4. Abbie
Abbie
Abbie
I’m not sorry that Reed stays quiet in one of the big armchairs all morning. Sleeping…or maybe he passed out. Not sure. He stirs around noon, just as I start thinking about lunch. Something that’ll be easy on his stomach. Last night, he looked as if he might puke at any second. He didn’t eat anything this morning, either. So best to make a meal that’ll be as easy going down as it is coming up, just in case he can’t keep it down.
Combined with the snow outside, seems like it’s the perfect day for minestrone. And if it turns out Reed doesn’t like soup…well, fuck him. He can eat it or he can starve. I don’t care.
I pull out my knife and get started on the vegetables. Cooking is something I enjoy, though I haven’t done it much lately. Not at home. But thinking of home and all the reasons I’ve preferred to eat at restaurants the past year and a half—to be anywhere but home the past eighteen months—makes my stomach fill with lead. Because this time in Harris’s cabin is a godsend…but these two weeks won’t last forever. Real life will intrude again. The voices of my mom and sister will intrude again, and they’ll tell me I’m not making the minestrone right (as if there’s one right way to make it), that I’m making too much (as if there’s no such thing as leftovers), and that next time we should all agree on what to eat together (as if my vote would even matter.)
I won’t think of them, though. Not now. I won’t think of what awaits me when I return home. I’ll just enjoy my time here, because even with a concussed Reed Knowles taking up a good portion of the air in this cabin, he’s been less terrible than spending five minutes in their company is.
To be fair, though, he’s been sleeping most of that time. He’s just as horrible—or worse—when he’s conscious. And, god help me, when he’s talking .
He actually admitted to being glad that my mom’s house was bulldozed. That he went to watch it happen. Admitted it. And waved off the underhanded way his dad got his hands on the property. It’s no surprise the Knowles men are trash. But for fuck’s sake. Reed had to realize that was also my childhood home. It doesn’t matter that I got out of there the second I turned eighteen. He couldn’t know that. So the indifferent manner of his admission was simply staggering.
Oh, and now my blood’s up. But I will not commit murder. I won’t.
But only because it’s Christmas. And hiding a body is not in my Yuletide plans.
I plonk bowls onto the table and yank a pair of crusty French rolls out of the oven ( not baked by me; I enjoy cooking but my bread always has the density of a white dwarf star.) And, okay—the soup smells amazing, and the bread smells even more amazing—and somehow those two things take the sharpest edge off my anger.
This will be the best Christmas ever. It will. Even if only because of the food.
“Lunch is ready,” I announce. Then because I’m not a monster—unlike a certain abominable asshole with the last name of Knowles—I grab his chair from beside the bed and return it to the table.
Though awake, Reed still seems half out of it when he lurches out of the armchair to join me. His leg obviously pains him. His breath hisses each time he puts weight on it—which he barely does. And though stubble covers most of his jaw, the rest of his face is flushed. At first I thought it was either from the effort of crossing the cabin or the heat from sitting in front of the fire, but even after he eases into his seat at the table, his cheekbones retain a reddish hue. Then there’s his hand, which trembles slightly while bringing the spoon to his lips.
He takes a bite and his gaze lifts to mine. I brace myself for whatever shit he’s about to say.
“That’s damn good.”
Well, well, well. Christmas miracle number two. Three, if I count his mumbled tit-tiddler apology.
But I don’t think I’ll count that. As apologies go, it wasn’t much of one.
I’ll be polite, though. “Thank you.” Asshole.
“Thank you . I know you don’t have to. And don’t want to.” He glances toward the fridge while I’m still fighting the urge to declare how very much I don’t want to. “Do you have enough food for both of us, however long this snow lasts?”
Does he think I wouldn’t have enough sense to ration if I didn’t have enough? Is the big man with the ouchy leg going to take charge here?
Eyes narrowed, I ask, “What are you going to do if I don’t?”
“Go out and hunt a bear.”
I stare at him. He can’t be serious. But it’s hard to tell. He doesn’t return my stare. Instead he’s calmly looking down at his bowl, tearing a bite from the roll and dipping it into his soup.
