A Lie for a Lie (All In) - Helena Hunting Page 0,15
smile is what sunrises are made of. He saunters to the fridge, which means I have a moment to appreciate his very defined back muscles while he retrieves a jug of juice. He tops off the glass and hands it to me. “Give it a taste.”
I take a tentative sip. “Oh! This is yummy. I guess maybe I don’t mind beer as much as I thought.”
His smile widens. “You’re the best thing in the world, you know that?”
A warm feeling spreads through my entire body. No one has ever paid me such a nice compliment before. There are a lot of amazing things in the world, and that he thinks I’m the best is, well . . . surprising. So of course I blurt out my own self-assessment. “I’m awkward and nervous.”
“Well, I like it. A lot.” After a few seconds of intense silence, he motions to the couch. “Sit with me for a bit? We can be awkward and nervous together.”
“You’re not awkward.”
He shrugs. “Sometimes I am. We all can be, context and situation depending.”
“Sure. Okay.” I follow him to the living room.
His cabin is open concept; giant bark-stripped and sanded tree trunks function as posts with no walls to separate the rooms. The ceilings are high, and the entire front of the cabin is lined with windows, providing an unobstructed view of the water.
A fire crackles across the room, throwing off heat, which probably accounts for RJ’s shirtlessness. It’s definitely hot in here.
A huge framed photo of RJ and two other men—one likely his father—holding a giant fish hangs on the wall, and beside it is another photo containing two women: his mother and sister, judging from the matching dimple in the younger woman’s cheek. There are also a lot of sports accents scattered around, mainly hockey related. The throw cushions read PUCK YEAH! There’s a lamp in the corner, and the base is made out of a hockey stick. Even the coasters are old hockey pucks.
“Wow, so you must be huge sports fans.” I pick up one of the puck coasters.
RJ rubs the back of his neck. “Pretty obvious, huh?”
“It sort of looks like my dad’s room in the basement, except it was all baseball instead of hockey.”
“Were you ever into sports?”
I shake my head. “Oh, no. I’m not sporty at all. My dad and my brothers always watched baseball, though. They tried to teach me how to play a couple of times, but I don’t understand the rules in sports. I always had my nose in a book.”
I hold on to my glass with both hands so I’m not tempted to wring them or bite my nails or any of the other fidgety things I tend to do when I’m nervous. “This is a really nice cabin.”
“My dad found it a number of years back and thought it would make a nice place to vacation. I’ve always been really close with my younger sister, Stevie, but she and my mom aren’t big on fishing, so they would stay in New York and we’d go on a boys’ trip, which was good bonding for me and my brother and my dad. We’ve been coming here every summer since I was a teenager.”
“But your brother couldn’t make it this year?” I ask.
“His wife, Joy, is pregnant, and there are some complications, so he has to stay put.” His smile is a little tense, as if there’s more to that.
“Oh no, is everything okay?”
“Joy has gestational diabetes, which I guess isn’t all that uncommon, but they’re keeping a close eye on her. He says everything is okay, and I tend to take him at his word.”
“What about your dad—is he still coming?” My family has never really been one for traveling. My mom is scared of airplanes and doesn’t like the danger of long drives, or cars in general, so we didn’t go too far from the town I was raised in.
RJ looks into his glass. “My dad passed a couple years ago.”
I set my drink on the coffee table and put a hand on his knee. “I’m so sorry. That must’ve been hard.” I’ve never lost anyone close to me, not even a grandparent, so I can only imagine how painful that would be.
“Thanks—and yeah, it wasn’t easy. Holidays and birthdays can be tough. I’ve always been pretty close with my family, so we still feel the loss.”
“He must’ve been so young.” I start to shift away, worried I’m making things awkward with the prolonged physical contact, but