5. Reed
Reed
Reed
I wake up with a warm, purring ball snuggled against my back.
Hot Biscuit Slim.
Of more concern is the soft body snuggled against my front. She’s not purring. Since she’s not snarling and biting, though, she must be asleep.
I wonder if I’m asleep, too. Dreaming. But, no. No fog today. My head’s aching, but not like it was. My brain seems to be working again. Yet my memories go hazy when I try to remember anything after my shower yesterday. Vaguely I recall Abbie telling me to sit up. Saying that my fever’s worse.
So she had to take care of me. Again.
That doesn’t explain why we’re suddenly cuddle buddies. So most likely, we rolled toward each other. I’m a side sleeper and I’m lying like I always do, with one arm wedged under my pillow. My other arm’s caught somewhere between a blanket and a quilt. She’s almost completely hidden under the covers, with the top of her head tucked under my chin. Something’s nestled against my stomach—I’m guessing her hands. Her soft, slow breaths warm my neck.
And the brain fog must not be completely gone, because I’ve got a powerful urge to wrap her in my arms and haul her in tight. It takes everything I’ve got to fight it. This is Abbie Walker . I should be shoving her back onto her own side of the bed.
Though, she is on her side. We’re both in the middle, but each on our own sides. Our enemy lines are clearly marked, however. So there should be a gap. Some kind of No Man’s Land.
Now that I’m awake, I ought to move. She wouldn’t like being so close to me. I shouldn’t like it.
But she took care of me. That’s softened me a bit. I figured compassion was an alien concept to all the Walker women.
I guess I’m wrong about that. Maybe I’m also wrong about some other shit.
So I’ll try harder not to antagonize her. If she lets me. She’s prickly as hell. And there’s a strange ache in my chest, knowing she hates me. That ache wasn’t there before.
Another, lower ache wasn’t there before, either. Morning wood, I tell myself.
It’s not. I didn’t wake up hard. My cock’s only rising because I can feel her against me. Because I can smell the sweet scent of her hair. Holding my breath only works for a minute. This is stupid. I should just move away from her. Should just get out of this bed.
Nothing on this earth could make me.
And that’s before Abbie nuzzles her face into my throat. Before her arm curls around my waist. Before her thigh slides over my hip.
A few realizations hit me all at once. First, I’m stark naked. Second, though she’s wearing a flannel top, her legs are covered in nothing but bare, smooth skin. Third, the way she’s pressed closer means the only barrier between my cock and her pussy is her underwear, and I can feel how soft and hot she is through that thin layer of fabric.
So soft and hot.
Fuck. I know what’ll happen if she wakes up now. She’ll think I was letting her do this on purpose to humiliate her. Not because the heat from her cunt is frying my brain. I’ve got to extricate myself from this. Even though I don’t want to. I need to ease my way out of this bed without waking her up.
My every good intention is blasted apart when her hips begin to move. Rubbing that hot cunt up and down my shaft. I stifle a groan behind clenched teeth. I need to stop this. But the full force of my will is focused on not rolling Abbie onto her back and sinking balls deep.
A few more rubs, and the slight friction of cotton against my bare cock all but disappears. She’s wet. Soaked-through-her-panties wet. Christ. I’m not going to come like this. Not. But I’m a fucking liar, I can already feel it, the deepening ache, the liquid blaze. I fight the sensation but can’t muffle the tortured groan that pushes its way from my chest.
“Whuh?” It’s a sleepy enquiry against my neck. Then she sucks in a horrified breath. “Ohmygod.”
“Abb—”
Her head jerks up, whacks me under my chin. Stars explode behind my eyes. She pulls away from me so fast that she bounces against the wall on her side of the bed. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t— Fuck fuck fuck!”
She bounces back and over me. Hot Biscuit Slim yowls and streaks off the bed. Abbie nearly trips over him then rights herself again. By the time I sit up, she’s across the cabin.
The bathroom door slams.
Fuck.
