Mmm…cinnamon
bread on a cherry red bike, rain bouncing all
around like a five-year- old on a trampoline.
I roll onto my side, blanket clutched up to
my chin. “Move it, buddy,” my tummy
rumbles. My long-beleaguered brain grumbles a
half-hearted “don’t listen,”
but hunger forces me awake.
The
spicy-sweet smell of cinnamon floats in the
air and it occurs to me that someone must be
cooking. The image of a certain biker comes
to mind, and all the events associated with
him. Ugh. Wait—Berk’s cooking?
I snap
open my eyes at this realization and suddenly
I don’t care anymore. My head aches and
my eyes burn something awful from sleeping
with my contacts in. I drag myself from bed,
fully clothed with grungy white socks twisted
uncomfortably around my feet.
As I
walk into the hall I’m half certain my
ears are deceiving me. Berk’s singing?
The
faint words of The Beatles “She Loves
You” waft up the stairs. Maybe it’s
the radio, I remind myself while shuffling
into the bathroom, but the warbling chorus of
“yeah, yeah, yeah,” assures me
it’s not. Yikes.
I reach
the medicine cabinet and find my glasses
case, as well as a bottle of eye drops. With
a little struggle, and half the bottle later,
I manage to pull my contacts out. I perch my
glasses on my nose and view the monster in
the mirror.
If
anything, I look worse than Berk’s
singing. I have severe bed head; my usually
sleek ponytail is sprouting golden twigs in
every direction. My eyes are red and puffy.
Then there’s that line of drool crusted
over the dark gold stubble on my chin. Gross.
I was planning to just wash my face, but
maybe I’ll take a shower instead.
I turn
the water on, letting it heat before I strip.
After yesterday’s strange events I
figure I’ll take a break from hauling
wood and any of the heavier chores that fall
on my shoulders as sole occupant and
caretaker of the Inn. Especially since a
glance out the window tells me the sun is
still hidden behind grey storm clouds.
I’m not a slouch by any means, but
working in the freezing rain is my idea of a
very bad time.
I step
into the hot water and lean back into the
spray. Ahh. Hot water could cure a lot of the
ills in the world, to my way of thinking.
As I
soap up my mind is stuck on The Beatles.
I’m a huge fan—I’ve known all
their songs by heart since early
childhood—and I want to get that
horrible rendition of “She Loves
You” out of my head. I belt out the
first song that comes to me. “Yesterday
all my troubles seemed so far
away…Yesterday…”
I
don’t hear the door to the bathroom
open, or realize Berk’s in the room
until his sonorous voice interrupts,
“Hey,
Hani, are you coming down for breakfast or
should I set some aside for later?” I
jump, hitting my funny bone on the shelf, and
consequently dropping the bar of soap and
knocking the shampoo bottle onto the floor of
the shower in a series of noises that sound
something like: whack, smack, bang, plop,
shit!
“Whoa,
dude, you all right?” I scramble to pick
up the soap and shampoo, unable to believe
that he’s just beyond the shower
curtain. If he frightens me this much every
time he occupies the same room as me,
I’m going to die by evening.
“What
are you doing in here?” I squeak,
struggling to keep my breathing under
control. There’s no inhaler in here.
“I
tried to get your attention from the other
side of the door, but you
were…preoccupied.” There’s a
smile in his voice.
“Oh.
I, well…” I trail off, blushing
while sitting on the floor of the shower, bar
of soap in one hand, shampoo bottle in the
other, and the spray beating down on my head.
“You’re
lucky—I mangle whatever I sing.” I
can’t help my snort. No kidding.
“I
heard,” I tell him. He laughs, a low,
mellow sound.
“I
apologize profusely.” The ancient
floorboards creak as he shifts his weight.
“So, can I expect to feed you? You were
out of it since midmorning yesterday, so you
could probably use some nourishment.”
“Um,
yeah. Thanks.”
“No
problem.” The bathroom door shuts on his
retreating footsteps. I sigh in relief. He
has either forgotten my parting words
yesterday, or is graciously ignoring my, ah,
faux pas.
Ten
minutes later I follow my nose into the
kitchen, a place I, as an independent
European-born bachelor, avoid like American
football. My wet hair hangs loose to my
shoulders and I’m wearing the my most
comfortable clothes; old plain white t shirt,
plaid flannel pants, a worn in pair of
leather slippers, and a much-battered pair of
wire frame glasses. No pockets, which means
no inhaler. I refuse to have another attack
today, hot biker or no. I need to keep what
scraps of dignity I have left intact, or
that’s what I’m trying to tell
myself.
