picture Grizzly scrubbing my lace panties in the basin. I slide them on, followed by my pants. I pick the flannel off the ground, wondering if I should hang it or toss it aside to be washed. I decide to hang it, and when I fumble with the collar, the shirt’s label catches my eye.
“Burberry.” That can’t be the Burberry, can it?
During the holidays, when New York City is covered in snow and decorated in lights, I like to grab a coffee and stroll through Saks Fifth Avenue and Niemen Marcus, pretending to be the type of woman who could afford to shop there. I know exactly how much Burberry costs—way more than a mountain man could afford.
There has to be a logical explanation. Wealthy people donate things they don’t want to thrift stores like everyone else. It wouldn’t be uncommon to stumble across this shirt at a secondhand store around the Adirondacks. I once got a Coach wallet at a thrift store in Glens Falls for nine bucks.
I hang the shirt, laughing to myself as I picture Grizzly purchasing a well-made flannel without any clue to the name brand he was picking up.
Sweatpants next, I hang them by the waistband next to the flannel. Biting my lip, because really, I feel ridiculous checking the man’s labels, I pull them down and peek inside.
“Brunello Cucinelli,” I whisper. “Huh.” Never heard of him. Could easily be a Walmart brand, I guess.
I run the fabric through my hands. Sure feels expensive.
“Are you dressed?” His rumbled question comes filtering down from above.
I hang the sweatpants and scurry to my spot by the bookshelf in front of the fire. “Yep.”
My heart pounds as he descends the ladder, his powerful legs behind worn denim that I now want to get my hands on to scope out the tag.
Okay, this is ridiculous.
Take it easy, Nancy Drew.
I reach for a book and open to a random page while watching from the corner of my eye as he moves around the kitchen space—I assume he’s planning our next meal. “I, uh…” I keep my eyes on the book, even turning a page for effect. “I hung your clothes on the hooks. Did you want me to wash them?”
When he doesn’t answer, I look up from my book to find him standing in front of me. He shoves his fist toward me, and in his grasp, there are a half dozen small sticks.
“What’s that?”
“Toothbrush.”
I take the sticks and see the bark peeled off on one side and the other side sharpened to a point.
“Dogwood. Chew on the soft end.”
He turns away, grabs a pot, and pulls out a tin of rice.
I put the stick in my mouth and chew and the bitter wood breaks up easily, morphing into rough bristles. I use the bristles on my teeth, rubbing every inch of enamel and using the pointed end to clean between my teeth. I never thought I’d enjoy something as simple as cleaning my teeth, but this is heaven.
“Thank you for this,” I say with the stick still hanging from the corner of my mouth. “If you teach me how to wash clothes—”
“I got it.”
I huff out a breath, toss my book aside, and stand slowly and carefully. “You should really put me to work.”
His shoulders tense as I get closer, and I notice he has stopped moving altogether.
I settle up to his side and tilt my head to see his face. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“Yes,” he breathes.
“Oh.” I take a step back. “Is it because I haven’t bathed in a week and smell like a dirty foot?”
The corner of his mouth beneath his beard twitches. “No.”
I sigh. “I can’t wait to take a hot shower. A bath would be a dream, but my crappy apartment only has a tiny shower. Hardly enough room to shave my legs. Another thing I can’t wait to do when I get back.”
“You can bathe.” He motions to a hook on the wall that holds strips of terrycloth. “Warm water, soap, keep your wounds dry.”
That must be how he manages to stay smelling like pine and earth. “I’ll try that.”
His muscles relax, and he goes back to scooping what looks like freeze-dried vegetables and spices into the pot with rice.
“Thank you for washing my clothes.” I bring the fabric of my shirt to my nose and smell the slight botanical scent, as if he cleaned them with tea leaves. “And thank you for including my underwear. I feel a little guilty for free