Wondering why she hadn’t learned her lesson the first time she rode up this awful road, Marie felt a wave of nausea as she stepped out of Stan’s pickup truck. The dust from the gravel was still settling in the humid air, coating the surrounding pines in a fine, gray powder.

“Honestly, Stan, I feel like throwing up,” she muttered, leaning against the warm metal of the door. She wished her cousin Lisa were there to commiserate with, but for now, she just needed to get to the cabin pronto to keep her breakfast down.

“I’m sorry, Hon.” Stan sounded genuinely contrite. One of these days, he needed to bring the Caterpillar back in here to smooth the road out—a road grader would be even better. The combination of the deep ruts, the sharp curves, and the lingering smell of fuel in the cab had clearly done a number on his wife.

Sighing softly, he began moving their gear toward the porch. He felt a twinge of guilt; he’d coaxed her into this weekend trip under the guise of "critical" roof repairs, but looking at her pale face, he realized the road had to become the new priority. Maybe that’s why their friends hadn't come along? Melissa had claimed she was "busy," but Stan chuckled to himself now. They probably just didn't want to lose a tailpipe on the way to a barbecue.

By the time Marie reappeared from the cabin, she looked transformed. The nausea had vanished, replaced by a "saucy" confidence that Stan knew all too well. She had changed into what she called her ‘Daisy Duke’ shorts, and they were unmistakably flattering in every way she’d intended.

Stan’s eyes fell immediately to her legs. He wasn't a man of many words, but Marie saw the fire in his gaze and felt that familiar thrill. He was her Prince Charming—rugged, reserved, and entirely hers. He was the one person who accepted her exactly as she was, "naughty" streak and all. Tonight, she decided, she was going to knock his block off.

“Well, I’d best get up there and get it done,” Stan said, gesturing to the roof. “Roofs don’t repair themselves.”

“'Kay,” she said, flashing a seductive smile that all but reached into his pants. “I’m gonna get some sun.”

The Distraction

Stan leaned the ladder against the eaves and climbed up with his tool belt rattling. He found the culprit quickly: a heavy limb from a recent storm had punctured a clean hole near the chimney. He set to work, but the peace of the afternoon was short-lived.

Marie emerged from the cabin again, this time wearing a white bikini that fit her lovely shape to perfection. She looked up at him, squinting against the bright sky.

“Hey, big boy,” she called out. “Have any time to repair me?”

Stan’s grin broadened. He removed his hat and began a mock bow from the roof—only to feel his boot slip on the shingles. He scrambled for a second, catching his balance just in time.

“Watch out!” she laughed, her voice like music. “I don’t know how to repair you if you fall off the roof!”

She strolled across the lush grass toward the small boat dock—a project Stan and her cousin had finished a few months back. With a graceful dive, she disappeared into the lake. The water felt like ice at first, but she surfaced with a gasp of joy, looking back at her husband as he attacked the roof with renewed gusto.

Stan was "hard" at work now, in more ways than one. The sound of his circular saw pierced the air as he cut out the damaged section. Sawdust blew into his face in a cloud of cedar shards, but his eyes kept drifting toward the dock.

Marie had returned from her swim. She spread a blanket over the warm boards and reached for her tanning lotion. Then, with deliberate slowness, she untied her bikini top and set it aside, letting the sunlight kiss her skin. She slathered the oil over her body until she gleamed like bronze.

It had the desired effect. Stan looked down, his heart hammering. It wasn't fair how easily she could unravel his focus. He tried to hammer in a brace for the new board, his mind miles away from the carpentry.

WHACK.

“Ouch! Dang bust it!”

Stan dropped the hammer, sucking on his thumb like a two-year-old. He examined the damage; his thumbnail was already turning a lovely shade of royal purple. That’s your fault, he mouthed toward the dock. He knew if he said it out loud, she’d just laugh and tell him his aim needed practice.

Settling back into the task, he kept one eye on her. He watched as she lay on her back, her hands occasionally flickering over her nipples in the sun. He worked faster now, the sound of his hammer echoing off the hills until the final shingle was in place.

Full Speed Ahead

Stan descended the ladder for the last time, his boots clomping loudly as he strode across the yard toward the water. Marie looked up, squinting.

“All done?” she asked.

Stan nodded, his deep voice rumbling. “All done. But don’t blame me if you get slivers in your butt from these boards. You’ve been provoking me all afternoon.”

Marie’s laughter pealed into the air. “Me? Provoke you?” She lifted her legs as he knelt down, helping him tug away the rest of her bikini.

In a playful homage to a famous naval line, she giggled, “Damn the slivers! Full speed ahead!”

Stan didn't need to be told twice. He kicked off his work clothes, leaving them in a heap. As he knelt between her creamy thighs on the hard boards of the dock, the world around them seemed to fade. He felt powerful and enormous within her, and she welcomed every bit of him, her high-pitched cries gasping out as she arched against his chest. They forgot about the slivers. For a few frantic, beautiful minutes, they were the only two people in the world.

The Storm and the Shelter

The silence that followed was deafening. Eventually, Stan withdrew, his knees a bright "cherry-red" from the friction of the wood.

“Wow,” Marie breathed, flashing him a triumphant smile. She traced a fingertip along her skin, tasting the salt of their passion. “Tastes good, lover.”

They walked back to the cabin together as the sky began to bruise with purple clouds. Inside, the air smelled of cedar and the faint dampness of the water stain on the ceiling. Stan sat at the kitchen table, a bag of frozen peas balanced on his throbbing thumb.

Marie, now wrapped in one of his oversized flannel shirts, looked up at the ceiling stain. “You know,” she said, "I think that stain is a badge of honor. A reminder of the day the roof—and your focus—gave way.”

The sun hadn't been down for two hours before the humidity broke. What started as a low rumble over the ridge turned into a strobe light show of jagged lightning, followed by a rhythmic drumming on the shingles.

“Listen to that,” Marie whispered, watching the rain blur the windowpane. “You think the patch will hold?”

Stan stood up, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “It better. If I took a hammer to my own thumb for a roof that still leaks, I’m retiring from carpentry forever.”

They both stared at the water stain. Five minutes passed. Ten. The storm raged, throwing sheets of water against the cabin, but the spot on the ceiling remained bone-dry.

“See?” Stan rumbled. “Told you. A little distraction just makes me work faster.”

Marie turned in his arms, her eyes dark and playful. “Fast is fine for roofs, Stanley. But since we’re trapped here...” She trailed her fingers down his chest. “I think I’d prefer the slow version for the interior 'repairs' we discussed.”

He let out a deep, gravelly chuckle, lifting her easily as the rain redoubled its efforts outside. The road out was likely a river of mud by now, and they weren't going anywhere until the sun came up