Forever Wild Page 5

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.” Jonah’s right. Roy is as temperamental as a wild animal. Whatever trust I’ve earned has disintegrated. An ache swells in my chest with that knowledge.

  “Nah.” She waves my concern away as if it’s a mild inconvenience. “Don’t be too bothered by his little tantrum. What Roy wants and what he says he wants are usually two different things.”

  “Still.”

  Muriel’s lips twist in thought. “Did you get her information?”

  I hesitate. “Maybe.”

  That knowing smile forms. “I don’t need to tell you what I’d do if I had her number.”

  “I know.” She’d be on the phone within the next five minutes, informing Roy’s daughter that Roy is a horse’s ass, but she should fly up here right away to meet him, anyway. There’s no way I’m giving Delyla’s number to Muriel. “Let’s stick with those wool socks you made him. No need to give Roy another heartache for Christmas.” Some say Muriel was at the root of his first one, years ago.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t say a word to him about it. We still got that truce, after all, and I don’t need a reason to shoot him over the holidays.” She turns to head back to the hall, but then stalls. “You know, me and that old badger go back decades, through all kinds of hardships. And, sure, we’ve had our disagreements. But I ain’t ever seen him as happy as he’s been since you’ve been around. That says somethin’.”

  I snort. “You call that happy?” She heard Roy yelling at me. Hell, everyone in the hall must have heard it.

  “Oh, don’t buy none of what he’s tryin’ to sell you. He pretends to enjoy his solitude, but that’s all that is. Pretending, by a chickenshit who’s too afraid to admit that he cares.”

  A mental image of Roy, sitting in his quiet little cabin alone on Christmas night, hits me. A lump flares in my throat. “I think that makes me even sadder.”

  “Yeah. For a man who doesn’t like pity, he sure draws a lot of it. But enough about Roy for the time being.” Muriel checks her watch. “It’s after four. Suppose we should dig out those costumes. And I need your help figurin’ out what to do with Jessie Winslow’s gingerbread house for the silent auction.”

  I fall in line next to her and, while her legs are far shorter than mine, I need to hustle to keep up. “What’s wrong with Jessie’s gingerbread house?”

  Muriel gives me a look. “I think it’s what you people call a ‘Pinterest fail.’”

  Chapter Five

  Our log home in the woods is a welcome sight when I push through the front door that night. I inhale the medley of comforting scents—the burning wood in the fireplace, fresh evergreen boughs I’ve trimmed the tables and thresholds with, and the unexpected fragrant spice of gingerbread.

  The glow from a table lamp and the lit Christmas tree draws me into the living room and instantly soothes my tired body.

  “Hey.” I smile at Jonah stretched out on the couch with a novel in his hand.

  He breaks his gaze on the page to greet me, and a wide grin splits his handsome face. “So, what did you go by? Sugarplum? Candy Cane?”

  I groan. The frumpy elf costume Muriel pulled from a trash bag and instructed me to put on is three sizes too big, torn at the seam, and smells of mothballs. I was too tired to change out of it before heading home.

  “Glitter Toes?”

  “Shut up.”

  He shuts his book. “Frosty it is.”

  “Are Astrid and Björn here … oh my God.” My mouth gapes as I take in the disaster in the dimly lit kitchen. Every square inch of counter has a bowl or pot or utensil—or all three, piled high—on it. The sink is full of dirty dishes. I squint at the splatter of white on the ceiling above the island. “Is that icing?” Our kitchen hasn’t looked like this since the weekend we moved in and assumed the remnants of Phil and his late wife’s thirty-year marriage.

  “Yeah, they’re upstairs, and she said to leave it. She’ll clean everything when she gets up in the morning.”

  I hope so because I spent a week scrubbing and arranging this place. My mom and Simon arrive tomorrow. “All this for gingerbread?”

  “She started making some things for Christmas Eve dinner, too.”

  “Right.” Astrid did say she wanted to celebrate, Norwegian style. Apparently “Norwegian style” means trashing my kitchen.