I stare into the dark until I feel the bite of cold air on my overheated skin. The blankets were thrown halfway to the foot of the bed during Abbie’s flight. I could drag them up over me again, go back to sleep and forget all this.
I won’t ever.
Better to get up and face her. Clothes are an issue, though. Mine are hanging up in the bathroom—and likely still wet. I can’t get in there now, anyway.
But my brain’s clearer than it was yesterday, so it occurs to me that Harris always has extra gear and clothing stored. We’re almost the same size.
There’s no fucking way I could have eased out of bed earlier like I’d planned. My leg’s not as stiff but hurts so goddamn much that I still lurch and huff just to stand up. At least the freezing air takes care of my erection.
I strike gold in a bottom dresser drawer. Sweatpants and a thermal shirt that’s a smidge too tight, but Harris won’t care if I stretch out the cuffs. There’s nothing to put on my feet, but the wool socks in my snow boots are dry and thick.
The fire’s next. I toss wood onto the embers. It’s still fucking freezing. I haul a quilted throw off the back of the armchair and wrap it around my shoulders. The same way I remember seeing Abbie do yesterday.
Nothing from the bathroom yet. She’s got to be cold in there. She’s wearing nothing on her legs or feet.
Hot Biscuit Slim sits by a little silver dish and glowers at me.
“Sorry, bud.”
Abbie said something about a special diet, so I won’t make the mistake of feeding him anything. I search for the coffee, instead.
I’m filling up the moka pot when Abbie appears again. She doesn’t look my way. Just quickly pulls on her pajama pants and thick socks. Over it all goes her fuzzy robe.
Without a word, and still not looking at me, she crosses over to the cat’s dish, fills it.
So it’ll be up to me to break this silence. “Coffee’s on.”
“Thank you.” Now she turns in my direction but doesn’t quite meet my eyes. She gestures vaguely toward the bed. “If you can just forget?—”
“It’s forgotten.” I’m lying. “You rolled in your sleep, I rolled in my sleep, and there’s not much room in that bed. It wasn’t intended, yeah?”
Her sheer disbelief in response to that question seems to blast away any lingering embarrassment. “Of course not. I’d rather cut off my arm.”
Ouch. If I suffered from an overinflated ego, one conversation with Abbie Walker would cure me of it. “Then it’s a good thing we were just mindlessly rolling around all night. A bloody stump of an arm might ruin your perfect Christmas.”
She stares at me, her lips compressed. I suspect she’s trying hard not to laugh.
So there’s my new purpose in life. I intend to make Abbie Walker laugh. Though that might be too ambitious, considering how long she’s despised me. Maybe just a smile.
But I’ll settle for her wet pussy all over me again.
And I need to hold that thought, because these sweats don’t hide a damn thing. But when I turn back toward the stove, it’s my limp that catches her attention.
“Did I hurt your leg worse? When I?—”
“You never even touched it.” I cut her off, not liking the guilt shadowing her eyes. “It’s actually better. Still hurts like hell and I wouldn’t want to poke it, but it’s overall better. Now, what are your thoughts about breakfast? You cooked for me yesterday, I’ll cook today. But it’s your food.”
“I usually eat later. Coffee first. Then toast or an orange.” Her brow furrows. “But you must be starving. You barely ate yesterday.”
“I could do with something.” That’s an understatement.
“Then most of the breakfast stuff is here.” She brushes past me to open a cupboard, bringing with her that sweet scent again. Maybe from her shampoo. She’s bound her glorious mass of hair into two braids, as if she washed it just before bed. “Potatoes are over there. Eggs and bacon in the fridge. Sausage in the freezer.”
I’m still looking through the cupboard and concealing my body’s reaction to her scent and her nearness and those braids. “You weren’t kidding about having enough food for the both of us. You stocked up.”
“My vacation is for two weeks. But Harris said I might be snowed in for even longer, so I brought extra. And since this holiday was a chance to cook what I actually like to eat, I loaded up on stuff I wanted. Or might want. Hence the breakfast stuff, even though I usually don’t eat much for breakfast.”
My attention snags on one part of that. “You usually don’t cook what you like?”
