Under the Northern Lights(32)

He nodded, then adjusted what bin he was going for. “Crib it is then.”

It took me a while to get reacquainted with the game; I hadn’t played in over fifteen years, back when I was a teenager. But considering we had nothing to do for the bulk of the day but play, after a couple of afternoons of snowed-in conditions, I was damn near an expert.

“I win. Again.”

Michael frowned at my statement. “You really shouldn’t brag. It’s not becoming.”

He gave me a one-sided grin after his statement that was both alluring and mischievous; there had been a lot of smiles over the past forty-eight hours of captivity as we both became more and more comfortable with each other. Our stares were longer, and we always seemed to be brushing against each other. Michael’s nearness, combined with the inability to leave the cabin for an extended amount of time, was slowly driving me crazy. I just couldn’t tell if it was a bad kind of crazy, or a really, really good one.

Reaching out, I touched his arm as I laughed. “And you shouldn’t be making moonshine in your backyard, but you do. It’s darn good too.” We’d dug into his stash early this morning and had been sipping on it all day. It helped ease the boredom, but it was also dissolving all the awkward inhibitions between us. Again, I didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing. Playfully pushing my cup toward him, I grinned and said, “Fill ’er up.”

Michael let out a beleaguered sigh as he moved to stand up. It was clearly fake, though. He was having a good time, same as me. As his arm pulled away from me, his hand flipped over so our fingers touched. The connection, however small, sent a zing of electricity up my spine. What would it be like to have those fingers touching me everywhere? It was a thought I tried to never have, but my resistance was crumbling the longer we stayed in our cramped quarters.

I bit my lip as I watched Michael saunter over to the long counter to grab the large mason jar holding his homemade moonshine. I could tell from the ease of his steps that he was feeling the effects of the alcohol; we should both probably stop soon, before we regretted it.

Walking back to the table, Michael flashed a grin at me before pouring the clear liquid into my cup; most of it made it inside. He moved on to his cup, refilling it just as full as mine; then he returned the jar to the counter. My heart started beating harder as I stared at him returning to me. His eyes were locked on me, too, and a blazing heat passed back and forth between us, over and over in an escalating rhythm.

When he sat back down, his chair was much closer to mine than it had been; he even had to move his drink closer to himself. My skin pebbled at the thought of sticking my hand out and placing it on his thigh. Would he let me? Or would he instantly back away? I wasn’t sure, so I stayed where I was. It was torture.

Rolling his head my way, he put on a playful frown. “Ready for another win?” he asked.

“Always,” I answered, angling my body closer to him; our heads were almost touching now. His nearness and his comment made a carefree smile erupt on my face. He was right about my winning streak—I was on a rampage. But even still, I’d yet to see any signs of true irritation from him. For someone who claimed to be a sore loser, he’d handled my multiple wins exceedingly well . . . almost too well.

I frowned as I twisted to face him; his eyes slipped down my body before returning to my face, and a warmth deeper than the moonshine filled me. I had a legitimate concern, though. “You’re not letting me win, are you?”

Michael smiled as he leaned toward me. “Really? I was just about to ask you if you were cheating,” he stated. “How do you keep getting such great cards? It’s a little suspicious, if you ask me.” His lips curled into a frown, and the effect tantalized me. God, with so much tension swirling around us, if we stayed cooped up for much longer . . . who knew what could happen. And that, I knew, would be bad.

Trying to be discreet, I minutely pulled away. His comment made me smile, though. He’d also wondered if maybe things were being rigged. Sometimes our minds were closely synced. Too closely synced. “Today is just my lucky day, I guess. If only I’d been so lucky a month ago . . .” A brief swell of sadness stole my smile. It had been over a month now . . . everyone must know by now that something had gone wrong. They were worrying about me, right at this moment. And with this weather, they couldn’t search for me. Not until spring.

Michael slightly pulled away, too, and I felt some of that wondrous tension dissolving as my mood sank. He studied me while he shuffled the cards for another round. Then, as he began to deal them, he softly said, “I think you were lucky a month ago too. I saw the wreckage, Mallory—you shouldn’t have survived that.” He pursed his lips, then nodded to my cross and said, “Someone was looking out for you.”

It was clearly difficult and uncomfortable for him to say that. He had a . . . jaded view of faith. It made his words even more moving and profound; it gave them weight that I couldn’t ignore, and while I’d thought several times that I was blessed, his simple comment truly sent the message home. For whatever reason, I was meant to crash and meant to live. It was a humbling, powerful, encouraging thought, one that made me feel closer to God. And closer to Michael. “You’re right,” I quietly responded.

Since I meant he was right on both counts—that I’d been sent down and saved by forces I couldn’t even begin to understand—I didn’t clarify my answer. I knew enough about Michael to know he wouldn’t want to talk about the spiritual implications. He looked even more uncomfortable as he absorbed my answer, and he took a long swig of his moonshine.