  I push the mess—and my annoyance—aside and instead focus on the elaborate multitier house displayed on the dining table. “She made this?”

  “Yeah. Crazy, huh? She makes them every year. That one’s actually pretty plain. Some of the ones she’s done in the past, she’s submitted to competitions. She’s won a few of them.”

  “You never told me she was an artist.” I bend over to inspect the gingerbread house that sits atop a gingerbread base, surrounded by star-shaped gingerbread cookies, stacked from largest to smallest to form evergreen trees. Every edge is trimmed with white royal icing swirls and dots, piped with intricate detail. “She did this all in one day?”

  “Nah. She baked the pieces back home. Packed them up really well so they wouldn’t break on the way here.”

  I give him a look.

  Jonah shrugs. “What can I say? She takes her gingerbread houses seriously.”

  “This is incredible. Like, I wish she’d come sooner. We could have auctioned this off tonight and made some real cash.” Instead, Muriel made a twenty-dollar pity bid on Jessie’s disastrous kit house—which she was most certainly drunk while putting together.

  “Did you bid on anything?”

  “Oh. You’ve got to see this.” I retrieve the garden harvest basket from where I left it by the door and carry it over for Jonah.

  He inspects the perfect cuts and skilled craftmanship. “Well made.”

  “That’s because Roy made it.”

  “Roy donated something? What, did Muriel threaten him?”

  I laugh. “I know, right? He said the handle was wonky so he couldn’t sell it. He was going to burn it.”

  Jonah tests the handle and then shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s solid.”

  Just like there was nothing wrong with the moose roast Roy claimed was rancid when he thrust it into my hands, and nothing wrong with the bales of hay he said his goats wouldn’t eat when he dropped them off for Zeke, and nothing wrong with the firewood he chopped and stacked outside the cabin, claiming the logs wouldn’t burn right at his place.

  Jonah sets the garden basket on the floor beside the couch. “So, how was your day?”

  I flop on the couch beside him. “Long. Exhausting. But successful, I guess—Ah!” I squeal as Jonah grabs hold of my ankles and pulls my legs across his lap.

  And then I let out a low groan of delight as he begins rubbing my sore feet.

  “Oh, Marie says hi.”

  “Muriel suckered her into helping out, too?”

  “No. She was just there in the morning to drop off an auction prize. A bunch of pet food and toys. And, hey, I didn’t get suckered into anything. Muriel highlighted how my talents and contributions have proven invaluable to the town, and so I graciously offered my services.”

  Jonah smirks. “What’d she have you do today?”

  “You mean, what didn’t she have me do.” I yank off my elf’s hat and settle my head back against the throw pillow. Jonah’s skilled thumbs work magic on my heels as I describe a day of rooting through dusty storage boxes, climbing a wobbly ladder a dozen times to string lights, and corralling the youngest and most impressionable of Trapper’s Crossing’s children as they scampered to Santa Teddy’s lap to relay urgent, last-minute requests.

  “The kid peed on him?”

  “Two kids peed on him,” I correct. “But this one was the first kid of the night, and he must have had a full bladder.” A chubby-cheeked, three-year-old boy named Thomas who whispered about wanting a train set by the same name while staring at Teddy’s bushy white beard, mesmerized.

  And then he let loose.

  I didn
’t realize what was happening until Teddy, ever the jovial one, peered down at the small puddle forming by his feet.

  “Teddy excused himself and went to the back room to change his pants. They have a spare because apparently, he gets peed on every year.”

  Jonah’s head falls back in a burst of deep laughter.

  “Shhh! You’ll wake them up!” I warn, nudging his thigh with my toes, but I’m giggling, too.

  “Remind me to never agree to do anything like that.”

  “I thought you wanted kids,” I mock.

  “Not to piss on me.”

  “That’s what they do. They pee and vomit on you, and they smear their poop all over the walls like it’s finger paint.” According to Sharon, anyway. I’ve kept in touch with the old receptionist from Alaska Wild over email. She and Max are enjoying their time in Portland with baby Thor, though she says Max is itching to come back.