Maybe he is serious? His tone was even, as if hunting a bear was a completely normal thing to do. And he did whack his head pretty hard.
“A bear,” I finally echo, keeping my tone as even as his was. “With what weapon, I wonder? Will you whittle a spear?”
“I’ll just do it with my bare hands.”
No. He did not just make that joke. I regard him in horror. There was no emphasis on bare and yet…his expression is bland, too bland. Then his mouth kicks up at one corner. God help me. He knew it was terrible, but he did it anyway.
But I’m not going to laugh. Or even smile. I’ll never give anyone named Knowles the satisfaction.
Despite that resolution, almost thirty seconds pass before I trust myself to speak without betraying how near I came to chortling. “Well, luckily for you—I brought enough food for both of us. More than enough.”
“Glad to hear. I’ll pay you back for the portion I eat,” he says, suddenly grimacing. He reaches up toward his head.
“Don’t,” I say sharply. He stops and looks at me. “There’s a lump, but there’s also a cut. Wash your hands before you touch it. I suppose I should put on more antibiotic cream, too.”
That’s how I end up close to him again, though this time standing behind his chair instead of between his thighs. But still close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body as I dab the cream onto his scalp.
Capping the tube, I move around to study his face. Aside from the red flush over his cheekbones, his skin seems leached of color, with a gray undertone beneath his tan.
“No offense,” I tell him, “but you look like shit.”
Reed blinks slowly, as if his attention wasn’t all there until I spoke to him. He focuses on me. “None taken, because I feel like shit.”
“Worse or better than this morning?”
“The pain’s better. Not great, but better. Overall, I’m just…tired.”
“What about pukey?”
“Not anymore.”
“That’s good, at least. I can’t be sure, because I don’t have a thermometer, but I think you’ve got a fever.”
“A fever,” he echoes with a short laugh. “So I haven’t been blushing all morning.” When I don’t respond to that, since I hadn’t noticed any blushing in the first place, he eventually adds, “Thank you for lunch.”
“You’re welcome.” I snag the ibuprofen off the counter and return to my seat. “These should help with the fever—and it’s time for another dose. Then maybe go back to bed.”
He nods without argument. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
I bite back my knee-jerk ‘none of your fucking business.’ If he can thank me, then I can also mind my manners. Besides, he’s too sick to fight back. I might be vicious, but I’m not going to pick on someone weaker than I am.
And I suspect that he only asked because he’s reluctant to stand up again. Delaying, because either his head or his leg hurts and he doesn’t want to move yet.
I suppose I can help him delay. And what am I going to do? Dishes, first. After that? No idea. The tree decorations are finished but I can’t go outside for a tree yet. I’d planned to fill most of my free time working on a new thrift-store canvas, but I won’t paint while Reed Knowles is here. Even if he’s sleeping. I just…don’t want to open myself to anything he has to say. In general, I can take a lot of shit and my skin is fairly thick, but my art is one of my vulnerable points. I’m not going to put it on display where he can poke at it.
That leaves one option to fill the time. “I’ll read, probably.”
His eyes, which seemed a little glazed, sharpen with pointed interest. He indicates Harris’s small collection with a tilt of his head.
“One of those books over there?”
I shake my head. “I have some downloaded to my phone.”
He appears disappointed by that answer. Then a strange expression rolls over his features. Almost like embarrassment but not quite. “Good choice.”
I don’t know if he means reading is a good choice or if not reading one of Harris’s books is a good choice (which I’d already decided, because even if my tastes ran in that direction, horror is a bit too on the nose in an isolated cabin). But the way Reed’s eyelids droop, as if he’s about to lose consciousness right there, makes all thought of reading material fly out of my head.
“Reed,” I say and am relieved when he immediately meets my eyes. “Seriously. You do not look good. You should get into bed before that fever gets worse.”
“I know it.” He rubs his forehead. “But I’m going to take a shower first. See if some cold water helps cool me down.”
A cold shower seems crazy to me—but to each their own, I guess. “Don’t wash your hair. You’ll just wash out the antibiotic cream.”
“Good call. I wouldn’t have thought of that until I was already doing it.”
“And leave the door unlocked.” When his brows lift, I explain, “In case you pass out.”
