Brit Taylor has a master’s degree, two week’s worth of clothes, and a head injury.

“Why are you telling me that,” says the no-nonsense man standing behind the cashier. It’s not even a question, really, just a flat statement. He has straight across eyebrows, brown hair, and a friendly looking mole on his neck. Maybe… thirty two? Kind of young to be running a resort, but equally too young to be as grouchy as he looks.

“Because I might trip on something,” she supplies. “I’m here on a medical retreat. I thought you should know that. It wasn’t my idea. Believe me.”

It’s not that she doesn’t like being the lake country. Like basically everyone in the Upper Midwest, she grew up spending weekends at the family cabin on the lake. Ever since she graduated undergrad, she’s been too busy with her events planning company to spare much time to get up north.

But gravity, like mosquitos in the summer and snow in the winter, is a huge bitch. Who knew that a floral centerpiece could do so much damage if it falls on you from the charming rustic balconette of a lake Minnetonka wedding venue?

One very expensive trip to the Southdale ER later, and she’d received her sentence. One concussion, with severe scalp abrasions. The prognosis? An entire week without driving, and no, there is nothing that can be prescribed to help with the sensitivity to screens, bright lights, and loud noises.

For a normal person, that might have been fine, but for Brit? Events coordinator and general enthusiast, it was like being handed a prison sentence. Her dad, in his usual gruff way, had suggested that his firm start a personal injury suit against the events company. Once she’d pointed out that it was hardly the venue’s fault that she’d used the wrong velcro adhesive, he did the next best thing and promptly booked her a two week stay at Barnard’s Lakeside Retreat, about an hour and a half out of the Cities.

Typical lawyer, bless him.

Which has all brought her here: standing in the small front lodge of the resort, in front of this mysterious, rugged looking resort keeper. Handyman? Whoever he is, he pushes the sleeves up on his flannel button up, eyeing her skeptically. “We don’t have the internet here.”

“I know,” Brit says, going for stoic and resolute with a dash of wartime Britain cheerfulness. “I can’t really look at computers right now anyway. Makes my vision go white. Kind of terrifying, if I’m honest.”

The man (he hasn’t given her his name yet) grunts, hands her a key, and says, “Cabin 13 is all yours.”

She gives him a bright smile. “Thank you. What’s your name again?”

His jaw works, like he’s deciding whether or not he should tell her. It’s been a minute since she’s been up close and personal with a real northern Minnesota wildman, but she knows the type. Cagey. Quiet. Inherited his granddad’s shotgun. Probably has a black lab sleeping on a back deck somewhere.

“I’m John.”

“How mysterious,” Brit says. “John what?”

“John Evans,” he says.

Brit smiles. “Always a pleasure to meet another person with a name composed of two first names.

He blinks. And then— “Oh, because you’re—”

“Brit Taylor, yeah,” she says. “I thought you might be a Barnard. You know, because of the resort.”

She’s babbling a little, which would be embarrassing even if he wasn’t more than a little bit cute. Something about his silence bubbles up an answering fountain of chatter in her, which is a bad sign. This reaction only happens around men she’s attracted to and people who she’s doomed to get on horribly with.

“Nah,” he grumbles, “I bought the place from Mr. Barnard about four years ago.” 

“Why?” she hears herself say. Immediately, she regrets it. At this rate, he’s going to think she’s a judgmental city bitch who doesn’t understand why anyone would want to live in the country. Which she isn’t.

He doesn’t look offended, but chews on his thought for a minute, letting the silence stretch as he considers his answer. “Have you ever seen someplace or somebody and just known right away that you liked it?”

It’s an unexpectedly whimsical answer.

“I— I guess I have, yeah,” she stutters.

His only shrugs. “Well, I liked it, and I decided that I wanted it to be mine forever.”

The response is so charming, so simple and clear, that for what feels like the first time in a long time, Brit’s brain is utterly satisfied with the answer. A heartbeat of silence passes between them.

“Well,” John says, his eyes flicking to her mouth for just a second. “Want an escort to your cabin?”

Brit shakes her head, flustered. “I’m good. I’ll just, uh, follow the signs.”

“You sure? If you’re injured I can take you in the golf cart.”

Brit’s brain takes that sentiment in an entirely unhelpful direction, which only gets worse as he pushes one muscled forearm across the counter to gesture out the window. What is it about button-down shirts rolled up at the forearm that’s so damn sexy?

“No,” she squeaks, “I’m fine.”

“Okay, well just call me if you need me to come get you. Dial one for the main office.”

With barely a pleasantry to spare, she turns around and all but flees that tiny office.

—

Cabin Thirteen is as cursed as its unlucky number suggests.

It’s a classic, low slung bungalow, with clapboard sides and a simple pitched roof designed to keep the snow from breaking through the winter. It has a little saggy porch in the front and a pine tree looming precariously overhead.

“Home sweet home,” Brit says, feeling the significance of that “no internet” thing more than ever before.

She pushes inside and faces the reality of a double bed, a sleeper couch, and a kitchenette all done in white pine. A picture of a friendly group of dancing bears ornaments the space above the bed.

“Great,” Brit says. “Just… great.”

Flopping onto the mattress, she considers the sorry state of things. She’s going to spend two entire weeks here “resting” while doing what, exactly? God, if she has to get a hobby she’s going to commit a homicide. Hobbies are for other people. Normal, nice people who know how to do things like make quiches and order the right wine with their fish.

