Raiden lets go of the man’s hand and laughs. “I’m not into that type of troublemaking anymore, Bob.”
Holy hell. A full sentence! With long words! I try to pick up my jaw from the floor.
Raiden glances back at me and frowns as he notices me watching him. He leans closer to Bob and now I can’t hear a word they’re saying. Bob chuckles and glances around Raiden’s broad shoulders at me, then nods.
Raiden gets up and disappears into the store and I want to follow, but Bob glares me down.
“You stay put, Missy. He’s a good boy when he isn’t knee-deep in trouble, which is most of the time. Well, as a kid, that was. I bet the type of trouble he gets into now is of a whole different flavor.” Bob chuckles at his own joke. “He’ll be back in a minute, and you’ll be all cared for.”
All cared for? I sour up even more as I yank open my car door and sink back into my seat with a groan. The only care Raiden Logan has for me is to see my ass onto a plane with a smile and a wave.
It doesn’t take long for Raiden to raid the store and before I can even get comfortable behind the wheel, he’s back with his groceries. He hands one bag over to Bob. He knocks on my hood to indicate that we should drive on. Since I have nowhere else to go, I’ll have to take my chances here and follow him.
Back on the main road, we continue for about half a mile past more colonial style shops, the sidewalks decorated with flowerboxes in full bloom and colorful hanging baskets on the streetlamps spilling over with petunias and begonias.
I blink and it’s over. We’ve driven through Ashleigh Lake and as the clapboard New England houses drift further and further apart, I realize I haven’t had enough. I wanted to walk the sidewalks to explore and peek into the stores and buy things I don’t need. We cross another bridge and then the road is hugged tight by forest again and I get a nagging feeling that right now, I could follow Raiden Logan anywhere and no-one would know where I was. Murder is one way of getting rid of an unwanted intern, and I suspect he wouldn’t have any trouble getting rid of a body.
A gap in the forest opens and Raiden turns at a small sign that says Brodie Organic Dairy. We’re only ten minutes out of town and the tension inside me eases. It’s a doable jog to a crowded space, should it ever come to that.
The dirt road turns, and the forest splits open to rolling hills, some covered with pines and maples, some with the greenest summer grass that slopes into meadows. Beyond, there’s the lake that shimmers deep blue and silver in the summer sun.
To the right is an old farmhouse with a wide porch almost overgrown with ferns and flowers that make wild splashes of color against the white clapboard. Idyllic isn’t even the word when it comes to this place. It’s joy and love and warmth and everything a modern new-build can never have. It’s pure charm that comes with age and growing old with grace and dignity in the hands of those that love and care for you.
Raiden drives past the farmhouse and I shoot it a last longing look. The dirt road curves down toward the lake, where a jetty and a dilapidated boathouse next to it hide between a cluster of trees. When we pull up beside it on a patch of ill-kept gravel, Raiden looks at me through his window and doesn’t try to hide his bone-weary sigh.
You and me both, buddy, you and me both.
This is it? I can’t fault the location, but when I pictured my six-week stay in Vermont, it was more in line with a studio apartment in Ashleigh Lake. I’d go so far as to say a vacation rental would have been acceptable. But this…this is the type of thing my mom would nowadays call wrecking-ball ready.
I clamber out of the car as Raiden does the same with his bag of groceries in hand. No words, only a hitch of his eyebrows at me.
The staring contest continues as I pop the hatchback’s trunk with my remote and we don’t break our mutual glare as it eases open. He keeps staring at me as I round my car to the trunk, but before I can get there, he has my laptop bag hooked over his shoulder and my suitcase in hand as if they weigh nothing and closes the trunk with a final click.
Most annoying man ever. Long legs and fast. I’m going to have to up my game.
Raiden walks off, and I have no choice but to follow to the side of the boathouse, where he manages to hold open the faded red front door.
“Home, you are. Welcome.”
Or not.
For a moment I hesitate, then I step inside. It could have been borderline acceptable if it wasn’t clear that someone’s already living here. That someone, I suspect, in the deep dark pit of my twisted, knotted guts, is Raiden Logan, Ashleigh Lake’s troublemaker and big little shit.
Through the dimmer light of the interior, the signs are all there. Dishes are air-drying next to the sink in a kitchen that’s so small, nuked ramen noodles are about all you could get away with here. Frying an egg would be pushing the limits. A counter with two barstools separates it from the living room, which is little more than a loveseat and wingback threesome that’s way too intimate for me. Through an open vinyl accordion door, a toilet stares back at me and I close my eyes, refusing to take in the doors flanking the lavatory that lead to two bedrooms.
Behind me, I hear Raiden put the groceries on the counter. I turn, desperate to get out, but I collide with a chest that blocks my escape. It’s hard and solid and I push back with my palms and trip.
“There now—” Raiden’s hand is on my elbow, steadying me.
I find my feet and he lets go, steps sideways, and scoots past me, unperturbed. His presence fills the tiny space, and with him so close and his heat stamped on my body, his scent envelops me. Laundry soap. Pine needles. Man, and lots of it.
Blood zings in my ears and I bite down on my lip as I watch his back disappear into one of the rooms with my suitcase and laptop bag.
“One night only, princess. You can do it,” he calls from the room and when he appears in the doorway, I open and close my mouth, dumbstruck.
“It’s a shack,” I finally manage.
“Man cave.” He circles the kitchen counter, bends down to what is probably a fridge underneath it, and plucks two beers from it. He holds one out for me, but I’m too flustered to take it, so he puts it on the counter and slips a bottle of chilled pinot grigio out of the grocery bag. “More your thing?”