He doesn’t even pretend that’s not a possibility. “If you hear a big thump, I’d appreciate a rescue.”
“Not sure if I’ll be able to rescue you, but I can at least turn off the water. I should warn you, though: if you see Hot Biscuit Slim about to use the litter in there, do whatever you must to save yourself. I’m not braving that. Just try not to breathe for about ten minutes.”
He lifts a brow and glances over at my cat. Hot Biscuit Slim has usurped the seat of his armchair, sitting up with a lower leg extended like an exotic dancer’s while he licks his belly. “It’s that bad?”
“Not most of the time, not since I switched him over to grain free. But every once in a while he’ll sneak food he’s not supposed to eat and the stench reaches catastrophic levels. Unfortunately, that includes yesterday and the day before. I’m not sure if his system is cleared out yet. But it’s seriously toxic.”
“Yet you survived.”
“Only because I’ve built up some immunity. The first week after I adopted him, I was unconscious more often than not. So I’m not sure what horrors would happen to you if you’re ever locked in a small bathroom with him.”
His lips twitch. “Consider me sufficiently warned.”
About twenty minutes later, I wish that someone had sufficiently warned me . Not about Hot Biscuit Slim, but about what my poor little eyes would witness when Reed emerges from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel around his hips.
I wasn’t sure the small water heater could supply the bathroom and the kitchen at the same time, so I haven’t started on the dishes yet. Instead I’m still seated at the table, scrolling through the library on my phone, when the bathroom door opens—and there he is.
Half naked. And built like a lumberjack, for fuck’s sake.
The thermal base layers he’d worn earlier hugged his body like a second skin, so I knew what he was working with. Every bit of Reed Knowles is solid. Thick. Not as ridiculously defined as a dehydrated superhero but not soft, either.
Yet if I’d been asked whether I’d pictured anything beneath those thermal layers—I hadn’t, because it was Reed Knowles—but if I’d been asked, I’d have said he probably looks like a Ken doll underneath. Smooth and shiny and fake.
Ha ha. Yeah, no.
He’s hairy.
And not in the way he should be hairy, with a carpet on his back and sprouting from the tops of his toes, with a sparse scraggle poking out around his nipples. Life just isn’t that fair. Because he’s the good kind of hairy—the kind that seems to emphasize the breadth of his chest and the strength of his legs, and of course he’s got one of those yummy lines arrowing down the center of abdomen.
Maybe I should have known. Especially since he’s sporting heavy stubble on his jaw that wasn’t there last night. I should have realized he wasn’t smooth and shiny. But I didn’t think about it. So I’m not prepared for how lust grabs hold of my innards at the mere sight of him.
A few breathless, horrible moments of unbridled lust.
It doesn’t last, because he begins a halting progress toward the bed. I might be vicious, but seeing someone so obviously in pain inspires the opposite of a panty drenching.
“Did the shower help?”
“A little.” Reed reaches the bed and eases down to sit on the edge. “I won’t have clean clothes until I get my pack, so I washed what I was wearing and hung them over the towel rod to dry. Feel free to move them if you need to.”
“I will.”
He pulls back the covers on the bed. The muscles in his arm and shoulder flex and I lock my eyes on my phone, not at all interested in what’s happening over on that side of the cabin. Nope. Not at all. I’m absolutely not aware of the creak of the bedframe as I pick a book at random. I’m absolutely not imagining anything .
Then I don’t have to imagine, because he hisses in a sharp breath. Instinctively I look up to see what hurt him—his leg. He’s swinging his injured leg up onto the bed. His towel is hanging on the bedpost. And I get an eyeful of cock. A large eyeful. Even though it’s flaccid…and following a cold shower.
I drag my gaze away. But I can still see it.
God help me.
I am inoculated against good looks. I’m not so immune to a male body that’s tall and strong and thick (and good hairy), especially if all of his appendages are in tall and strong and thick proportion to the rest of him.
Reed Knowles has no place in the best Christmas ever. What’s between his thighs, however, might be the perfect gift for anyone interested in getting their stocking stuffed.
I’m not. Despite the tightening under my belly. Despite the liquid warmth pooling down low. Despite the way my imagination just went into overdrive.