Her dad would suggest she take this time to do market research or create a new business plan, but Brit isn’t a personal injury lawyer and has yet to figure out how to weaponize her free time.

Her head swims a little, and she closes her eyes, fighting off the wash of vertigo and nausea that swooshes over her. God, idleness is not her thing.

Maybe she can rest extra hard the few days and get back to the Cities in a few days instead?

A knock sounds on the door.

“Miss Taylor?” 

Out of habit, she gets to her feet and tries to walk to the door. She gets about two steps in before the dizziness overtakes her and she goes down. Hard.

With a thud, she hits the creaky floorboards, a pained little moan slipping through her teeth as the world lurches around her. Dimly, she hears her door open and a heavy step cross the threshold.

“Jesus,” says John’s voice. “You okay?”

Brit flops to one side, flapping a hand in what she sincerely hopes is an up and down “I’m fine” motion. “Totally fine. Just a little dizzy.”

He’s kneeling in front of her, and she smells pine needles, cedar chips, and a scent like moving water. He puts a hand on her shoulder, steadying her.

“You weren’t kidding, were you?”

Embarrassed, she finally manages to look up into his eyes. He has a look of extreme gentleness on his face, and it’s a little surprising on him. Like someone took all the pieces of his face — eyebrows, strong jaw, dark eyes — put them in a box, and shook it around.

Though that could be the head injury.

“Unfortunately, I’m not joking about that,” she whispers. “I’m really not much of a jokester.”

His lips twitch. “I can see that. Let me help you up.”

“That’s a terrible idea, let’s go for it,” she says, a little dizzy, a little … oh god, a little turned on by the strong, male… manness of him. He’s so near and he smells so nice, and yeah, okay, it’s a head injury and he’s just doing his job. But still.

She pushes herself up, he braces her shoulder, and then she stands up with him steadying her. Then they’re just standing there, him with his hand on her shoulder, her with the room slowly ceasing its spin, both of them staring at each other. Something a little electric crackles between them.

“Please tell me you didn’t just come here because you knew I couldn’t handle sitting alone in a cabin for ten minutes?”

He laughs, releasing her to rub the back of his neck with that damn forearm of his again.

“No, sorry, you left your bag in the main office,” Taylor says gruffly. “I was just gonna drop it off.”

He points at the front door, where he’s brought her bag.

Oh.

God, has her cognitive function been impared that much? Or did she forget it because she was in such a hurry to get away from her unexpected crush?

“Right,” Brit says, distracted at the nearness of him. He’s so close. Is this the head injury making her head spin like this? Or is it just that he smells so nice, like leather and running water and the outside.

“You’re gonna make me worry about you, you know that?” he grumbles.

“Right,” she says breathlessly. “I will try to contain my movements to slow, yoga-esque poses. I will be the most zen, relaxed person at this resort.”

“Uh huh,” he says, dark brow furrowing. “This is gonna be a tough two weeks for you, isn’t it, Brit?”

“I might die,” she admits. 

“Just don’t go sitting up all sharp like that.”

He takes a few steps back, his booted feet loud on the floor as she sits delicately down on the edge of the bed, trying not to stare at his ass as he turns around to go.

Zen master. I am a Zen master, and Zen masters definitely do not go around staring lecherously at their resort owner’s firm—

“Oh, and Brit?” he says, pausing at the door to glance back at her.

“Hm?”

“I’m an EMT, so if you get dizzy, just call me at the office.”

Great! Now he also thinks (knows) that she’s a walking medical hazard, on top of being clumsy and careless. Fantastic. Just great.

“Thanks,” she hears herself say.

He gives her that little smile again, and Brit sends up a fervent prayer to the universe that she doesn’t spend the next seven weeks embarrassing herself any further than she already has.

—

John Evans loves his damn resort.

He loves the tiny, weather beaten cabins, the sandy beach, the rocky waters, the good walleye fishing, the brilliant sunsets, and the Friday night fish fries. He loves the sun-beached hammocks at the water’s edge, the birch trees and low-hanging pines. Mostly, though? He loves the way that each day is a steady, calm progression.

Buying it had been an act of fitful madness. He was 28, just barely discharged from active duty with an unexpected windfall from his father’s estate, and with no plan in the world for how he intended to “reintegrate” back into society.

Frankly, all he’d wanted to do was drown himself in booze and video games. But instead, he’d bought a 100 year old lakeside resort and taken the place on as his project.

Like a lot of midwesterners, he spent a few weeks at the same resort every summer with his parents. Looking back, maybe he bought the resort because this place was the only time his life felt really, truly centered. It was a fixed point in his life, a spot that never seemed to change.

When he saw it come up for sale, he knew he had to buy it, and he hasn’t looked back. He likes seeing the same families come up again and again, likes knowing that the kids who he teaches to waterski and fish will remember this time for the rest of their lives.

It’s not much, by big city standards, but he makes a difference in the lives of families every single year. And that feels damn good. But even so, guests are guests. He’s never felt any particular connection to any of them outside of his assigned role as the resort’s handyman and overseer. He has a staff of teenagers on summer break who help him run the day to day, and a cleaning crew and some help at the marina. But other than that, it’s just him, the blue sky, and the lake.

So why does this particular guest, who has done absolutely nothing except be friendly and chatty, make him feel the exact opposite of steady and calm?

After he’d left her cabin that first day, he’d spent the next thirty hours furiously reviewing the entire thing in his head before deciding that he had massively ruined everything.