“Morning,
Hani. Have a seat.” Berk smiles
cheerfully at me and waves the spatula in his
hand in the direction of the kitchen table,
but my eyes are caught by his attire. Over a
sensible outfit of sneakers, worn-in
jeans—ooh, nice fit—and
long-sleeved green shirt he’s wearing a
frilly pink thing—I won’t grace it
with the name “apron.” The words
“Kiss the cook” swoop in bold red
letters across the chest.
“Where
in Martha Stewart hell did you find
that?” I ask instead, pointing at his
chest with a quirk of my mouth. Berk grins.
“I
carry it with me wherever I go,” He
tells me, eyes wide and sincere. I gape at
him and he chuckles. “No, dude, I found
it in the hall closet.” He plucks at a
frill. “I take it this doesn’t
belong to you?”
I shake
my head with a smile. “Not a chance.
I’ve been surviving off of cold cereal
for weeks.” His grin widens and I start
to see slightly cross-eyed.
“Then
sit down and enjoy the wonders of cooked
food, man. I’ll be just a sec with the
coffee.” I take the offered seat at the
kitchen table and turn my attention to the
food.
Fluffy
blueberry pancakes sit on a platter directly
in front of me, fresh off the stove if the
steam coming from them is any indication. A
second platter is piled high with cinnamon-
swirled bread, cut thick and buttered. A
pitcher of orange juice sits next to a juicer
and a basket of oranges. A smaller pitcher
holds thick maple syrup. A glass serving dish
is covered in slices of cantaloupe and
honeydew melon. In the center of it all there
is a small butter dish, warmed to room
temperature. I didn’t even know the Inn
even had all this stuff.
“Wow.”
That’s all I can say.
“Just—wow.”
“Thanks.”
Berk swings into view—minus the frilly
thing—with a pot of coffee and two mugs.
He smiles at me and my stomach flip-flops
painfully. “Coffee?” He sets one
mug in front of me and makes to pour, but I
put my hand over the cup.
“No
thanks.” I’m naturally hyperactive,
so caffeine puts me right to sleep. Berk
shrugs and pours himself a cup, taking the
seat opposite mine. A dark curl falls into
his face and he brushes it back, eyes fixed
on me. I quickly look away.
“Are
you a chef?” I query as I snatch a
couple of pancakes, flopping them onto my
plate before they burn my fingers.
“Naw,
it’s just a hobby. I’m a designer
for Paradigm bikes.” Oh, more wow:
he’s perfect.
“So
you designed your bike?” I ask.
“Yeah,
this is its maiden voyage. If I like
it—which I do—it’ll be on sale
next year. Maybe you’ll want one.”
He says it kindly with a hint of a smile, but
I blush anyway. “So, what do you
do?”
“I’m
a professional flautist.” He looks
confused, so I explain. “I play the
flute.”
Enlightenment
dawns. “Oh.” Puzzlement returns.
“So—”
“Why
aren’t I in an orchestra?” I finish
with a wry smile and he nods agreement,
taking a sip of his black coffee. “Have
you ever heard of Green Song?” Green
Song is a folk band known for its earthy
instrumentation and duets. Berk nods his
recognition.
“I
borrowed a few CDs off a friend once. I like
their stuff.”
“Nice
to meet a fan.” Berk blinks. I point to
myself with a forkful of syrup-soaked
pancake. “I’m the flute.” His
chocolate eyes light up.
“No
kidding. Can I get your autograph?”
“It’s
probably not worth much, you know,” I
inform him. Berk flashes his teeth at me.
“Maybe
if your number’s on it.”
“I,
ah…” I stuff another bite of
pancake into my mouth before I say something
stupid. He holds up a placating hand.
“I’m
kidding, dude, no worries.” Shucks. He
leans forward over his cup of coffee.
“So
why are you out here?”
“The
band’s taking a year-long break and my
uncle needed a winter caretaker. I
volunteered.” Berk raises an eyebrow in
surprise.
“You’re
here alone all winter?” I let out a dry
chuckle.