Her expression goes stony. For a second I think she won’t answer. Then she says stiffly, “I mean that I only had my own preferences to consider.”
“Lucky for me, then. Because judging by this cupboard, we have similar preferences.”
She scowls. Apparently not thrilled by the thought of us having anything in common.
The gurgling of the coffee pot saves her from having to reply—or saves me from her reply. She takes her mug to sit in front of the fire.
Feeling as if this whole morning has been like getting struck by a lightning bolt—or maybe just another tree branch—I spend a few seconds staring into the cupboard and trying to recover. Soon enough, though, my stomach reminds me that I’m starving.
I pull out the pancake mix and can barely focus on the directions. That’s not Abbie, distracting me. My brain aches while trying to make out the blurry words.
Fuck. This is the last thing I need. But I suppose as hard as I whacked my head, it might be a few more days—hopefully not weeks—before I can read without my brain disintegrating.
“Abbie?”
She glances away from the fire, brow raised.
“Is this one of the ‘just add water’ mixes?” When her forehead furrows, I explain, “I apparently can’t focus on small type yet.”
Her lips part in realization. “Oh. Yeah, it is. Do you need me to measure out the?—”
“I’ve got it,” I say when she begins to get up from her chair. “I know what the consistency should be. I just wasn’t sure if water was all it needed.”
“Just water,” she confirms.
While the griddle is heating, I glance over at Abbie again. Now there’s a sight that doesn’t make my head ache. She’s got her phone off the battery charger and is curled up in the armchair. Every little while, she swipes the screen with her thumb. Turning a page.
That’s irresistible to me. “What book did you choose?”
She gives me a long, narrow look. As if thinking about not answering. Then, “ Otherlands .”
The title sounds familiar but I can’t place it. “Is it science fiction?”
“Science, but not fiction.” She scoots around in the chair so that she’s facing me a little better. “It’s by a paleontologist who goes backward through time with each chapter, explaining how different animals flourished or went extinct when their environments changed.”
Ah, that’s where I’ve heard of it. “I have that. Haven’t read it yet. But you’re enjoying it? It’s interesting?”
“ So interesting. Like, did you know that grass was barely even a thing when dinosaurs were alive? I always pictured them resembling herds of buffalo, grazing on the grassy plains. Or with the tall ones eating trees while the short ones ate grass. But grass came only became dominant after the dinosaurs were gone.”
Vibrant. When did I decide that was how to describe her? Yet it’s the perfect word for her. “I didn’t know. I always pictured them the same way.”
“I also didn’t know the Mediterranean was empty at one point. The whole sea was nothing but a giant basin full of salt because it was cut off from the Atlantic at the Strait of Gibraltar and dried up. But when the strait opened, there was catastrophic flooding and massive waterfalls as it filled again.”
I knew that one. But I don’t want to seem like I’m trying to one-up her. I won’t pull that kind of shit, but she doesn’t know that about me yet. “You like prehistoric stuff, then?”
“I do,” she says—warily, as if waiting for me to trash her.
I’d be the last person to do that. “You might like that third book over there.” I gesture to Harris’s collection. “It includes zombie megafauna that were trapped in ice until the glaciers melt.”
Amusement brightens her expression. “Really?”
“Really.”
“I’m almost tempted. I don’t read much fiction. But maybe I’ll give it a try if my battery pack runs out of juice. Because I planned to recharge it in the car, but I don’t want to shovel out three feet of snow just to open the car door.”
At least three feet. But the snow seems to be tapering off. “Are you still planning to find a tree once it stops snowing?”
“I am.”
“If you give me another day to rest up this leg, I’ll help.”
By the dismay on her face, she’s looking for a polite way to tell me to fuck off. She goes with, “I don’t need help.”
“But I might. I have to get my pack. And with this bump on my head, it’d be smarter to have someone out there with me.”
“Oh. All right, then.”
Again, willing to help me. Though it’s clear that, otherwise, she’d rather have nothing to do with me. Yet she does anyway.