He’d gotten way too close, there was definitely no need for him to hold her like that. She had a head injury. Not like she couldn’t have stood on her own. And yet, he hadn’t really been able to help himself. The way she’d stared up at him, all wide eyed and frazzled, her lips parted… she hadn’t seemed to mind.

He needs to go for a swim. He’s going nuts. Her eyes had been wide like that because she has a concussion severe enough that she’s not allowed to drive. It hadn’t been because she liked the feel of his arms around her. Right?

“Hey boss,” chimes a voice from ahead of him.

Hunter, a scrappy teenager who works here in the summers in the kitchen, zooms up on a golf cart, his shaggy hair in his face.

“Hey, Hunter,” John calls, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“Mr. Larson dropped the fish off for tonight.”

John grunts. “Tell him to throttle his engine, this morning he woke up half the residents with that souped up Evinrude of his.”

“Got it. And hey, you know what I was thinking?”

“No,” John says, starting to walk again. He’s really not interested in what Hunter is thinking. The kid is always coming up with weird ‘marketing’ ideas that John doesn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole.

Hunter inches the golf cart forward, keeping pace and leaning out the side. “What if you took out some Facebook ads. You know, to reach some of the Millennials.”

“I don’t want to reach millennials,” John grumbles, thinking about Brit in cabin 13. He doesn’t think he can handle more of that running around his resort.

“Just think about it,” Hunter insists. “We should really try and reach some new audiences—”

At that moment, a handful of kids run up the path, a small, organized gang in sopping wet swimsuits and goggles rings around their eyes. They surround him, jumping up and down, begging to be taken out on the lake for tubing.

John laughs. “Alright, alright, go get your life jackets from the boathouse, and meet me at the dock. He turns to Hunter as the kids scamper off, nearly tripping on each other in their haste to get there. “Start the dinner prep, got it?”

“Fine, but think about it! Social media marketing is the future!”

“Boiled corn and hamburgers are the only future I care about,” John says, crossing his arms as Hunter puts the pedal to the medal and peels back towards the main hall, his shaggy hair flying in the wind.

John sighs and heads for the dock.

After an hour and a half of towing kids around behind his boat in an inner tube, tossing them off into the water with much screaming and laughter, he finally brings the boat back to the Shore Station.

“Life jackets back into the boat house,” he calls after the kids bounding down the dock, tuckered out for… the next ten minutes. Barnards isn’t a summer camp, but sometimes it feels a little like that.

The previous owner, Reggie Barnard, took much the same role, teaching generations of kids how to water ski and fish, spending the whole day out on the lake. Even if the kids are a handful, it makes him happy to think that he’ll be someone they remember fondly.

At least, he hopes they remember him fondly. Never really thought of himself as a guy who liked kids, but they’re honestly the best part of the job.

As he sets about cleaning up the boat and turning off the engine, he’s startled to see a pair of legs in his peripheral vision. He looks up. And up.

Brit Taylor is standing there in a pink, frilly one piece, a pair of dark sunglasses perched on her button nose and a floppy hat obscuring most of her hair.

“Hey, Miss Taylor,” he says, resolutely not looking at her chest.

She gives him a smile. “Hey, John. Saw you out there giving the kids the ride of their lives. Made me kind of jealous.”

I’d give you the ride of your life.

John turns his face away from her, horrified by his own inner monologue. God, it’s been too long since he’s been on a date. He needs to get out more.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “Have you had a good few days? Been resting?”

“Yeah,” she says, sitting down on the edge of the dock so that her feet dangle just above the surface of the water. Her nails, gripping the edge of the dock, are a pale pink color. And then— “Well, actually, not at all.”

His brows raise. “Getting bored?”

She nods. “Turns out not being able to use a computer or phone or go swimming or go outside without wearing a hazmat suit is … not great?”

He laughs. It’s the total lack of self-pity in her voice that does it. She notices her own emotions with apparent interest, but no mopiness.

“Wow, when you phrase it like that, having a concussion doesn’t sound great.”

She gives him a smile, and he finds himself wishing he could see her without the sunglasses and the hat. Still, her smile is like a shot of sunshine, even as she declares, “I was thinking that if my head gets better, you could teach me how to water ski!”

She says this like it’s a terrific idea, but John knows exactly how it would go.

Teaching someone to water ski means you’re in the water with them while someone else drives the boat. You help them into the skis, with their knees bent in front of you in the water. He’d have to stand behind her, their bodies pressed together as he held her in the right pose for the boat to yank her up and out onto the surface of the water.

Absolutely not.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he mutters, climbing out of the boat and emerging onto the dock. She beams up at him, swinging her feet, still sitting at the edge. 

“That’s a shame,” she sighs. “I’m going to go absolutely insane if I don’t find something to do around here.”

Trying to think about anything else besides what she looks like there, her pretty mouth pouted into a bored grin, her sunglasses pushed down her nose so he can just see the flashing green of her eyes, he walks past her. She trails after him, her bare feet coming down soft onto the weathered dock.

“You know, this place is pretty beautiful,” Brit observes. “Have you ever thought about hosting a wedding here?”

He looks at her askance. “I’m not even dating anyone, hardly need to think about that.”

“Oh, god, not like that,” she says, holding her hands up. “I mean for other people. It’s beautiful here. You could make a lot of money as an event space. Or artist’s retreat. Things like that.”