“I
actually like the quiet; I’m a regular
hermit.” Berk smiles and glances down at
his plate, thoughtfully poking at his toast
with his fork.
“How
much for a room for the week?” I almost
choke.
“A
full week? Single bed?” He nods,
watching me with sharp eyes. A little too
sharp. I refocus my eyes on my plate.
I tuck
my hair behind my ears as I try to think.
Beautiful guy staying in the same building as
me for a week. Okay, think beyond that. No,
not that! Okay, okay. My brain resumes
functioning. And, according to my stomach, I
have a brilliant idea…
“How
‘bout you cook, and you can stay for
free?” Berk’s sunny grin returns
full blast and he holds his right hand out.
“You’ve
got a deal.” I shake the offered hand.
He tactfully doesn’t comment on my
sweaty palm.
“So
what do you do for entertainment around
here?” Well, there’s you…and I
will never say that out loud. I list off my
fingers, one by one.
“Um,
hiking and biking, bouldering, skiing once it
snows, snowshoeing, lots of chores,
reading—there’s a library off the
dining room and there’s no TV, hot tub,
I play the flute…” I trail off.
“Got
any board games?”
“Sure,
chess, Monopoly, Chinese checkers, Scrabble,
the usual collection.”
“How
‘bout a game of Scrabble this
afternoon?” Sexy and smart, who
would’ve thought?
“Sounds
good, but I’m warning you: I’ve
never lost a game.” No
lie—I’ve won the local Scrabble
tournament four years running.
He
grins wolfishly. “Prepare to lose,
blondie.” Oh-ho, a challenge. This
should be fun.
I grin
back. “Blondie? I can sing, but I
don’t think I quite fit the
description.”
“Well,
she is a girl.”
“No
problem there,” I tease. He doesn’t
flush from toe to crown like I do, but his
ears blaze. He quickly drops his eyes. Score
one—finally—for the home team.
I
finish off my orange juice, using my tongue
to wipe off the pulp that catches on my upper
lip. A scraping noise makes me look up. Berk
is standing, plate in hand, watching me with
the strangest expression, brown eyes glassy
like he’s dazed. But then it’s gone
and he’s gathering dishes and moving to
the sink.
I
stand, grabbing my own plate. I clear the
table while Berk fills the sink with
dishwater. The unused Tupperware stored in
the fridge fills with leftovers until I
finally have nothing left to do but offer to
dry dishes. I tuck my hair behind my ears and
grab the dishcloth from the sink. I begin to
dry dishes and stack them, standing as close
to Berk as I dare. I glance up at him, and I
notice that his sparkling chocolate brown
eyes have lost some of their luster. I have a
sudden hunch that he stayed up last night
playing nursemaid. I narrow my eyes at him.
“How much sleep did you get last
night?”
Berk
turns to me and shrugs. “Enough to keep
me going. I’m more worried about
you.”
“I’m
fine.”
“I’d
believe you, but your eyes are
bloodshot—”
“The
result of sleeping with contacts in.”
“You
came in and collapsed yesterday for no
reason.”
“You
have that effect on people.” Shit. Did
that just come out of my mouth? A smile tugs
at the corners of his mouth. And once again
my face is a vibrant shade of red. Score back
to zero. Dammit. “What I mean is, I
thought you were angry with me. I-I panic
when—” I stutter to a halt.
He
leans forward just a little, prompting,
“When what?”
I
hesitate. I don’t know him. Why should I
tell him anything? But then again, if it will
prevent another, ahem, ‘episode,’
it couldn’t hurt. “I have panic
attacks when people laugh at
me—maliciously, not in good humor. When
you laughed, that set it off.”
“Oh.”
His brow creases in thought. Shit, I scared
him. Stupid, Hani, stupid.
“I
know you didn’t mean any—” I
start. Berk pulls the dishcloth from my
hands.
“Why
don’t you go back to bed? I’ll take
care of the dishes.”
“But—”
“Go
get some more sleep.” I would argue, but
it’s obvious this is his way of
apologizing. I nod and retreat to the kitchen
door. But I’m not done—I do owe him
one. I turn back, a hand on the lintel.
“Hey.”
Berk looks up, lips slightly parted as though
about to speak. “You get some sleep,
too. The rooms don’t have locks, so take
any room you want. Thanks for breakfast
and— and yesterday.”
I’m
out the door and en route to my room before
he can respond.
© 2006
Lullena
