using it to woo me, he was being modest.
“You have an editor and a manager,” I said. “So you must be somewhat successful.”
“That’s what they keep telling me.”
“You don’t think so?”
He shrugged. Several heartbeats passed before he answered.
“Sometimes I don’t know. I’ve written books I think are amazing, my best work ever, and then they bomb. Then I’ll totally phone-in the next book. Give it minimal effort. And it ends up selling more copies than any other book before it. Sometimes it feels like there’s no rhyme or reason.”
“That must be frustrating.”
“It is.” He paused. “Don’t tell my editor that I’ve half-assed some books before.”
“Cross my heart.”
“Although I suppose it’s a moot subject, since we’re almost to my murder cabin. Where all the murders happen.”
“It’s a well-known fact that murder solves most problems.”
We pulled off the main road and drove down a dirt driveway, and then two squat cabins appeared in a clearing. They looked like a life-sized version of something I would have built with Lincoln Logs as a kid, the walls made of stacked round logs that crossed at the corners. The lights were off in both buildings. A baby blue Cadillac was parked between a stack of chopped firewood and a massive propane tank.
“This is it,” Hunter said. “The cabin we’re renting.”
“As an accountant, it is my duty to inform you that your math is incorrect. There are in fact two cabins here.”
“That one is the main building. Two bedrooms with a kitchen and everything. My buddies stay there. The smaller cabin is mine.”
“Two cabins,” I mused. “One to live in, and one where you do all of the murdering.”
“It’s easier to clean that way.” He laughed. “Seriously though, it was originally a guest cabin or servant quarters. But it’s perfect for my needs. A big studio room where I can work. You want to see it?”
“You mean do I want to go inside and let you commence the murdering?”
“That’s precisely what I mean, yes.”
I laughed and considered his invitation. Was it an innocent invitation to show me where he writes? Or was that just the pretext to something more fun?
Whatever the reasoning behind it, my answer was the same. “I’d love to. I’ve never seen where a writer works before.”
The wind was strong up here in the mountains, swaying the trees back and forth and rustling the branches noisily. Hunter wrapped his arms around himself and hurried to the door of the cabin. On the outside wall was a big red thermometer set into white plastic. I gazed at the temperature where the red bar ended:
35F
We hurried inside and shut the door behind us.
Hunter flicked on the lights. It was one massive room with a steepled ceiling high above. As he had described, it was very much like a studio apartment. The kitchen was along one side of the room. There was a dining room table adjacent to a couch and two leather chairs. There was no TV. The bed was on the opposite side of the room, a huge king-sized mattress set low on the ground. Next to it was an old fashioned gas fireplace. The room smelled like pine and dust, and was ice cold.
“We have electricity, as you can see,” Hunter said. “The cabins are solar-powered and have a bank of long-term batteries mounted on the outside. We have a generator as a back-up, though. And the heaters are all propane.”
At the mention of heaters, Hunter rushed over to the wall and twisted a dial. A fire appeared in the fireplace next to the bed.
“Not exactly roughing it, are you?” I said.
He shrugged and went to warm his hands by the fire. “This was the best rental place we could find. I don’t care where the electricity comes from, as long as we have it. And there’s no cell signal, which is all that really matters.”
“So your victims can’t escape.”
“Right.”
“Where do you write?” I asked. “One of the leather chairs?”
“No, I write at the kitchen table.”
I began to ask where his computer was, but then I noticed a metallic object on the kitchen table. My mouth hung open as I got close and examined it.
“You write on a typewriter?”
“I’m a traditionalist. I like the sound the keys make.”
“What if you make mistakes? Or have to delete an entire section?”
“I have white-out,” he replied. “But I don’t make many mistakes.”
He was still sitting on the edge of his bed, warming his hands in front of the fire. I joined him and said, “You might get around writer’s block if you used a computer instead.”
Hunter grinned up at me, the lenses of his glasses reflecting the fire. “I always use that typewriter for my first draft. I’m not about to stop now.”
It was now clear that he had no ulterior motive for inviting me inside. He had politely showed me everything without making any romantic move. Nothing was going to happen.
“Well, as much as I would love to stick around for the murder, I need to get home and do some work before bed.”
Hunter jumped up from the bed. “Yeah, okay. I understand. I would love to call you when all of this is over. When my book is done.”
“I’d like that too,” I said.
I turned to leave.
“Or maybe…” Hunter said.
I stopped.
“Maybe we don’t have to wait,” he said with a smile.
KEEP READING
FROSTBITTEN
Cassie Cole is a Reverse Harem Romance writer living in Norfolk, Virginia. A sappy lover at heart, she thinks romance is best with a kick-butt plot!
Books by Cassie Cole
Broken In
Drilled
Five Alarm Christmas
All In
Triple Team
Shared by her Bodyguards
Saved by the SEALs
The Proposition
Full Contact
Sealed With A Kiss
Smolder
The Naughty List
Christmas Package
Trained At The Gym
Undercover Action
The Study Group
Tiger Queen
Triple Play
Nanny With Benefits
Extra Credit
Hail Mary
Snowbound
Frostbitten
Unwrapped