“You think?” John grunts, crossing from the dock back onto the beach. The idea of it gives him a weird sense of vertigo. Hosting a wedding would be… a lot of work.

It’s like she can smell weakness. “Great for off-season stuff,” she adds. “You’re the perfect distance away. You can host a small wedding party. You’ve got that events hall right there,” she insists.

“It’s the Lodge,” he corrects.

He somehow knows she’s rolling her eyes even without being able to actually see them.

“Perfect, great,” she says. “It’s lovely. Big enough to host large groups of people, right?”

“Fish fry every Friday,” he concedes. “Half the town comes.”

“Exactly! Build a little place for the ceremony—”

“One of those trellis things?” he says skeptically.

“If it’s a wedding trellis, it’s called an arbor.”

He can’t quell his muttered, “That’s a trellis with a 20% wedding markup.”

She ignores this with the casual aplomb of a person who is secure in her own opinions. “You’ve got a really special place. Heck, I’d get married here.”

Oh no. Oh no.

Deciding that a change of subject is in order he says, “Should you be up and running around like this?”

Brit grimaces. “If I have to sit in that little cabin for one more minute, I’ll go nuts.”

“You’re like a border collie,” he says absently, his brain skipping like a damaged record on the image of Brit Taylor in a white sundress in the Lodge, grinning up at him. But then he realizes that she’s staring at him and how batshit insane that sort of thing sounds when you say it out loud to a pretty girl you met two days ago, and begins to backpedal as fast as he can. “I mean, in the sense that you need a job or you’ll start chewing on the couch.”

She takes off her sunglasses, crossing her arms in a way that pushes her breasts up just slightly. Which should be illegal. “John. What I do on my own couch is really none of your business.”

She’s smiling at him, all freckled cheeks and button nose, and the shot of relief that she’s not mad should really tip him off that he’s officially got a candle lit for this concussed, enthusiastic sheep dog of a woman.

The embarrassment of that realization makes him say something very stupid.

“Want to swing by the Lodge? We have a lending library, I’m sure you could find something to ease your boredom. I could show you.”

He’s eager, way too eager, to get this woman into a small, enclosed room away from other people. What is wrong with him? She’s going to think he’s a creep.

“I’d love that,” she says, brightening.

—

“Wow, you have a lot of books,” Brit murmurs, wondering just how exactly she ended up in a small room with the man of her dreams.

“Don’t give me too much credit, they were here when I bought the place.”

She grins. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve read them, though?”

Turning around so she’s leaning against the bookcase, she takes out a Hardy Boys mystery and opens it to a random page.

“This chapter is called, ‘The Mysterious Resort Owner Who Won’t Tell me Anything About His Life.’”

He gives her a smile. “Oh, that one I’ve read. I think the next chapter is ‘the Nosy Events Planner With a Brain Injury Who Should Go Rest in her Cabin.’”

Brit loudly flips the page, frowning down at it. “Huh. Weird, That chapter is just a full color illustration of a middle finger—”

He grabs the book from her fingers so quick she almost misses it, giving her a fond, grumpy smile. “Pick the books you want. I’ll carry them back to your cabin.”

Too distracted to really read the titles, she makes a big show of picking a stack of weathered, yellowed paperbacks and stacking them in her arms. “You don’t have to worry about me, you know. I’m really fine.”

He scoffs. “That’s why I worry about you.”

Grabbing a battered thriller, she gives him an acid look. “Explain?”

“People who know they’ve got to take it easy can compensate for their limits. You,” he says, sighing in emphasis and reaching out to take the stack of books from her. “You don’t acknowledge your limits, so I don’t trust you to honor them.”

She stares at him, unexpectedly bereft without the books in her arms. “That’s… irritatingly on the nose.”

He grins. It looks like the sun came out. Clearing her throat and trying not to sound too sneaky, Brit points to a book on the top shelf, a few rows just above her head.

“Can you grab that one? In my addled state, I can’t seem to reach it.”

She’s not even looking at the shelf. It must be obvious to him that she’s baiting him.  But bless his naive, trusting wildman heart, he takes it.

Rolling his eyes he takes a step closer and reaches over her head, bringing the great expanse of his body right next to hers. He’s warm, looming over her as he blocks her body against the shelf, his arm raised, his eyes on her face.

“Addled brain, huh?” he grumbles, pulling down the book. He hands it to her, but doesn’t step away. Brit looks from the book he’s holding out to her up to his mouth, his jaw, his eyebrows.

“Brit,” he murmurs, his voice very low and quiet. “The book?”

God, he’s cute. More than cute. There’s something elemental about him, instinctive and decisive. He feels like the exact opposite of a floral arrangement, and so near now that it feels like the small quiet room is getting smaller and quieter, until there’s not really anything except the paper-scented air, the pine-fresh scent of his body, and a persistent ringing in her head.

“I feel sort of dizzy,” she whispers.

His brow furrows in concern, and he sets the book back on the shelf, putting a hand out to steady her. “Hold onto me.”

They’re so close now that they’re almost embracing, and he’s got one hand at her waist and the other on her shoulder.

“Okay,” she whispers, gripping his forearm, feeling small and lightheaded and hot. Like, standing in the sun hot. Oh no. Oh no.

“How do you feel?”

“I think I’m coming down with a fever.”

But that just makes him put one hand gently on her forehead, testing her temperature and making a concerned little tsking noise in the back of his throat.

