maybe—or
was this a neighbor? The owner? The police? Panic welled up inside him; he
opened his mouth and then shut it. He should think of something to say, an
explanation, an alias, or—“Shea,” he blurted helplessly and honestly. “Shea Matthews.”
He knew how he must look: wide-eyed younger than his twenty-six years, pale blond
hair curling just slightly under his ears and his face pale with confusion and
fear. He held his hands out, palm-up and open. Best not to look threatening.
Best not to look like he was breaking into a fucking house , which was
exactly what he was doing, and fuck, he realized frantically, he’d probably get
arrested for this. He wondered wildly if his financial aid could be revoked
for something of this nature, if graduate schools could kick students out for—
The flashlight lowered
a fraction and the new arrival stepped forward from the overgrown yard into the
faltering illumination of the porch light. He lifted a skeptical, challenging
gray gaze to Shea’s. “Sorry,” he said casually, but he didn’t sound sorry at
all and his defiant eyes held no apology. “Asshole teenagers come by here
sometimes in the summer to drink and fuck.” He spun the flashlight around in
his hand, a fluid and absent movement, then gestured to himself with it. “Jamie.”
“Oh,” Shea replied
uncertainly, and tried not to stare at strong shoulders, capable hands, at the mocking
set of the man’s mouth or the soft dark hair that framed the sharp and delicate
features of his pale face. Handsome , he thought irrationally, and
immediately chided himself for the thought. This couldn’t be a less appropriate time to think of something like that. “Do you—do you own this
place?” His heart pounded beyond his ability to calm it, but he breathed
deeply and cast about in his mind for an explanation that might make sense. He
could say he’d gotten lost, maybe, or needed help when he sprained his ankle
and simply stumbled upon the cabin. Something. Anything.
“No. I write here,” Jamie
replied, and then gestured to the bag hanging from his shoulder in response to the
question in Shea’s blue eyes. For the first time, then, Shea identified the
unmistakable lines of a laptop through worn black fabric. With blithe
disregard, Jamie shouldered past him into the kitchen and dumped the laptop bag
on the crooked table. It wobbled perilously under the sudden weight. “I didn’t
think anybody owned this place. Even during hunting season it’s empty.”
For some reasons, the
words felt like an indictment. Shea frowned at the thought of his cherished
old cabin uninhabited for years—but he couldn’t deny the wave of relief that washed
over him at the news, either. “So—so you don’t own this place.” Maybe
there would be no police and no trouble, after all.
“Didn’t I just say
that? Jesus, try to keep up.” At the table, Jamie tugged out a scratched and
battered laptop; a few granola bars and a half-consumed bottle of juice tumbled
out to accompany it. He jammed the plug of the power cord into a dangerously-loose
outlet nearby.
“You…you’re
trespassing, then, aren’t you?” Shea asked. He immediately winced at his
accusatory tone, but worry drew down his brow in consternation. Even though
the cabin wasn’t really his anymore, the place held precious memories.
For just anyone to come in and take possession of the place seemed…wrong
somehow.
Jamie arched an
eyebrow. “Look who’s talking, buttercup,” he answered flippantly, and turned
his attention to the computer as he turned it on. The operating system was so
outdated Shea couldn’t remember the last time he’d used it, and he almost
commented on it before Jamie’s next question silenced the words on his tongue.
“And anyway, since you’re so intent on prying into my business, now it’s my
turn: why’re you here?”
“My dad just died,”
Shea
was this a neighbor? The owner? The police? Panic welled up inside him; he
opened his mouth and then shut it. He should think of something to say, an
explanation, an alias, or—“Shea,” he blurted helplessly and honestly. “Shea Matthews.”
He knew how he must look: wide-eyed younger than his twenty-six years, pale blond
hair curling just slightly under his ears and his face pale with confusion and
fear. He held his hands out, palm-up and open. Best not to look threatening.
Best not to look like he was breaking into a fucking house , which was
exactly what he was doing, and fuck, he realized frantically, he’d probably get
arrested for this. He wondered wildly if his financial aid could be revoked
for something of this nature, if graduate schools could kick students out for—
The flashlight lowered
a fraction and the new arrival stepped forward from the overgrown yard into the
faltering illumination of the porch light. He lifted a skeptical, challenging
gray gaze to Shea’s. “Sorry,” he said casually, but he didn’t sound sorry at
all and his defiant eyes held no apology. “Asshole teenagers come by here
sometimes in the summer to drink and fuck.” He spun the flashlight around in
his hand, a fluid and absent movement, then gestured to himself with it. “Jamie.”
“Oh,” Shea replied
uncertainly, and tried not to stare at strong shoulders, capable hands, at the mocking
set of the man’s mouth or the soft dark hair that framed the sharp and delicate
features of his pale face. Handsome , he thought irrationally, and
immediately chided himself for the thought. This couldn’t be a less appropriate time to think of something like that. “Do you—do you own this
place?” His heart pounded beyond his ability to calm it, but he breathed
deeply and cast about in his mind for an explanation that might make sense. He
could say he’d gotten lost, maybe, or needed help when he sprained his ankle
and simply stumbled upon the cabin. Something. Anything.
“No. I write here,” Jamie
replied, and then gestured to the bag hanging from his shoulder in response to the
question in Shea’s blue eyes. For the first time, then, Shea identified the
unmistakable lines of a laptop through worn black fabric. With blithe
disregard, Jamie shouldered past him into the kitchen and dumped the laptop bag
on the crooked table. It wobbled perilously under the sudden weight. “I didn’t
think anybody owned this place. Even during hunting season it’s empty.”
For some reasons, the
words felt like an indictment. Shea frowned at the thought of his cherished
old cabin uninhabited for years—but he couldn’t deny the wave of relief that washed
over him at the news, either. “So—so you don’t own this place.” Maybe
there would be no police and no trouble, after all.
“Didn’t I just say
that? Jesus, try to keep up.” At the table, Jamie tugged out a scratched and
battered laptop; a few granola bars and a half-consumed bottle of juice tumbled
out to accompany it. He jammed the plug of the power cord into a dangerously-loose
outlet nearby.
“You…you’re
trespassing, then, aren’t you?” Shea asked. He immediately winced at his
accusatory tone, but worry drew down his brow in consternation. Even though
the cabin wasn’t really his anymore, the place held precious memories.
For just anyone to come in and take possession of the place seemed…wrong
somehow.
Jamie arched an
eyebrow. “Look who’s talking, buttercup,” he answered flippantly, and turned
his attention to the computer as he turned it on. The operating system was so
outdated Shea couldn’t remember the last time he’d used it, and he almost
commented on it before Jamie’s next question silenced the words on his tongue.
“And anyway, since you’re so intent on prying into my business, now it’s my
turn: why’re you here?”
“My dad just died,”
Shea
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