  “Fine. My kids can do that on me. Other kids can do that on someone else.”

  I smile. Hearing Jonah talk about kids and being a parent doesn’t spark the same tension it used to, back when we were charging headfirst into this relationship without pause. In fact, it no longer fazes me. Sometimes I find myself wondering how many we’ll end up having, what they’ll be, and who they’ll take after more. Will they have my hair? Jonah’s eyes?

  Will Jonah’s son inherit those same adorable dimples that used to hide behind that unruly beard of his?

  His stubbornness?

  His love of flying?

  Jonah catches me staring at him. A curious look flickers across his face. “What?”

  “Nothing.” The truth is, if we had a repeat of this past summer and the pregnancy test turned out positive rather than a scare, I don’t think I’d be so fearful of the idea. At the same time, I’m not ready to share Jonah’s undivided attention just yet. “What happened here? Besides the epic disaster in the kitchen.”

  “Not much. Came home around one, moved them over, we hung out, ate dinner.”

  “No more fighting with Björn?”

  “He had a four-hour nap, woke up in time for my mom to serve him his dinner, and then he went back to bed an hour ago. I barely saw him.” Jonah smirks. “Let’s hope jet lag messes with him until he leaves.”

  Not likely, but a sleepy Björn might make for a more pleasant Christmas under this roof.

  Jonah peels off my sock and wraps his large hands around my foot so I don’t feel the chill. “My mom brought up the wedding. Asked if we’ve thought about a date yet.”

  “Yeah, she mentioned it this morning, too.” “With her health the way it is, I don’t want her flying back and forth for our wedding.”

  I knew that was coming. “What did she say about it?”

  “It doesn’t matter what she says. She’ll still fly, even if she shouldn’t. But I’m not good with it.”

  “I know.” And, as much as Jonah jokes about running off and eloping, I know he would want his mother there. “What do you want to do, then?” I feel like I already know where this conversation is heading, and a tiny, selfish part of me wants to resist.

  Jonah bites his lip in thought, watching me carefully. “I was thinking—”

  “You are not wearing lederhosen,” I blurt.

  He frowns. “What? Why would I wear those?”

  “Are you about to suggest we get married in Oslo?”

  “Fuck. No.” He shakes his head to emphasize that. “I was gonna ask if you’d consider getting married now, while they’re here.”

  I groan. “Not you, too.”

  His frown deepens. “What do you mean?”

  “Toby and I were talking about your mom and her health issues, and he said we should do it now and Teddy could officiate.”

  “Teddy?”

  “Yeah. Apparently, he’s certified to officiate over weddings.”

  Jonah snorts with disbelief, but then his brow furrows in serious thought.

  I know that look taking over his face. It’s one of determination.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  Jonah grasps my calves, drags my body over, and pulls me up to straddle his lap. His arms curl around my body. “Why not?” His blue eyes twinkle with earnestness.

  I laugh. “Because it’s too rushed, and because Diana’s not here, and because … it’s too rushed!” All the obstacles that have cycled through my mind spill out. “I don’t want to just sign a paper and be married! That’s not a memorable day for us!”

  “So, then, we make it memorable.” There’s a hint of challenge in his voice.

  “Oh, come on! In a week? How? Things take forever up here on a regular day, and it’s the Christmas holidays, and there’s a massive winter storm coming that’s probably going to knock out power for days. And, I mean, good luck getting any flowers or a decent dress or a caterer. And what about a honeymoon—”

  “Okay. Whoa. Relax. It was just an idea.” Jonah lifts his hands in the air in a sign of surrender. “I’m not gonna pressure you to marry me.”

  “I am marrying you. Remember?” I wave my hand to show off my diamond ring.

  He sighs, and I can tell something is weighing on him.

  “What is it?”

  “Honestly? You’ve had that ring for four months now. I guess I figured you’d be itching to make some plans, but you don’t seem to be in any rush.” His jaw tenses. “I’m beginning to wonder if you have doubts.”