“You feel good to me. Do you need to lay down?”

God, it’s like he’s trying to torment her. 

She nods. “Yes.”

“My cabin’s just out the back here. Come on, hold onto me.”

She does, flushed and way too embarrassed to admit that her only problem is that he’s absurdly handsome up close, and that he smells like a damn tree. His cabin is a little bigger than the rest, with a full kitchen and a couch. The cedar-lined walls are hung with photos and unexpectedly whimsical art prints, the worn red couch faded in the light of a sunbeam.

John puts her down on the couch, and then heads to his kitchen.

“Are you allowed to drink a beer?” he says, sticking his head into his fridge.

“Dear god, yes,” she says, laying back. She’s actually dizzy now.

“I’ve got some Grain Belt.”

“God, you’re such a dude,” she sighs, but quietly. Louder, she says, “That sounds great.”

When he comes back, he nudges the beer into her palm, sitting down in the arm chair across from hers. It’s embroidered in a faded floral pattern that screams “I got this at a thrift shop.”

Lifting her head just enough so that she can drink without spilling all over herself, she takes a few sips of the ice cold beer and feels herself slowly uncoiling from the ball of shame-yarn she’s wound herself into.

“Thanks,” she says, swallowing with a grimace. “Sorry for the hassle.”

“No trouble. You’re my guest. Looking after you is part of the job.”

“You let all your guests fall all over you and end up on your couch?”

His lips part slightly, his eyes narrowing. He looks at her lips, and then she knows. He’s feeling this, too.

“Hey, John?” she says, sitting up a little. He’s close enough that if she just reached over, put her hand on his knee—

“Brit, is your dad the guy on the billboards?”

Brit blinks. “Sorry, what?”

“The personal injury lawyer? With those billboards of him standing with his back against a pillar and his arms crossed?”

She stares, then flops back, groaning. “Yeah.”

“I wouldn’t normally ask, it’s just, you’re… here… with a head injury. I don’t want to get sued.”

Maybe it’s not too late to move to Spain. She could call an Uber, high tail it to the Mankato airport, and get on whatever flight will take her out of this small room with this hot man who thinks she’s a walking insurance liability.

God, no wonder he’d been so concerned with helping her stay upright. Had he even been flirting? No, of course not, because he’s a professional and a good guy, the asshole.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” he says, and then cuts off.

She flaps a hand in his direction. “No, totally fine. You’re not the first person to ask. Don’t worry, it’s a pre-existing condition. There are documented reports. You won’t be on the hook. Hey, would you mind if I went back to my cabin? I have been imposing on your hospitality—”

“Well, to be fair, you’re literally paying me for it,” he says mildly, and Brit wishes she could just crawl into a hole and be eaten by flesh-eating scarabs like that scene in the Mummy.

“Right,” she squeaks, high pitched and embarrassing. Sitting up way too fast, she powers through the wave of dizziness and stands up. A mistake. Of course it was a mistake, why does she have to learn every single lesson the hardest possible way? Why can’t she be like other people who stand up normally when they have a concussion and don’t go sailing for the ground?

John catches her, because of course he does.

“Hey, not so fast,” he says, concern lacing his deep, rumbly voice. They’re really getting good at this thing where he catches her when she falls over. “Why don’t you stay here? Take a nap.”

He helps her back to the couch and she decides right then and there that she’s ready for the return of her lord and savior Jesus christ. At least the rapture would get her out of here.

John smiles at her. “I’m gonna go set up for dinner. I’ll bring you a plate, okay? Don’t go running off.”

She grabs a pillow and covers her face with it. “Yeah, thank you. I’m just— I need to stay out of the sun, you know,” she lies.

He makes a sympathetic noise. “See you in a few hours, you walking personal injury suit.”

—

John jogs down the steps to his cabin, grinning.

That couldn’t have gone better. He addressed that thing about her dad, gave her a beer, and now she’s relaxing, comfortable and safe in his cabin. It makes some old, ancient part of his brain very pleased to think that as he’s walking away from his cabin, she’ll be there, safe and resting.

He’ll bring her back some food, too, like the good caveman he is.

But thoughts of his burgeoning neanderthalisms fade as he faces the much more imminent work to be done. It’s dinner, and they’re having fish fry.

On Fridays, locals will come by with grates of fresh caught walleye, and his staff of enthusiastic teenagers will spend most of the day prepping fish, slicing lemons and preparing breading under the watchful eye of his cook.

Locals come, too, sprawling out on picnic tables dotting the surface of the enormous wraparound deck. The lodge is a low slung building, traditional cabin style with white trim and a ridiculous amount of flowering planters lining the decks.

Any other night of the week, it’s where the residents of the resort gather for dinner, conversation, and beer. But on Fridays, it’s a town staple.

When John pushes into the Lodge, he’s greeted by a flurry of activity. Red plastic trays lined with wax paper are being stacked in anticipation of the crowds, and he can see people furiously prepping potatoes for the deep fryer.

“Hunter,” John calls, heading over to the fish prep table, where the resort’s long-time cook, Bob, is instructing the teens in the finer points of deboning walleye.

“Yes, boss,” Hunter says, appearing out of nowhere with his arms full of jars of tartar sauce.

“Can you do me a favor and make me a plate? We’ve got a guest who’s not feeling well. I’m going to drop it off for her.”

Hunter arches a brow. “We do room service now?”

John points a finger at him, opens his mouth, and shuts it. “Maybe.”

