“You’re right.” I study the draft listing on the Airbnb site. I’ve been working on it for weeks. “Still … maybe I should mention it?” But what would I say? Warning: Coffin-sized bathroom? I sigh. “Do you really think they’ll be comfortable over there? Because they can stay here. I know your mom insisted, but it doesn’t sound as if Björn—”
“Fuck Björn!” The tap shuts off with a dull thud. A moment later, Jonah emerges, scowling. “It’s perfect, Calla. It’s got a toilet, a sink, and a shower. What the hell else does he need? Nothing. He just wants to find things to bitch about. That’s what he does. Complains about everything. I warned you he would, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
The mattress sinks beneath Jonah’s weight as he slides into his side of our bed. “Don’t let him get inside your head. You’ve worked your ass off to get that place ready in time for them. Look at this.” He scrolls through the pictures I took of the cabin yesterday with Simon’s trusty Canon. “It’s gonna be the nicest rental within a hundred miles of Trapper’s Crossing.”
“It is nice.”
Jonah sinks back into his pillow. “The least the dickhead could do is be respectful.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, you need to ease up, Jonah, or these two weeks are going to feel twice as long and nobody will enjoy themselves. Especially not your mother.”
“Yeah, I know. He just pushes my buttons so easily.”
“Still. You need to bite your tongue.”
“When have I ever been able to do that?”
“Never.” I love that about Jonah. Usually.
He smiles, but it falls off quickly. “He refused to let me pick them up in the plane, but then he complained the entire way here.”
“About what?”
“About everything. The two-hour drive, the music on the radio, the Jeep being too bumpy and cramped and not good in the snow. Which I agree with—”
I groan. “Don’t start this again.”
“I’m worried about you going off the road.”
I shake my head. One snowfall in October and Jonah decided he didn’t like the way my Jeep Wrangler—a birthday gift from him—handles the slippery terrain. “There’s nothing wrong with my Jeep. It’s literally designed for handling bad roads.”
“Fine. I’m worried about you handling the bad roads, okay?”
My mouth drops open. The truth comes out. “I’m a good driver!”
“You drive too fast.”
“I do not! And that is so rich, coming from you.”
“Oh yeah?” He smirks. “How many winters have you driven in?”
“That’s not the point.” Neither is the fact that I backed into a moose on my driving test, and if he brings that up right now,
I will scream.
“If I were flying a plane recklessly, you wouldn’t want me up there anymore.”
“Uh, you crashed two planes,” I remind him dryly. “Have I told you to stop flying?”
“That wasn’t my—”
“Ah!” I raise a pointed finger at him.
His lips twist as he searches for a suitable retort that he can’t make because one of those crashes was his fault. He wasn’t being smart.
I school my tone, because we’re about to end up in a shouting match. “It’s my Jeep. I love my Jeep. I’m not selling it, and I’m not driving ten miles an hour. If you don’t want to drive it, buy yourself a nice, new, reliable truck. We have the money.”