Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“You just threw away the list,” I gasp.
“Because it was unfairly biased.”
“Yes? And?”
We’re in a standoff over rules. This is my nightmare.
“I’m serious,” she says, marching over to the counter and dragging a notepad toward her. Manages to find an actual pen. “We need to establish mutual expectations.”
I roll my eyes, pulling out a stool and sitting. “That’s what I was doing.”
“No,” she says, uncapping the pen with a flourish like she’s about to sign a declaration of war. “What you were doing was dictating terms like a cranky landlord.”
I notch my chin up, too, uttering the words I know are going to piss her off. “You are a guest in this cabin.”
“I’m a co-renter,” she fires back. “Equal stake. Equal say.”
I lean against the counter. “Fine. But just so we’re clear, if you start labeling the fridge shelves, I’m walking into the lake.”
“No need. I already licked the hummus.” She doesn’t look up, just casually tosses that out like we’re not in the middle of a territorial standoff.
I blink. “You what?”
“Relax, Yeti. I’m joking.”
Yeti? Is she talking to me?
She scribbles across the top of the page Cabin Rules and Regulations in bold, blue letters.
“You’re giving it a name?”
“All treaties need a name.”
I try not to smile at her. “Nerd.”
“Rule one,” she says, tapping the pen against her lip. “We respect shared spaces.”
No-brainer. “No loud music, please don’t take calls on speaker. If you have to, do it outside.”
She nods along, making the notations on the paper. “Agree. I can’t stand loud noises.” Same. I almost say it, but she beats me to it and says, “I also can’t stand chewing. Or slurping. Or mouth breathing.”
“Now I feel attacked.”
Her eyes flick up. “Do you slurp?”
“No.” Yes—soup and coffee.
“Do you chew with your mouth open?”
“Absolutely not.” Sometimes, depending on what it is.
She taps her pen twice. “We’ll let you stick around, I guess—for now.”
I huff out a laugh and lean forward, elbows on the counter. “Rule two: bathroom courtesy. If you take longer than twenty minutes, I’m picking the lock.”
“Oh please,” she scoffs. “You were in there at least a half hour last night.”
“I was icing my knee!”
Annabelle snorts. “You can do that here, in the kitchen. Or outside.”
Is she micromanaging me? “Rule three: no horror movies after dark. I heard you watching one last night, and I swear it sounded like someone getting murdered in the living room.”
“That was The Bachelorette.”
I shrug. “I don’t see the difference.”
She gawks at me. “If you insult my shows, I’m changing the Wi-Fi password.”
“You don’t know the Wi-Fi password.” It’s printed on a sheet of paper, folded in a drawer next to the oven, but my lips are sealed.
“I’ll find it eventually. I’m crafty.”
I point my pen at her. “Rule four: If you have a problem with something, say it to my face. Don’t get buckie about it and sulk around the place like a child.”
Annabelle rears back, hands going up. “Whoa—tell me how you really feel.”
Okay. “I value honesty—even if it’s brutal.” Better still.
She narrows her eyes. “Great. No leaving your beard trimmings in the sink, it’s disgusting.”
I blink. “That happened once, and it was this morning.”
Her nose goes into the air, and she tilts her chin. “No beard trimmings in the sink.”
“Fine.” I scrawl it down. “Rule five: We don’t eat each other’s groceries without permission. I know my protein bars are tempting, but keep your hands off.”
“Puh-leaze. You think I want your stupid little sand bricks?” She feigns a gag, tongue and all. “Not a problem. I’d rather have my Double Stuf OREOs.”
I scrawl Oreos Are Off Limits in capital letters just to make her roll her eyes. She does.
“No barging into the bathroom without knocking.”
As if I would do that? Do I look like a fucking idiot? “Are you planning to leave the door unlocked?”
“I live alone. I’m used to doing whatever I want—I might forget!”
“Unacceptable,” I tell her, thumping my hand onto the counter. “If I see something I can’t unsee, that’s on you.”
“Oh please,” she sputters. “Like you’d be traumatized.”
She’s not wrong. The thought of accidentally catching her naked, with her tits out, doesn’t fill me with dread.
“That’s not the point.” I clear my throat. “No surprise boobs.”
She laughs, full and bright, leaning over the counter to jot it down. Smart-ass.
“Fine,” she concedes. “Then you can’t walk around in just a towel. Surprise abs are just as offensive as surprise boobs.”
“Offensive?” I echo, taking offense at that.
“No nudity. No partial nudity. Full pants and full shirts required in common areas.”
I clear my throat. “You know this only works if we’re both abiding by it.”
She pauses mid-scribble, cheeks pinking. “Obviously.”
“So what I hear you saying is, no skinny-dipping?”
“Obviously,” she repeats.
I lean back on the stool, folding my arms. “Good to know. I’ll keep my cannonballs fully clothed.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “Do not cannonball.”