Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Someone went to a lot of trouble to build this place. How did they get all those concrete blocks here for the long walkway to the outhouse? Who is all the food for?
This place has primitive-looking wood floors, but I’m almost positive the large rug beneath the bed with a large butterfly on it is an Alexander McQueen. Those rugs have five and six-figure price tags, which I only know because my boss whispered it to me when we saw one in the Kiss My Sass CEO’s office.
And then there’s the bathtub with no plumbing. Not that plumbing is possible in a place that gets this cold. I’d love to take a bath, but the only way I can see to use the tub is to melt or thaw snow and fill it one bowl or bucket at a time.
Right now, between my ankle and the serotonin withdrawal, I could manage to put maybe half an inch of cold water in it.
Being rescued seems like too much to hope for, but I daydream about it constantly. The thought of a helicopter landing in front of the cabin and whisking us the hell out of here would feel like winning the lottery would have felt pre–plane crash.
My standards have already shifted so much. I cringe to think of all the times I lamented returning to work on Monday morning after a great weekend. Poor Trin, drinking a hot Starbucks in a nice warm office, freshly showered and able to call anyone at any time. A hot ham and cheese from the deli near my office would change my life right now. How many of those sandwiches did I mindlessly scarf?
Lincoln has been keeping a fire going night and day, getting up every couple of hours even when he’s sleeping. It’s still cold in the cabin, but I stay bundled up or under the covers. He makes sure I have plenty of water and never complains about carrying me to the bathroom.
Like the cabin, he’s a mystery. He goes out of his way to take care of me and I know he’s a nice guy, but he’s also easily irritated. Every time he gets in on the other side of the bed to sleep, he stays on his side and keeps his back to me.
Sometimes I wish he’d turn over and face me. Pull me into his arms. I don’t know if it’s my anxiety seeking comfort or if it’s a genuine attraction I’m feeling for him. Either way, his hard chest and strong arms tempt me day and night.
I limp over to the record player and pull out a record. It’s a Frank Sinatra, which makes me smile. My grandpa loved him. We used to dance to Sinatra music in his kitchen when Dalton and I spent time at our grandparents’ house during the summer.
It doesn’t take long for me to figure out the record player and drop the needle onto the record. When I hear the first notes of “Blue Skies,” tears fill my eyes. I can practically hear my grandpa’s laugh and smell the breakfast pancakes cooking.
Suddenly I don’t feel so alone. The headache and nausea are still there, but now they aren’t the only thing I have to focus on. I slowly make my way back to the bed, force down another sip of water, and lie down on my back, hoping the soothing sound of Frank Sinatra’s voice might ease my headache.
I wake up with a gasp, my heart pounding in response to my recurring dream I’m drowning. I’m in the cabin and it’s completely dark.
“Lincoln?” I croak, my throat dry.
When he doesn’t respond, I get out of bed and limp over to the lamp, fumbling for the switch. Dim light fills the room and my gaze goes to the fireplace. The fire is completely out.
Lincoln hasn’t returned. Anxious dread freezes me in place for a few seconds. I still haven’t shaken the effects of the dream and it’s ice cold inside the cabin, wind whipping against the outside walls and windows.
I walk over to the fireplace and get the fire going again, then close and latch the wood shutters for both windows.
Why didn’t I push harder for him to stay here or to go with him? He might be freezing to death in the snow right now, lost.
Before he left, he told me to drink plenty of water. I told him yelling and acting big come naturally to him. I cringe as I realize how ungrateful I must seem to him when the truth is I wouldn’t be alive without him.
Sarcasm is a defense mechanism for me, but he doesn’t know that. He probably thinks I’m just a cranky bitch.
That makes me laugh for some reason. My coworker and best friend, Genevieve, always says we’re cranky bitches. She’d say I’m entitled to be cranky right now, but Lincoln is staying mentally tough and I wish I could do the same. I want to be an asset to him, not a liability.