The next week is the most surreal week of my life. I settle into Kyle’s cabin—a surprisingly cozy home with a wraparound deck that’s a short ways behind the bar, tucked away in the trees. It’s nothing like the sparse bachelor pad I would have pictured for him; there are squashy sofas and bookcases crammed with paperbacks, and the cranky bar boss has strung bird feeders in the nearest branches and wrapped string lights around his deck rail.
It’s cute as hell. Like something I might have cut out of a magazine when I went through that vision board phase.
So, yeah: it’s been seven days of learning where Kyle’s mugs and plates and spoons are in the kitchen; of secretly sniffing his shampoo in the shower and then stretching out in his bed and picturing his bare skin against the sheets. Seven d