“Ooooookay,” Hunter says, turning and dutifully walking away.

“Hey, make sure it’s a good one, don’t give her the first fish out of the fryer, I want it hot—”

The sound of the door opening interrupts him as a few more of his staff carry in the long tables where they put the supplies and the food for the dinner guests to serve themselves.

“Hey boss,” they call. Teenagers, most of ‘em, but good kids. He watches as they set up the tables with practiced ease, working in tandem and trading jokes in their Barnard’s Resort t-shirts.

It’s a familiar blur after that. The first of the townies show up, driving up in trucks and SUVs, some nicer cars from the city people who come up to visit local cabins and soak up some sun. More drive up on boats, docking at the water and tumbling up still in swimsuits, sunburnt and draped in towels.

The patrons take seats at tables, setting up their stuff in the best spots before heading inside, paying for the fry, and grabbing their plates. Many of them know him, and he waves politely but resists being drawn into conversation.

One of the more tenacious locals, Marietta Candace, arrives with her grandkids in tow, and comes right up to him. Notwithstanding that she’s about five foot nothing and eighty, she firmly pats his cheek. He sighs.

“How are you tonight, Mrs. Candace.”

“Better now that I’ve had a look at my favorite burly young man. Are you going to slink off tonight, too? You know you owe me a game of Uno.”

He smiles. “I know.”

“Don’t think I forgot,” she says, pointing a threatening finger at him.

John laughs. It’s probably been too long since he’s gone to an event in town. People always tell him he should have a table at the cultural fair, or at least show up for bingo once a month, but he can’t quite bring himself to.

He likes the locals, sure. But the idea of blending in with them, integrating into that society gives him hives. He finds work like that exhausting.

Instead, he goes and grabs Brit’s plate, taking his time in the kitchen to make sure there’s a good mix of fries, fish, coleslaw and condiments. When he jogs out back from the kitchen to the worn pathway between the pine trees to his cabin, he feels about as good as he’s felt in weeks.

Needed. Pleased with himself.

When he opens the cabin door, his mood instantly deflates when he sees the space where she should be— his couch, sprawled out fetchingly in a doze— vacant. He checks his room, and notes with equal disappointment that she’s not in there either.

Grouchy now, he leaves his cabin and heads to hers, stalking the whole distance with a rising sense of annoyance. She shouldn’t have gotten up and gone trotting off. She’s accident prone as hell, and she’d looked flushed when they were talking earlier. Maybe a little feverish. The last thing he needs is to find her passed out somewhere. Because then he’d have to pick her up and carry her back to his cabin, where he could take care of her, and wouldn’t that just be terrible. But when he knocks at her cabin, no one answers.

Giving up on pretending he’s not panicking a little, he peers through her windows. No Brit Taylor. No flash of blonde hair and freckles.

“Shit,” he mutters.

He hightails it back to the Lodge, the damn plate of fish fry still in his hands as he jogs up the back steps. He’ll ask Hunter if he’s seen her, then grab the golf cart. God, if she tried to go swimming he’s going to lose his mind.

But the minute he enters the lodge, he realizes he’s made a horrible mistake.

Because there, seated at a table in the exact middle of the room, is Brit Taylor. She’s got what looks like six photo albums open in front of her, several older townies pointing at them. It’s the historical pictures, detailing the history of the Lodge, and Brit is leaning over them with a toddler in her lap, giggling and smiling at whatever the locals are saying to her.

Hunter comes up behind John, yanking him out of his shock at seeing his injured guest instantly blending in with the town. “Head injury, huh?”

“Shut up,” John mutters, putting down his tray.

She sees him then, looking up with big wide eyes. Like she knows she’s in trouble.

His eyes narrow and he points at her, but just then Marietta comes up to him.

“Ah, there you are, Johnny,” she says. “Such a nice girl. We were all wondering when you were going to settle down and find someone.”

“What?”

John looks up, confused until he sees who Marietta is pointing at. “Oh, that’s—”

“At the home we were all talking— weren’t we Janice— we were all talking about what a shame it is that a young man like you is up here all alone.”

“Mrs. Candace,” John says.

“But she fits in so well. Maybe having a pretty girl like her will bring you into town more,” she says, giving him a fond pat.

John looks at Brit again. She’s smiling, munching on a french fry as one of the ten year olds starts braiding her hair.

“Yeah, maybe it would,” he says, his throat suddenly dry. “Would you excuse me? I need to get her a plate.”

Never mind that she has a plate. He wants to bring her one. So he prepares a fresh plate of fish and crosses to her, conscious that she’s watching him the whole time. He sets it down in front of her and some of the kids make room for him. So it seems only natural to sit.

“You brought me a plate,” she murmurs.

“I tried to bring you a plate. Seems you brought yourself to the plate.”

“I wanted a break,” she admits. But she won’t meet his eyes, which annoys him, for some reason. Her voice is very bright as she gestures at the photos. “Your friends have been telling me about the history of the resort. You didn’t tell me it used to be a bootlegging joint.”

John glares across the table at Bob. “Knock it off.”

Brit blinks owlishly. Then laughs. “Oh, you were pulling my leg.”

“Real hard,” Bob concedes. “Sorry, darlin’. We had to test you out.”

John gives Bob a sharp look, but Shep only winks. Brit seems not to have noticed, bless her. She’s got a picture of the cabins around the time they were first constructed, little yellow boxes nestled between birch trees.

