Secret Triplets(9)

 

“I saw you in town,” I blurted out. “I thought you were cute and wanted to bring these to see if you’d—I don’t know—want to go on a date sometime?”

 

Once the stupidity was done escaping my lips, I lowered my gaze in horror, unable to believe what idiocy had just come out of my mouth.

 

There was a long silence, during which I stared at his scuffed-up boots, the brown creased with dirt and slashes. If he found out who I was, this would all be over.

 

“Oh.”

 

He didn’t sound angry, only surprised. I chanced a look up to see a tinge of a blush visible through his beard.

 

His maple, wide-set eyes were scanning me distrustfully.

 

“Okay, well, do you want to come in for some tea or something?”

 

This time his voice was guarded, and when I managed a shy nod and stepped up to the door, he stepped in front of me.

 

He put his hand on my coat zipper. “Do you mind? Way out in the woods like this, every once in a while I get some crazies.”

 

I nodded dumbly, and he unzipped my jacket, pulling away one side and then the other while I kept my embarrassed gaze on those same boots that were pointed in my direction. Then, after peering into my bakery bag, Brock stepped back, opened the door, and gestured inside.

 

“I’m Brock, by the way.”

 

“Alexa,” I said as I walked in, glad he couldn’t make out my face.

 

I had never been a good liar, and while “Alexa” was the littlest of lies there were, I wouldn’t have put it past him to see right through it regardless.

 

Behind me, Brock flicked on the light, revealing an interior I had to take a minute to fully absorb. Though sparsely furnished, each piece of furniture was so pleasing that I had to give myself time to enjoy each. The floor, walls, and ceiling were the same gleaming oak. The stove was a pale yellow, antique wonder, while his fridge was wooden and also intricately carved. The stack of books in the corner was something of a well-worn Leaning Tower of Pisa. Just visible at the top of a ladder was a loft with cozy-looking swaths of blankets.

 

Yet the highlight of the cabin was the paintings that lined the walls: exquisitely rendered pine trees and birches, sprigs of bluebells and forget-me-nots, a curious, alert chickadee.

 

“Living here, I forget how lucky I have it,” Brock said with a soft chuckle, walking by me to the one cupboard.

 

He opened it to reveal two plates, two cups, a handful of cutlery, and a kettle, which he took down and placed on the stove.

 

“It really is something,” I said.

 

“Yeah. I don’t have visitors much,” he said softly, picking up the kettle and then putting it down again. “Actually, I don’t have visitors at all.”

 

He turned around, and I found my gaze once again irresistibly drawn to his boots.

 

“I know what I did, following you here, seems crazy,” I said. “It even seems crazy to me. It’s just that once I got started, once I got halfway up that arduous path, after I’d gone that far, it seemed too late to turn back. You know what I mean?”

 

My quiet appeal was made to Brock’s worn boots; I still wouldn’t look up.

 

“Yes. Yes, I do actually,” he said softly.

 

When I did look up, there was something in his eyes that told me he was just as serious as he had sounded.

 

Turning back to the stove, he turned a creaky dial and then kicked off his boots.

 

“I’m sorry. I’ve just had a crazy past few months. I’m not much used to people; that’s all.”

 

I nodded and took off my own boots.

 

“Nice socks,” he said.

 

I laughed, glancing down at the navy, periwinkle and cyan swooshes of water with the little splashes of white flowers.

 

“Forgot I wore my water lily ones.”

 

“So you like Monet?”

 

“Like isn’t the right word exactly. I’d say love is more like it.”

 

“So you’re into art then?”

 

His eyes were scanning me once more, this time with excitement more than anything.

 

“Yeah,” I said. “I took a course in high school, and the rest is history. Though I have pretty dated tastes, I like the pretty things, the Romanticism, the Impressionists, the Realism, like…”

 

My gaze went to the chickadee painting on his wall.

 

“Like the paintings on my walls?”

 

“Yeah, actually. They’re beautiful. Where’d you get them?”

 

“I made them,” he said, and now it was my turn to gape at him.

 

“You…made them?”

 

“Yeah. I—”