Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
“To hunt with,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Right,” I say. Hunting. Michigan. Michigan.
He gently sets what I can only assume is a rifle on the ground next to me.
“Let me.” He slides his hands under the dog. His hands are huge, covering practically my whole stomach as he worms them under my arms. “I’ve got him,” he says.
“I don’t know if it’s a boy,” I say. “I don’t know anything about dogs. I mean, I guess I would’ve been able to tell by looking, but I didn’t think of it. But it’s really common, defaulting to male pronouns to refer to things of indeterminate gender.” Christ, I’m babbling.
He cocks his head at me and walks away. I pick up the strap of the gun gingerly and take off after him, holding it as far away from the trigger as I can. With the luck I’m having today, I’d trip and end up shooting the man. Or myself. Or, shit, probably the dog.
“HAND ME the scissors,” the man says. I’m petting the dog’s head and surreptitiously trying not to look at the poor thing’s leg, which the man has determined is, indeed, broken. His house was only about a ten-minute walk from the road.
I hand him the scissors and examine his face in the light of the lamp. I tell myself it’s just because I’d rather look anywhere but at the dog’s leg. He has a really good face, though. Strong, high cheekbones and a straight nose; straight, dark eyebrows, one with a white scar bisecting it, and dark brown hair that waves slightly. His eyes are lighter than I thought in the woods: a kind of whiskey brown that looks almost gold in the light. Maybe one is a little narrower than the other, but he hasn’t made eye contact with me long enough for me to be sure. His mouth is set in a grim line of concentration while he works, but it’s soft and generous. He hasn’t smiled yet, but he probably has a nice one.
He stripped off his outer layer of flannel as he laid the dog down on the kitchen table. It was a bulky, quilted jacket, but even without it, he’s huge, his shoulders and the muscles of his arms tightening his blue and gray flannel shirt. He rolled up the sleeves to reveal a white waffle-knit shirt that’s too short in the sleeves, exposing thick wrists and powerful forearms. His huge hands are gentle on the dog’s fur and I can’t help but imagine what they’d feel like on my skin. What it would be like to be held in those hands, to be enveloped. My hand tightens in the dog’s fur and I force myself to relax as it makes a sound.
“She’s a girl, by the way.” His voice startles me and I meet his eyes, praying that he can’t read what I’ve been thinking about on my face. The last thing I need is for tomorrow’s local paper—if they even have a paper in this town—to carry a story that reads, “Out of town gay man found beaten to death in cabin of unfairly handsome local straight bruiser. Police assume queer panic ensued after out of town gay made a pass at straight bruiser.”
“Huh?” I say. He swallows, like he isn’t used to talking.
“The dog. You were right, she isn’t a boy.” He pats the dog gently and scoops her up, depositing her in a nest of blankets in front of the fireplace.
“Oh,” I say. “Great.” I stand and follow him. I realize I’m nodding compulsively and force myself to stop. He touches a long match to the newspaper and kindling below the logs in the grate.
“Is she going to be okay, do you think?” The fire consumes the paper and there’s a delicious, earthy smell as the bark on the logs starts to crackle. With the fire lit, he turns toward me.
“I think so. If she can stay off this leg tonight, I’ll take her into town tomorrow. Have the vet check her out for any internal injuries.”
I’m suddenly so relieved that I go a little woozy. I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t hurt the poor dog beyond repair. I’m not a total fuckup.
“Whoa,” he says. In one step, he’s there, grabbing me by both shoulders to keep me upright. My vision is a little blurry and I blink up at him. God, he’s handsome. His brows are furrowed with worry, his eyes narrowed.
“Sorry,” he says, looking down. “I should’ve made sure you weren’t hurt.”
“No, I’m okay,” I say, stepping out from under his hands.
“You were in a car accident. Come here.” He steps behind me and puts his hands back on my shoulders, guiding me to the bathroom. When he flips the switch, I wince at the harsh light after being so long in the dark. In the mirror, I can see why he’s concerned. My black hair is messy and there’s a smear of blood on my cheek from the dog. A bruise is already coming out on my forehead, though I don’t even remember hitting my head. I blink at my reflection. My pupils are huge, even in the bright light, leaving only a thin ring of green around them.