Page 3 of Bear
I want to tell her to go to hell. Walk straight back out the door and drive as far away from this rundown house as possible. But that would mean driving away from Lana, too. “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll help ya.” I crack my neck and roll my shoulders. It was a long drive and my muscles aren’t limber yet. “You have a kettle?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” I turn to face her, and damn me if my heart doesn’t melt right then and there in my chest. She looks so worried. Forlorn. Like all her hopes and dreams are washing away in a tidal wave of bullshit and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. Except now she has me by her side. Big, stupid-ass me. Playing the hero. Willing to do anything for her, even though I’ve only just set eyes on her. I want to tell her everything is going to be alright. But that would be a lie. I want to take her hand and guide her to her bedroom and run her a bath. She looks like she could do with a nice, long hot bath. A good night's sleep. The loving of a big, strong mountain man like me. But I can’t do any of that. Not yet. It wouldn’t be right. To take advantage of her during her time of need. “Better make some coffee,” I tell her. “It’s gonna be a long night.”
3
Lana
I wakeup with a serious crick in my neck. My eyes feel like they’ve been filled with super glue. But at least it’s not raining anymore.
The crisp early morning sun beams through my windows. Lighting up the room. A little bird flaps and chirps on my windowsill. It looks happy.
“Stupid bird,” I grumble.
I sit up on the couch I slept on. My clothes are still wet from the night before. I’ve never been much of a morning person, but today is some next-level shit.
It doesn’t help that Bear’s already up on the roof hammering something. Like he’s in a competition with a rock band to see who can make the most noise.
My watch says it’s only ten after six in the morning.
“Ugh,” I stand up and crack my back. Do a couple of stretches. Try and massage the stiffness in my neck away. “Two hours sleep.”
I drag my feet to the kitchen with a one-track mind. Coffee. Warm, delicious coffee. The elixir of life. Energy giver to the masses. The only thing I have right now that can make me feel happy.
But when I turn the hob on, nothing happens. I flick a couple of switches. Open the cupboard by my feet. Crouch down. Unplug it. Plug it back in. Try that about a million different times in a million different variations. Then snap. In a fit of rage, I pick up the stupid kettle and throw it against the wall.
“Aaaaaaaarrrrrghhhh!” I yell. “Cofffeeeeeeeee!”
The hammering stops. No doubt Bear’s up on the roof with his big, dumb hammer wondering whether he should call the local mental asylum. Get me carted off in a straight jacket.
“Bear!” I stomp out into the garden and look up at him on the roof. The sun's in my eyes and I have to shield them with my hand. “Why isn't the hob working?”
“No power.”
“No shit, Sherlock!” I’m really not in the mood for this. The last thing I need is some big, gruff, sexy mountain man on my roof fucking with me this early in the morning. Although, I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind him fucking with me in a different kind of way. A more literal way. The kind of way that would involve him ripping off my clothes and sinking his hot, hard length between my legs.
But right now, that’s the last thing on my mind. I haven’t had a chance to look in the mirror, but I’m guessing I look something like a cross between Frankenstein’s monster and a Yeti. There’s no way a man like Bear would ever want to get with a girl like me. He’s all hard muscle and sizzling masculinity. I’m just a dumb, curvy young woman who sunk her life savings into a fixer-upper from hell.
“Why the heck is the power off?” I put my hand on my hip and fight back the tears I can already feel welling up in my eyes. It’s too early in the morning to cry. And I don’t want to cry in front of Bear.
“So I don’t get electrocuted,” he says, turning back to his work. I watch as he slides a piece of wood in place and hammers some nails into a joint. Or, at least I think it’s a joint. My knowledge of carpentry, architecture, and DIY is about as extensive as my expertise on the intricacies of 17th-century Chinese bongo music. i.e. non-existent. I don’t know what made me think I could handle a house that needed this much work. Maybe it was all the DIY shows I’ve been binge-watched on TV recently. The YouTube videos that made it look so easy. Not to mention profitable. But as much as Bear’s counterargument makes sense, it seems like he’s overlooked something. A dark brown, coffee-flavored something.
I mean, I can understand why he doesn’t want to get electrocuted. No one wants to get electrocuted! But should his need for safety override my need for caffeine? I think not…
“So what am I supposed to do about my morning coffee?” I yell up to him. “And breakfast?”
He turns back to face me. I hadn’t noticed it before, but he looks kind of tired. It occurs to me he might not have even been to sleep yet. That here I am throwing a tantrum about not getting my morning blend, and here’s this man I barely even know, on my roof, working through the night. Not complaining. More focused and dedicated than I am, and it’s not even his house.
“There’s a camping stove in my truck. I have a cooler in there, too. Some bacon. Elk. Homemade sourdough bread.” He runs his thick, long fingers through his thick, dark hair. “Should be some coffee in there, too. Help yourself.”
“A camping stove?” I ask. “You have to be kidding, right? You came here with a camping stove? And your own, personal supply of bacon?”
“Look,” he says, “eat it. Don’t eat it. What do I care! I’m trying to fix this god damn roof, and all you’re doing is getting in my way.”
“But aren’t you hungry? When was the last time you had something to eat?”
“I've been hungry before.”