I’m not lusting after him . I’m lusting after that dick. That’s totally normal. After all, it’s been a while since I’ve gotten any that didn’t run on batteries.
It’s also not a state that will change anytime soon. Not with him. So I won’t think about his overlarge appendage anymore. I’m just going to focus on my book.
And I do focus. I stare at the first page for a long time.
But I don’t read a single word.
Night falls. A few more hours pass. I make dinner. Reed hasn’t moved.
Leaden dread fills my stomach. Is he sicker than I realized? He hasn’t shifted around on the bed. Not once.
Is he dead?
I should never have a baby. I don’t even like Reed, but I’m still tiptoeing over to check whether he’s breathing. A kid that I loved would never get any sleep with me hovering over them.
My heart thudding, I lean over his mouth and listen. There. A breath. Then another.
He’s not dead.
My relief is short-lived when I place my hand on his forehead. Even without a thermometer, there’s no doubt. His fever is much worse.
Shit. I rush across the cabin, grab the ibuprofen and fill a glass of water.
“Reed!” I urgently whisper-hiss his name, then realize I don’t need to be quiet. The point is to wake him up. “Reed!”
He mumbles and turns his head.
“Reed! You’re burning up! Sit up for a minute.”
His eyes open and he manages a disoriented, “Huh?”
“Come on, sit up. Your fever is worse, so you need to take this medicine.”
His eyelids squeeze shut. “Head hurts.”
“The medicine will help that, too. Come now, let’s get you up.”
It takes another minute to elevate him high enough to take the pills and water. I help his shaking hand support the glass through a few swallows.
He’s still completely out of it when we’re done. He looks around the cabin, blinking in confusion.
“Harris?”
“He’s not here.”
He focuses his bleary gaze on me. “Abbie.”
“That’s me.” I still can’t believe he remembered my name.
“You’re not pretty.”
Oh fuck. That cuts deep. It shouldn’t. I don’t care what this asshole thinks of me. But it still hurts and I jerk back from the bed as if stabbed.
“Vibrant.” He lies back onto his pillow and a blissful expression comes over his face as he regards me. “That’s the word I was looking for. Not pretty. You’re vibrant . Like a fire. Burning warm and bright. Alive. A-lively.” His brow furrows. “Lovely. Beautiful.”
Usually when I’m blindsided, I laugh and joke to cover any nervousness or disbelief. But Reed knocks me so far past ‘surprised’ that I flip all the way back around to serious.
“You must be really sick.” It’s the only explanation for what he just said.
“I’m hot.” A plaintive note enters his voice, and I suddenly have an image of him as a three year old. He begins pushing off the blankets.
Before he reveals more than his bare stomach, I grab half the covers and pull them back up. “I know you’re hot, but the cabin will get very cold soon.” My god, I’m even talking to him like he’s a three year old. “So at least keep the sheet and this blanket on. And I’ve got a wet washcloth here, see? It’s nice and cool. We’ll put it on your forehead. How does that feel?”
His eyes close. “Feels better.”
“Good.” You big man-baby. “Do you want anything to eat before you go back to sleep?”
“Just you. I’d eat you up.” A little smile curls his lips. “I bet you’d be sweet.”
Blindsided again. “Sweet? Have you met me?”
“You’re taking care of me. That’s sweet.”
“That doesn’t mean I would be,” I say dryly. “I’m far more tart than sweet.”
“Piquant, then. All over my tongue.”
He’s wearing a blissful expression again, with his eyes closed and that little smile curving his mouth. His breath evens out. Already asleep—while my heart is thundering away. I stare at him, a million naughty thoughts racing through my head.
The naughtiest and worst of them all: Maybe he’s not so bad.
I whirl away from the bed. Am I really trying to make myself believe Reed Knowles is a better person just because he said I was vibrant? And beautiful? And because I think he suggested that he’d enjoy eating me out, though it’s far more likely that he has cannibalistic tendencies?
I’m not that na?ve. Or that susceptible to flattery. I’m not.
