I smile. It’s the first time since moving to Trapper’s Crossing that I’ve made “night-out” effort with my hair and makeup and clothing, choosing a pair of tight blue jeans, my black leather riding boots, and a flattering yellow-and-black checkered button-down over our new branded, form-fitting T-shirts—an outfit that in my opinion says “Alaskan chili cook-off,” but with style.
“So do you.” I drag my fingernails—that I spent an hour filing and painting after scraping out garden soil despite wearing gloves—through his freshly groomed beard.
It’s been a week since our trip to the safety cabin and the pregnancy scare and, much to my relief, things between us feel right again. More than right, actually. We’ve been all over each other—the touches frequent, the kisses lingering, the showers long enough to empty the water heater. It’s as if we’re both wordlessly trying to reassure each other and ourselves that all is okay. Or maybe that sharp slap of reality—two, if I count the engine-failure scare—has brought us even closer.
Either way, we feel perfect again.
Though, there’s been no hint of an impending proposal or mention of marriage. When I went to sneak another peek at the ring, it was no longer in his jacket. I’ve had to bite my tongue more than once before I let on that I’ve seen it.
I hadn’t given serious thought to marriage before that day, and now I catch myself peering down at my naked left finger and wishing things had played out differently. But I keep telling myself that he’ll ask when the time is right.
Jonah slides a warm hand over my thigh and leans in closer, his mouth finding the crook of my neck. “You wanna skip this and go test out that overpriced hot tub? It should be warm.”
“Funny how you’re suddenly so interested in it,” I whisper, reaching over to cut the engine and snag the keys. The installers left around four, after maneuvering the deluxe unit onto the porch to set it up, fill it, and test it. “The sooner we go in, the sooner we can leave.” I hop out of the truck, pausing to smooth a finger over the new Yeti vinyl decal I affixed to the door.
An annoying buzz catches my ear. “Hurry up! The bugs are out!” It’s like the mosquitos and black flies all woke up one morning. I stepped outside and got swarmed. Since then, I’ve had to wear a bug-net jacket or bug spray if I want to venture beyond the screened-in porch, and even then, they hover.
Toby promised they’ll ease off a bit later in the season. Until then, I’m trying to not let them get to me, but I’ve caught myself hiding indoors and praying for a scorching heat wave or some sort of blight to come and kill them all.
Jonah takes his time easing out of the truck, much to my annoyance. “Told you to wear bug spray.”
“I don’t want to smell like that on a night out!”
“What do you think everyone in there smells like?” He pulls me into his side as two men step out the front door. Loud, boisterous voices, a lull of old rock music, and the pungent scent of simmering meat and spices carries out in the space between them.
I scrunch my nose and quietly admit, “I don’t actually like chili.”
* * *
Within minutes of us settling onto the last two vacant stools at the bar, Muriel marches over, shimmying to fit her broad hips between the tables. “Well, don’t you look cute tonight, Calla,” she exclaims, in a tone that could be a compliment but also might not be. It’s hard for me to re
ad this woman. “Maybe we should stick you behind the bar, instead of that face.” She juts her chin toward Toby who’s busy pouring a pint from the tap.
“We’d definitely sell more.” Toby casts a friendly wink my way. I can’t get over how much younger—and more like Muriel—he looks without facial hair. I saw him this morning when he came to work on Archie in the hangar, and he still had his beard then. He shaves it off for this weekend every year, he explained, when I first saw him tonight and gawked at his baby face.
“Jonah, have you met Jack Thomas yet?” Muriel asks by way of greeting.
“Can’t say I have,” Jonah says slowly.
She points out a man with a mop of unkempt gray hair and a thick, untrimmed mustache sitting at a nearby table with two other men. “You should go and talk to him. I think you two will get along well.”
“And why is that?” That faint amused look lingers on Jonah’s face. He’s probably wondering what I am—how would Muriel know who Jonah might get along with? She’s had three brief conversations with him since they met. She doesn’t know Jonah at all.
“’Cause he’s lookin’ for a pilot!” she says matter-of-factly, and perhaps a touch annoyed. “He owns Big Game Alaska. The one Toby was tellin’ you about the other day.”
“Right.” Jonah’s gaze flickers to me.
This must be that hunting outfit that wants him to fly for them in the fall.
“Well then, go on and say hello!” she urges, and I can’t help but smirk, relieved that for once, I’m not the target of her doggedness.
As hardheaded as Jonah can be, I’ve noticed he always shows the utmost patience and respect to the Agneses, the Ethels, and apparently the Muriels of the world. So I’m not shocked when he murmurs, “Yes, ma’am,” and hops off the stool. The hand he had settled on my thigh earlier slips around my waist, his thumb stroking my side. I’ve felt his constant touch since we strolled through the door and into a boisterous, crowded room of about fifty, and I’m beginning to think it has less to do with affection and more to do with the attention I seem to be corralling.
I’ve felt the looks—in this casual sea of flannel and jeans and angler- and hunter-branded baseball caps, I stick out. Some glances are merely curious. Others are leering.
And Jonah seems intent on marking his territory.
“You good here?” he leans in to kiss my lips.