“You should have these blown up and framed,” she gushes. “They’re stunning.”

He looks down at them. “Just cabins.”

She shakes her head. “No, you don’t understand, these are so picturesque. People eat this stuff up, it would be a really beautiful souvenir. You could sell them in the gift shop.”

Huh. It’s a good idea.

She tilts her head. “I think it’s a good idea.”

God she’s a damn mind reader now, is she?

“Let’s talk about it later,” he says, distracted as a new wave of customers come in.

“Don’t think I’ll forget,” she says, giving him a smile.

“Head injury permitting,” he says, leaning down to look her in her eyes.

She just grins.

—

Two days later and Brit is rubbing her temples as the dregs of her migraine make her groan. She never had them before, but holy cow, she was not prepared for how unpleasant they are.

A migraine is not just a headache. That’s observation one on her running list of things she knows about migraines now. There’s a throbbing at the back of her head that is a physical pain, and she’s even more sensitive to light than before.

There’s no way she’s going to be able to make it to the Lodge for lunch, not when even glancing at the window makes her brain want to explode into a million pieces.

The curtains are drawn in her little cabin of unending boredom, her head hurts, and she’s hungry, and those are the absolute only reasons she reaches for the little phone next to the bed and dials #1 to contact the main office.

“Barnard’s Resort,” comes John’s gruff, calm voice on the other end of the line.

“John, I am dying. Either that or I am turning into a ghost.”

There’s a beat. And then he says, “Oh, that’s no good.”

“Tell me about it. There’s a poltergeist in my brain and it is trying to kill me. What I’m saying is will you please come by and bring me some food?”

“And an Excedrin?” he suggests.

“You’re a beautiful man, you know that?”

She groans, covering her eyes with her arm and wondering if she could possibly perform some kind of DIY brain surgery. Surely you don’t need a brain. She could be sustained by boredom and beer alone, at this point.

His silence is the clue she needs to go back and re-think everything she just said.

“Oh,” she says, “Sorry.”

“No,” he says. “No it’s okay. I— look, I’ll be right by.”

Ten minutes later and she hears a soft knock at the door, followed by a gentle turn of the handle. He ducks in quick, shutting it behind him and thus preserving the blessed darkness.

“Hey, Miss Taylor,” he says.

“I think you should call me Brit at this point, don’t you?” she grumbles.

The cabin is dark, and she hears him walking carefully over.

“How bad is it?”

She sees the dim outline of him and feels the give of the creaky mattress as he sinks down next to her. He sets a plate of something next to her, but she doesn’t even look at it.

He is literally a sight for sore eyes. Dressed in a lightweight henley and faded jeans, he sits next to her on the bed, keeping a respectful distance.

God, she must look awful. Pale and wan and sitting in her cabin like a vampire.

But the low noise he makes when she groans isn’t laughter, it’s sympathy.

“I used to get them, too. Pretty bad. Here,” and he pulls out a water bottle and an individually wrapped paper packet. She takes both, ripping the packet and taking a gulp of the water before popping the pill. “Should help.”

She lays her head back, the pain throbbing even more. It’s like it knows she’s called in reinforcements, and it’s launching a hail Mary attack on her brain stem.

He clears his throat and makes to get up, but before she can stop herself she says, “Wait. Please.” He stops. He waits. “Don’t go?”

“You… don’t want me to go?”

“That’s what people mean when they say ‘don’t go’, yes,” she sighs, her pride stinging to beg him.  He appears to consider this for a second, his body looming and shadowy and cool in the half-light. Finally, he sits down.

“What do you need?”

Her relief is embarrassing.

“Can you… can you just talk? Quietly, like you do?”

“Talk about what?”

“Anything. Tell me about you.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I was thinking that your company probably shouldn’t host a wedding out here.”

Her heart sinks. “No?”

“It’s too far away,” he protests. “You’d… I mean you’d be inconvenienced. It’s like a forty minute drive.”

She shakes her head, which is a mistake. Wincing, she clears her throat as if that could somehow dislodge the ache between her ears. “It’s not too far. And I live in the North Loop. It’s probably not even that far. I mean, on weekends, you know. I could come up and help you set it up.”

“You should eat something,” he says, reaching across her to pick up the plate he’d brought her. “Are you nauseous?”

The feeling of his nearness is doing the exact opposite of nauseating her, because the heavens are cruel and have afflicted her with a concussion and a pathetic unrequited crush. He brings a french fry to her lips, salty and crisp with just the right amount of oil, and she doesn’t even try to stem the moan as she bites it.

His answering intake of breath is sharp. “Hungry?”

He brings another fry to her lips, and even in the dim room she can appreciate his big hands and his strong wrists. Who knew she could have a thing for a man’s wrist? 

“Famished,” she murmurs.

Unfortunately, there is no dignified way to eat french fries while laying prone with a floral-arrangement induced head injury, so she abandons all dignity and lets John Evans feed her french fry after french fry as they swap ideas for how they might turn the Lodge into an event space.

Turns out that he already has a fair amount of seating and tables, and his staff of teens are competent at setting up and taking down things like tents. It’s not a place that could host a very formal event, but for a couple who wanted something small and intimate, with great food and sunsets to write home about, it’s hard to imagine any place better.

But he’s still hesitant on the idea, and she finds that arguing with him about this distracts her from her misery.