It’s just…it is pleasant to hear a kind word now and then. Though I’d rather hear those compliments from someone I care about, not from a mortal enemy. Maybe I’m trying to make him into a better person so that his words matter more. So I can take them to heart and believe them.
But I know better than that. Every shitty boyfriend I’ve ever had knew how to say nice things, and the ones who cheated were especially good at it. Hell, even my mother knows how to say nice things. But her compliments always come with an agenda attached, so the real trick is figuring out what she wants.
What I want is for those kind words to be genuine . Though I suppose Reed spoke the truth, because he seemed too disoriented to manipulate or lie. That doesn’t make him a good guy.
And I don’t need to make him into one.
As for the rest of those naughty thoughts, they truly don’t matter. Nothing will come of them. Because when a Knowles and a Walker get together, the only outcome is death and disaster. I don’t need that in my life.
Reed wouldn’t want it, either. No question of that. Sure, in a feverish delirium, he confessed to finding me physically attractive. So what? I think he’s physically attractive, too. Not that I would ever admit it. If I was sick or drunk, though, could it slip out? Sure.
But I won’t take any attraction seriously. And I won’t think about it anymore. Because he’s Reed Knowles. Gorgeous on the outside, hideous on the inside. Not to mention, experiencing a jolt of animal lust isn’t the same as wanting someone.
And I could never—absolutely never ever ever —want him.
By the time I’ve showered, dried my hair in front of the fire, and prepared for bed, Reed’s temperature seems to be lower. Though he pushed them off earlier, I tuck the comforter and quilt up around his shoulders—I know he’s feverish, but it truly freezes in here when the fire is low, and I suspect exposure to the cold would be worse for him than the extra warmth.
That done, I carefully crawl over his sleeping form and onto my side of the bed. It’s already toasty warm between the sheets. The first night, without him, I lay shivering under the covers until my body heat warmed everything up.
So I guess Reed being here isn’t all bad. Just mostly bad.
Ugh. And I can’t settle. I can’t even blame Reed, because I didn’t have the same trouble last night after he’d come stumbling in out of the storm. I simply ignored his presence until I fell asleep. When I gave him any thought, it was to hope he wouldn’t die. I had no awareness of him as an attractive man who was sharing my bed.
I’m aware now, though. Disturbingly conscious of how he’s right beside me, big and hairy and naked.
My heart nearly stops when he murmurs in his sleep and turns onto his side, facing the middle of the bed. Almost touching me.
What will I do if he does touch me? What if, while gripped by another feverish delirium, he says I’m pretty— No, not pretty. Vibrant. Alive. Lovely. And while out of his mind, what if he reaches for me? Tries to kiss me? Rolls on top of me, pushing between my thighs, his big stiffened cock seeking a way inside? Would I shove him off the bed? Slap him awake?
Let him?
That thought shames me enough to break out of the fantasy. Of course I wouldn’t let him. Not while he’s in a delirious state. It would be the same as taking advantage of someone who’s intoxicated.
“Abbie?” he mumbles softly.
I can hardly breathe. “Yes?”
No answer. Asleep again.
I lie on my back, listening to the quiet crackle of the fire. Watching the dancing light and shadows on the ceiling. Clenching my thighs tight, so tight, because everything inside is aching.
I really wish Reed hadn’t said I was beautiful.
So it’s kind of his fault that I turn toward the wall, putting as much space between us as I can before slipping my hand into my panties. I slide two fingers over my clit—god, I’m already so slick. Closing my eyes, I try to picture anyone except Reed. But my mind doesn’t obey and within seconds he’s got my knees shoved wide and his cock sinking deep, deep, that heavy, thick body pushing me down into the mattress, his hands hard and grasping my hips, using his full strength to power each devastating thrust. Until I can’t take any more, can’t take it, and I?—
I come with my teeth digging into my pillow. Silently, so silently. My entire body shaking. Praying I don’t wake him.
He doesn’t stir.
When my breathing returns to normal, I roll onto my back again, marveling over what I just did. That was the fastest I’ve ever come. And I did it while fantasizing about being fucked by the man who bulldozed my mother’s house.
I might be a terrible person.
But I’m also blissfully relaxed now, and wonderfully sleepy. So I’ll worry about how terrible I am in the morning.