Cabin Fever by Elle Casey

“Fine. Just don’t expect me to cater your meals or anything.”
    “Cater my meals?” He laughs, confused.
    Dammit . I’ve exposed my hand, let him know that he hurt my feelings by not eating the eggs I made him. God, could I be any more pitiful? Probably not. I sure hope not.
    “Never mind.” I grab the dishtowel and dry the plate, putting it in the cabinet when I’m done.
    “I don’t expect you to cater my meals,” he says in a softer voice.
    I shrug, like I don’t have a care in the world. Which I don’t, obviously. It was just eggs and bacon. It’s not like I baked a soufflé or anything. “Whatever.”
    “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings by not eating the breakfast you made for me.”
    I turn to face him, my arms crossing over my chest without conscious thought. I hate that I’m that easy to read. “I didn’t make them for you , I just made them.” I shrug again.
    “I actually like bacon and eggs. It’s my favorite breakfast.” His smile holds an apology but his words make no sense.
    “Then why didn’t you eat it?” I hate that my vulnerability is right out there for him to see, but it’s too late to pull it back now.
    He lets out a long sigh and drops his gaze to the floor. “It’s stupid, really.”
    “You prefer beer for breakfast?” The mean comment comes out before I can stop it, and his calm acceptance of my cruelty makes me feel even worse.
    “No. It’s just that my wife used to cook my breakfast every morning, even when she was nine months pregnant and her feet so swollen they wouldn’t fit in her shoes anymore.” He looks up. “When I saw you standing there in the kitchen holding that plate up, I had a flashback, I guess.” He pauses, his voice changing when he speaks again. “She died. Earlier this year.”
    I have a hard time swallowing. It’s impossible not to share the sorrow I see in his expression. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I mean, I heard about your loss — and I’m sorry for that, by the way — I just … didn’t know she cooked you eggs and bacon.”
    His expression is bland. Maybe a bit sad. Maybe angry. It’s impossible to know for sure because he’s a stranger to me — a dark, mysterious, formerly smelly but now way-too-handsome stranger who I need to avoid at all costs. My life is already enough of a mess.
    “And there’s no way you could know, so don’t apologize.” He walks away without another word, grabbing his jacket hanging by the door before he walks out onto the front porch and slams the door shut behind him.

Chapter Fifteen

    FROM MY SPOT AT THE kitchen window, I can see everything pretty clearly, even though the snow is still falling. Dammit, at this rate, we’ll be snowed in for a week.
    I don’t know where Jeremy found the axe, but within ten minutes of leaving the kitchen, he’s out there swinging that thing around, making wood fly. I hadn’t noticed the large stump under a giant pine tree until he’d brushed it off and started using it as a base for his log-splitting operation.
    A glance at my art supplies brings me nothing but disappointment in my lack of inspiration, so I bundle up and head out the door, Jaws at my heels. Might as well make myself useful.
    Jeremy’s face is red, probably from both the cold and his efforts. Two small piles of split wood lie on either side of the big stump he’s resting the large logs on before he splits them into several smaller pieces. I watch as he balances one he’s already split once on its end and brings the axe down again to make it half its original size. I have to jump back to avoid getting hit by one of the pieces.
    “Get out of the way,” he says, practically growling.
    “I’m here to help.” And I’m feeling stupid because his simple demand has hurt my feelings. Since when have I been such a big marshmallow?
    “You can’t lift this, so go back inside. It’s no help to have you freezing to death.” He rests the axe head on the ground with the handle against his