“No, you’re not thinking about it right,” she interjects, when he brings up the idea of having a ceremony at the end of the dock again. “The guests couldn’t watch. It’s a special moment, you need to bring the guests close.”

“But think of the sunset through the arbor at the end of the dock,” he says.

She lifts her head in accusation. “Okay, no, imagine it on the beach! The chairs arranged around it, the sunset behind it. The bride would walk down the path, and the groom could stand on those flagstone pavers you have. Dressed in a white button down—”

“Oh,” he says, his voice quiet and understanding. “And the bride, she’d be framed up by the pines as she walked down to the beach.”

“Yes,” she enthuses. “It’s perfect. And we could have our guests in all the different cabins.”

“Yeah, but would your family really go for something like that?”

“Well, I mean my dad would bring his own mattress topper,” she says. “But—”

It’s like they both realize what they just said at the exact same time. He goes stiff as a board, she nearly chokes on her own shock.

“Oh—” she murmurs.

He gets up so fast she’s amazed he doesn’t take a tumble for once.

“I’m— I have to go,” he stammers.

“Wait,” she calls, but he’s already breaking for the door.

—

On the day she’s due to leave the resort, her migraine finally lifts. The throbbing pain, the sensitivity to bright lights all fade, and it’s like on the very last day of her imposed bed rest her brain finally decides to play nice.

Despite the clear head, she feels worse than ever. John has been avoiding her, dropping off food outside her door without coming inside and keeping to his work, rumbling away in the shed behind his house, banging on something and sawing something like he’s taking his frustration out on an unsuspecting tree trunk.

When she goes back to the main office to drop off the key for cabin thirteen, she’s half sure he’s going to be sitting there with that slow smile on his face. Except he’s not. Her dad is due to arrive any minute, and she’s starting to worry that John isn’t even going to say goodbye to her.

Maybe this is a sign and she should just cut her losses and leave. If he felt attracted to her, he probably doesn’t want to work with her. She should have taken the hint when he’d rebuffed her that night at the Lodge.

But… standing there, her suitcase in her hand, it feels like one of those moments. Like in a movie, where someone is going to the airport, and the other one tries to stop them. Except not at all, because she’s standing here in her cutest sundress, her hair swept back, wearing mascara for the first time in seven days because she was counting on getting to have one last encounter with John before she left.

Except he’s not here. Great.

Deciding that in this situation, she’s going to have to be the person chasing after the one going to the airport, she picks up her suitcase and walks out of the Lodge. The afternoon sun is bright on her face, but it doesn’t make her flinch like it did when she first came here. Turns out, all that rest did actually help.

She hears the sound of her own name and turns just in time to see John jogging towards her. He’s got a work belt on, his damn sleeves pushed up, his shaggy hair blowing in the wind as he closes the distance between them.

Brit straightens up, trying to give herself as much dignity as humanly possible.

“I was just getting ready to head out,” she says, going for a resolute and stoic expression like Ruth Bader Ginsberg.

He gives her a smile, and damn it, it’s bashful, all dimples and nervous energy.

“I was thinking about what you said,” he says, slowly. “About the wedding venue stuff.”

She kicks her foot in the dirt, giving up on trying to look like RBG. “It’s okay, I understand.”

“You… do?”

“Yeah, you don’t want to ruin a good thing with all the chaos of hosting a wedding. I get it. I wouldn’t want to work with me, either. I can’t even walk straight, let alone—”

“No, you’ve got it all wrong. It’s a good idea,” he insists, frowning.

She holds her hands up. “You don’t have to be nice.”

“I’m— I’m not nice, I was being serious,” he insists.

“Pity the poor guest with the head injury and the delusions of grandeur,” she sighs.

He eyes her flatly, brow set. She sees the exact moment he makes the decision. In one smooth motion he crosses to her, bends down, and picks her up. It’s like this is something he does all the time, his arms going under her knees and her back, carrying her—oh god— bridal style down the path towards the beach.

“You are the worst,” she squawks. “I can walk! The head injury is doing much better!”

Don’t trust you,” he says. “Plus, it makes my caveman brain happy.”

She’s about to argue with him when they clear the pines and come into view of the beach. It spreads out like a smile in front of her, a sweeping expanse of gray water and blue sky, the weathered dock reaching towards the horizon. And then she sees it.

An arbor. It’s unmistakable. Constructed right there in the beach sand, all weathered wood and softly curving angles that intersect right over where the couple would stand.

“What is that?” she whispers, forgetting to be embarrassed.

He sounds absurdly proud of himself as he says, “That is an arbor.”

And then he sets her down, her feet sinking into the sand, the sun beating down on her face. It feels too bright, but for the first time all week, the ringing in her ears has nothing to do with her concussion.

“You…. built an arbor?”

“Yeah. Took me a while but it was simple enough. You know, for the wedding. Weddings. That we can host here. Your clients.”

She turns to look at him, and he’s all big grins and pleased with himself.

“Really?” she whispers.

He shrugs. “I guess … I just knew that I liked you right away, Brit Taylor. I trust you. Let’s give it a go. And maybe… I could take you out to dinner sometime, or—”

She pushes her hat off, not caring where it lands, and crashes into John Evans on purpose. He catches her, and she pushes herself onto her toes and kisses him right there in front of the whole resort, the entire sky, and the picture-perfect arbor he built for her.

“You— you want to host a wedding with me?” 

Then, like it’s very simple, he looks her in the eyes, cups her face in his hand, and says, “Brit Taylor, I do.”