Page 30 of Famous for a Living

“One of the interns.”

“I keep telling Terry we need to get new heaters.” Quickly Zaiah strides over to the tiny sink on the other side of the room and turns the faucet knobs. The faucet gurgles back but releases no water. He opens the cabinet beneath the sink and drops out of view.

I take the moment to turn around and take the cabin in. It is small, much smaller than I anticipated, but not nearly as horrible inside as it appears from the outside.

In fact, it’s kind of like one of those secret clubs you only access by stepping over alleyway trash. The kind with rusted-out doors you have to knock on three times and give a special code word, only to discover once inside that the bathroom attendants are wearing Cartier earrings and the cocktails are forty dollars each.

An outdated but clean plaid sofa and wooden coffee table sit opposite a woodstove, below a row of hanging generic pictures of woodland animals offset by towering mountains and streams. An open door leads to a shadowy bedroom. There’s a small dinette table in the kitchen beside half a dozen cabinets, a mini dishwasher, a stainless-steel sink with, apparently, frozen pipes, two brooms leaning against the wall, and a fridge—complete with a magnet featuring an illustrated pointing bear above the words Kannery National Park Wants You . . . to Visit! The place smells of a forest worth of pine and frost—neither of which is surprising since I’m boxed in by logs, and the two visible baseboard heaters look to be forty years old.

It also can’t be a degree over thirty.

So. This is home.

About as cozy as living in a rest area would be, but not unimprovable.

Suddenly there are a few startling knocks and the faucet gurgles. Zaiah rises, hands on his hips as he watches and waits. So serious and so intent, I feel myself holding my breath alongside him. Moments later, water bursts forth.

We both exhale.

“I’ll go work on the bathroom. Can you”—he hesitates—“take a look around? See if there’s anything else you need?”

I frown, a sinking suspicion that was not at all what he originally wanted to ask. “What is it you wanted me to do?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. I thought maybe you could work on getting the fire going, but I’ll do it.”

Of course.

Because Cat Cranwell is so obviously the girl with no skills who can’t do basic adult things like drive in snow and is only out here because her doting uncle indulged in a little nepotism and offered her a way out of the city. He might as well have said, “You just sit there and try to look pretty. I’m sure that’s all you can really handle anyway.”

I tilt my chin. “I can do it.”

“No, it’s fine. Just give me a few minutes to get the bathroom faucet going and I’ll see to—”

“I can do it,” I repeat, and move for the stack of wood beside the woodstove. I drop down onto my knees, leaning back on my leather boots as I begin to stack the most promising wood in my arms. Dirt and wood splinters are quick to cover my white coat, but I ignore them as I look around the woodstove. There’s fire starter beside it, but I glance around, going for what I know.

Ah.

A newspaper sits on top of the coffee table, and I lean over and snatch it.

Meanwhile, Zaiah stands beside the sink watching me, then rubs his face with his palm. He looks up at the clock and I can practically hear his thoughts. It’s nearing midnight. I’m exhausted. And I don’t have the energy for everything that is this girl.

“Listen, Catherine—”

“Cat,” I say, not looking up.

There are several moments of silence, and as I begin tearing up the newspaper, I can feel his eyes on my back as he decides what to say and do next. Clearly my little pushback, however small, was enough to make him give up, because he walks past me through an open doorway and out of view.

By the time he returns, fire is licking the roof of the little woodstove as I tidy up the area. The woodstove is decently sized for a cabin this small; already the temperature in the room has lifted a few degrees. It won’t take long to get the small area up to a manageable level, but still, I’ll have to get up at least two or three times in the night to throw on more logs.

All wearying facts given I was up at 4:00 a.m. and am already dead on my feet.

He halts as he enters the living room.

I see it on his face. His expression says it all.

“I didn’t know woodstoves were a thing in the city.”

Wrought iron poker in hand, I push a fallen log back into the center of the flames, then shut the door. “I had a life before the city.”