Page 11 of Roughing It

It could be family.

My mom has a bad habit of sending one of my relatives up here to see if I’ll change my mind about the path I’ve taken in life. It rarely ends well. If it’s a cousin, a fight breaks out. If it’s an uncle, passive-aggressive insults are traded over the hood of my truck as I order him to leave.

This generally happens around the back of the lodge, out of view of the guests, but I wouldn’t put it past one of them to confront me in public. I’m already kind of the town weirdo—a divorced recluse living in the woods with horses for company—so I don’t need family drama to add to that.

Saying a small prayer, I pull my collar up closer around my neck, tug my beanie down against the sudden gust of wind, and head inside. Snagging a cart, I immediately head over to the little produce section and frown at the sparse offerings. We don’t get a lot most of the year. The roads are muddy in spring and frozen in winter, so it’s a pain in the ass for delivery trucks to bring more than the regular stock of pantry items and nonperishables.

There are some bananas that look okay though, so I throw as many as feels fair into my cart, then pull out my phone to check the list and see if anyone needs anything else. There’s a handful of texts, so I take a breath and beg my brain to process the words without giving me trouble.

It takes me a while, but eventually, I have the list down.

Miguel wants coconut rum, so I shuffle over to the booze section that takes up half the store. It gives me the excuse to grab a bottle of high-end scotch—my one luxury indulgence. My earliest memories of my father and grandfather are of them sitting in the study in high-back leather chairs, sipping Glenlivet from a crystal decanter.

I remember thinking how grown-up and important it looked. I remember thinking I wanted to be just like that one day.

Ridiculous, but it’s that little spark of childhood that doesn’t fill me with resentment. I don’t indulge much anymore. I drank too much and too heavily after my injury, and it only got worse after the divorce.

But I figured out quick I was damn well going to lose the lodge if I gave in to that vice much longer. It was easy to put the bottle down after that, and now I feel good the one or two times a month I indulge.

And hell, if a storm trapping us in the lodge is coming, I might as well use the time for me.

The rest of the list is small. Fruity cereal, beer, toaster waffles, and a six-pack of diet Sprite.

It helps that we have a fully stocked kitchen on the property, so we won’t be hurting for fresh food, and I never stop my employees from using the amenities we have, so I don’t need toiletries.

With all of that done, I turn my attention to the little kitten waiting for me back at home. There’s a very small pet aisle, and none of it looks particularly high-end or healthy. The cat food is kibble or cans of mush, and the litter is definitely off-brand. But there is a little pan and a scoop and a handful of little cat toys. I load up a lot for a guy planning to give this cat to the shelter when the storm passes, and I don’t let myself think too much about it.

I distract myself by rushing to the register, but halfway there, I hear the sounds of two women arguing and can’t help but stop and listen.

“…don’t want to. I don’t know why it’s such a big deal. It’s just dinner.”

“With astranger,” the second voice says. Hers is a little low and husky, just the way I like it, and it sends shivers down my spine. “I don’t even know this guy, and you’re already planning my wedding.”

“Just think of how nice it will be when you two hit it off and—”

“I’m too damn tired to have this argument with you,” the husky-voiced woman sighs out. “Can we just not right now?”

“Fine, but I’m counting this as your no for the day.”

“Flor…”

“Nope. My rules. I’m going to give this to Sage so we can check out and get the hell out of here.”

I wait a second to make sure the other woman has walked away, and then I can’t help myself. I come around the corner with my basket full of booze, supplies, and kitten stuff, then jolt to a stop at the sight of a dark-haired woman. She’s honestly one of the most gorgeous people I have ever set eyes on. She’s short and olive-skinned with a long thick braid hanging over her shoulder. She’s got a round jaw and deep, deep brown eyes that look almost gold when she turns to look at me.

She stares at me for a moment—probably too long, but I sure as hell don’t mind—and then she flushes high on her cheekbones and turns away. I know I should say something, but my aphasia chooses that moment to kick in, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. All that comes out is a strangled noise.

When she looks over her shoulder, eyebrows scrunched together adorably like she’s waiting for me to repeat myself, I just turn around because there’s nothing I can do. I’m a goddamn mess. When I’m handling guests, I can just pass it off to Zara, but in public like this?

I berate myself silently because how often do I see someone as gorgeous as her in our little town? She’s probably just a tourist too, which won’t help my situation at all. They breeze up and down the mountain like the place means nothing, and anyway, it’s not like we could make something work.

Jesus, what am I even talking about?

I make my way to the register and come to a stop behind a couple waiting to check out. They look like they’d fit perfectly in my family with their designer clothes, the woman’s hair long and dark, an expensive bag hanging off her shoulder.

She looks so much like Holly, it makes me uncomfortable.

She has one hand on the man’s back, and I can see the size of the diamond in her wedding ring. It’s similar to the one I’d proposed to Holly with. Since we’d first started dating, she told me she wanted a diamond the size of her fist.

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