Trapped With My Teacher

I ignore that and keep my face expressionless, my attention focused on the task at hand. I don’t have time to be distracted by anyone right now, much less him. I need to make sure we’re prepared in case this storm gets as bad as the radio claims it will.

Once we’ve brought in enough wood to last us at least three days, just in case it’s a really thick blizzard—it’ll take the snowplows a while to make it this far up into the mountains—I fix the tarp over the remaining wood and head back into the house to assess the rest of the cabin.

For his part, Professor Lakewood just leans back against the gas stove and watches me move around the cabin.

Right. So there’s a tiny little living room with a small couch—not big enough for anyone to sleep on unless they curl up into fetal position. Aside from that and the wood-burning stove, there’s the kitchen—really just a galley kitchen with the stovetop, a tiny sink, and a little icebox with some basics inside. I find a few jugs of water, some dry goods—mostly cereal and preserves, so that’s something. Aside from that, some frozen meat and fish in the tiny fridge—hard to judge how old it is, but when I scrape off some ice patches to read the sell-by date, it still looks good. And we can stick that out in the snow to keep if the power fails.

Beyond the kitchen is the real dilemma, though. I stop short on the threshold and stare a moment at the bedroom. It’s tiny, even smaller than the kitchen. “Bedroom” is a generous word for it, really. More like “sleepable closet.”

Professor Lakewood steps up beside me to peer over my shoulder. “Going to be a cozy fit,” he points out.

That’s putting it lightly. The bed takes up the entire “room,” and it’s a single bed. Plenty of fuzzy blankets to keep warm, and a cute little reading nook beside it stacked with books and a lamp. But definitely not made for more than one person. Let alone two people who currently hate each another.

“I’ll take the couch,” I say.

He scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. A child could barely fit on that couch.”

“I’ll make it work.” I spin around and brush past him. Our shoulders collide, and damn him, that distracts me all over again, because I can’t help thinking if we shared that bed, what it would feel like to have his warm, muscular body curled up against mine. How would those washboard abs feel against my backside, with his strong arms wrapped around my waist? And if I arched back against him, pressed my hips to his, would I feel something else? Feel him getting excited by my proximity, growing hard against my ass? How big is the cock he’s hiding in those loose jeans?

I shake myself. Stop it. You hate him, remember?

Luckily, he doesn’t make it easy to forget. “I know problem-solving isn’t your strong suit, Corina, but you have to admit we’ll both need to share the bed. Especially if the temperature drops more than it already has. We’ll need to conserve body heat.”

I grimace with my back still turned. He’s right. That doesn’t mean I need to admit it yet. “Well we’ll just have to wait and see what the temperature does,” I reply. Then I step into the kitchen and eye the wood stack. About a quarter of it is smaller bits and pieces—kindling we’ll be able to use to get the fire started. The rest are big logs. They’ll be good for once we have the heat roaring, but we’ll need a little more in-between pieces.

I grab one of the logs. “I’m going to go chop this,” I say. I let the back door slam behind me, cutting off whatever reply he might have.

3

Preparations

I find a little shed past the woodpile. There’s a locked door in the back of it that I don’t bother opening. The front of the shed contains the basics I need for now—snow shovel, a couple axes, one is duller than the other. I take the sharper axe and trudge to the chopping block set up between the shed and the cabin. Squinting at the sky tells me we have maybe another half an hour before the storm really starts to bring it down. Already the snow is thickening in the air, coming down in fat, sticky flakes. My feet sink up to my ankles when I cross the yard, which makes me a little nervous. Only a few minutes ago, when we were bringing the wood inside, it barely came halfway up my boot.

This is going to be a bad one, every instinct in my body is shouting. I’ve been through enough storms with Daddy, when we came up here for ski season, to recognize the signs. Normally, though, I have Daddy and my older brothers to help prepare for the weather. Today, I just have to hope I remember everything I’ve learned from them over the years.