the team has downtime, I should be able to get away. It’s not like I have an office to show up at or anything.”
“True.” I take a few more bites of food. “Tell me a story while I finish demolishing this food, Monroe.”
She laughs. “I can tell you about hanging out with the Coven at Ivy’s house. Ivy has wild taste in furnishings and even wilder taste in men.”
“Tell me all about it.” Grinning, I pull my plate of fresh fruit closer. “I’m going to stuff my face.”
* * *
“Wow. When you said this cabin wasn’t fancy, you weren’t kidding.” Juliet looks at the small A-frame cabin as I set our suitcases down to unlock the front door. I open the door and step back with a grin.
“For the next three days, it’s home sweet home.”
She sticks her tongue out teasingly as she heads inside. The place is small, with a tiny kitchen and cozy living room on the bottom floor. Up a corkscrew set of metal steps is a tiny library wall and the cabin’s only bed. A fire crackles as we make ourselves comfortable.
For me, that means three days of sweet, sweet sweatpants. For Juliet, it’s more yoga pants and my stolen hoodie. She still wears her heels, which makes me want to roll my eyes. Even at this remote cabin, Juliet needs to be done up.
She wiggles her eyebrows and shows off my hoodie. “You like?”
I’m not even mad that she stole it; she looks so tiny with the bulky sleeves shoved up that it makes me smile. Yeah, seeing her in my gear definitely does something to me.
“I really do,” I admit. “In a possessive, fucked up way, I don’t want you to wear anything else, ever. I like this better than a tight little skirt.”
“It smells like you.” She inhales a whiff of my hoodie and blushes. “I don’t hate it.”
I love seeing her like this, warm and soft and real. She doesn’t need anything from me here. Doesn’t expect me to perform or be on or manage my image.
She just wants to hang out with me.
We cook dinner together, something simple that doesn’t require much skill. She tells me about her first job out of college, working for a sports agency that treated her like a glorified coffee fetcher until she proved she was smarter than half the men in the room.
“The managing partner called me into his office one day,” she says, stealing a piece of the garlic bread I’m making. “He told me I had potential, but that I needed to be more collaborative. He said I was too aggressive in meetings.” She points the bread at me. “I was the only girl there and definitely the only one under 5’8”. It was humiliating.”
“What did you do?”
“I asked him if he’d ever told a male colleague to be less aggressive. He said that was different. I need to learn how to talk to men, I guess.” She shrugs. “I had a new job lined up by the end of the week.”
I love watching her talk about work. The way her whole face lights up when she’s describing a satisfying negotiation or the strategy behind a successful campaign is something to see. It’s not ambition for its own sake. It’s a passion and an art.
Later, we’re sitting on the couch in front of the fire, a card game discarded on the table in front of us, and she laughs at something stupid I’ve said about the terrible movie we’re half-watching. It’s not a polite laugh or a professional laugh. It’s real and unguarded. Completely hers.
I think,I want to be the reason she keeps doing that.
The truth guts me. This isn’t supposed to be about what Iwant. This is supposed to be a business arrangement with convenient chemistry on the side.
But sitting here in this quiet cabin, watching Juliet curl up against my side like she belongs there, I can’t pretend anymore.
I’m falling for her. I’ve been falling for her since that first night she let me hold her. Maybe I’ve been holding a torch for her since college.
We have sex that night, but it’s slower than our usual pace. Reverent. Almost shy, like we’re both afraid of breaking something precious.
“Hunter.” There’s something in her low, throaty voice I can’t quite name.