  “Um … we’ve been kind of busy. Remember, there was that thing about you crashing your plane and almost dying, and then we were renovating the cabin, and I was neck-deep in Winter Carnival planning and getting ready for Christmas.”

  “I know, I just—”

  I collect his face in my palms, forcing his gaze to mine. “I have never been more sure of anything than I am of wanting to marry you,” I say slowly, clearly, to ensure he hears it.

  “Then why does it seem like you keep avoiding making any decisions?” he asks softly, but there’s the slightest touch of something in his voice. Accusation, maybe. Hurt, possibly.

  “I’m not. I …” My voice drifts. Does it really seem like that? If I am avoiding setting a date, it’s not for any doubts I have about Jonah. “Maybe I’m just having a hard time deciding where it should be. I mean, you know my mom is hell-bent on Toronto. And my whole life was back there until this year, and now so much of it is here, but that’s still my past. My family, my friends. None of those people are going to fly all the way here to see me get married.”

  Maybe that’s what I’m having a hard time with. Not sharing one of the biggest days of my life with the people who know me best. “It’s just … I don’t know how I could pull it off in a meaningful way. Believe me, I thought about it.” All afternoon, I dwelled on it, weighing the pros and cons. “And don’t get me started on dealing with my mother.”

  “Susan’s had two weddings of her own,” Jonah says dryly.

  “I know. And I don’t know why I’m putting so much stock into her opinion here.” Other than that she’s my mother and I feel like I’ve already taken something away from her by moving across the continent.

  “You know that none of that stuff—the flowers, the cake, whatever else there is—none of it matters to me.” He scoops my palm and brings it to his mouth for a kiss, his beard tickling my skin. “But I know it matters to you.”

  “We’ll figure something out that works for everyone,” I promise. I just don’t know what that looks like yet.

  Reaching behind, he pulls me forward, flush against his body. “You have to admit, it would have been perfect, though.”

  “How so?”

  “Christmas wedding in Alaska.” He dips his face into the crook of my neck. I close my eyes and revel in his lips against my throat and the feel of him growing hard against the apex of my thighs. “Me, marrying Frosty the Elf with Santa officiating.”

  I snort.

  “You wouldn’t even need a dress when you’ve got this.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m bu
rning this costume in the fireplace tonight. Seriously. And I’m going to round up all the others tomorrow, and burn them, too. I’ll order new ones for next year.”

  “I think it’s cute.” He inhales deeply. And pauses. “Is that you that smells like mothballs?”

  “See? Ugh!” I peel off the felt potato sack and toss it next to the fireplace, leaving me in the red-and-green-striped pants and the black Lycra top I wore underneath.

  Jonah makes a sound, his excited eyes roaming the material that’s stretched across my chest like a second skin. “You still smell.” He tugs on my shirt.

  “Not here!” I hiss, nodding toward the upstairs where Astrid and Björn are tucked away.

  “Why not? They took sleeping pills. They’ll be dead to the world until at least four. Come on, arms up.”

  I hesitate but then reach over to turn off the table lamp, leaving us in darkness save for the white lights on the tree, the fire, and a small over-stove light in the kitchen. I lift my aching arms high above my head, allowing him easy access to strip my shirt off me. Warmth from the fire radiates against my back, but there’s still a chill in the air, made all the more obvious when he unfastens the hook of my bra.

  “Jonah,” I admonish softly, but the mood in the room is shifting quickly, his hands eagerly slipping over my bared chest. Heat courses through my body beneath his skilled touch.

  I don’t utter another word of complaint as I shift and shimmy to help him work off my striped pants.

  “Cute,” he whispers, noting the mistletoe print on my panties before also sliding them off. That we’re not alone in the house seems to goad us into moving swiftly, peeling off his shirt, pushing his sweatpants and boxers down his thighs. His erection stands at attention. “Something’s missing.” He looks around. “Oh, yeah.” Grabbing the elf hat, he positions it on my head. “There. Perfect.”

  My mouth is on his, my tongue teasing the seam of his lips as he reaches down between us to grip and line himself up, when the bottom step creaks.