A faint memory floats through my head. Maybe it was a dream. Telling Abbie that she was beautiful. And so sweet for taking care of me.
But I’ve heard that before, haven’t I? Harris knows there’s history between the Walkers and the Knowles, so he doesn’t talk about her much. Not to me. But when he does say anything, it’s always something good. Which is no small thing, coming from Harris.
I turn back to the griddle, trying hard to remember what I had against Abbie, specifically. That shit with our parents running off together…that’s old news. My dad let it rule his life. Same with her mom. But it’s stupid to hold a grudge against another kid for what our cheating parents did almost twenty years ago.
She did bite me. Fuck me if I can recall what started it, though. What provoked her? Maybe I did or said something—or she simply went crazy with grief.
Hell, maybe it was just the inevitable result of the toxic shit our parents were throwing at each other, because that was impossible to escape. Abbie couldn’t have been, what—six years old? Seven? Likely she doesn’t even remember the incident. I only remember because I held onto it, resenting her for attacking me at my mom’s funeral, of all places. But my dad held onto it tighter. Continually reminding me of what she’d done. Feeding that resentment. He was the one who first called her vicious. A description that was reinforced every time I saw the scar. The vicious one did that to me.
She never did anything else. Resenting her simply became a habit.
Her sister and her mother, though…they earned more of that resentment. But even the sister, hell—the last time anything came up was in high school. I avoided her, but now and then had to defend myself against suggestions that I was cheating on my tests, or screwing around on my girlfriends, or bringing in weed to sell. And there was no doubt in my mind who started that shit, every time. Because that’s always the Walker refrain: the Knowles family has no morals or ethics and we’ll fuck over anyone for a dime.
Even if the sister started those rumors, however, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn her mother prodded her into it. Angela Walker has never stopped waging her campaign against everything my family has ever touched. That woman, she’s a real piece of work.
But my dad is, too. So I can feel some sympathy for both those girls, growing up around that shit. Especially for Abbie, now that I’ve seen more of who she is.
What it all boils down to, though, is that I’ve assumed she’d be like her sister and mother, but I don’t actually know much about Abbie herself. Except paleontology makes her eyes light up. And she’ll take care of someone even if she hates them.
Maybe I can work on that hating part. Because her feelings toward me are likely based on the same old grudges and the assumption that I’m just like my father.
I’m not.
Hopefully I’ll get started on improving her opinion by pulling my own weight—and filling her stomach. “I’ve got pancakes ready if you want some.”
She seems torn. It’s not easy to accept anything from me. I get it. I had the same inner debate while she was keeping me upright the other night.
Finally she nods and uncurls from her chair. “Thanks.”
The tension underlying the quiet in the cabin seems to ease, as if that single word forms a truce between us. An uneasy truce, but a truce nonetheless. I lay out the plates and silverware. She grabs real maple syrup from the cupboard, followed by peanut butter.
Again, the same preferences. “Crunchy peanut butter. You’re a woman after my heart.”
“Maybe.” Pointedly she picks up a table knife.
I grin and refill her coffee, then notice Hot Biscuit Slim at my feet, gazing up at us pitifully. “I’m guessing he can’t have pancakes.”
“Not unless he makes them himself.”
As she says it, a not-quite-a-smile tugs at her mouth. There’s a joke there I’m not getting. Probably something about his name. I still can’t remember where it’s from. But I put it away for later.
I’m too hungry to talk much. She’s quiet, too, though she’s not shoveling it in like I am. Instead she’s neat about it. I whack off a wedge of pancake with the tines of my fork, while she cuts little triangular bites with her table knife. It’s fascinating to watch. I can almost hear the admonishment behind that kind of eating. Back in the day, my grandmother would have rapped my knuckles if I didn’t mind my manners and cut my food the same way, but those lessons didn’t stick past childhood. Watching Abbie, I’d bet anything her mother drilled that into her from a very young age…and never let up.
But what’s really fucking wild is that this dainty eater once took a bite of my hand. And would have brained me with a poker if I’d made one wrong move that first night.
I’m guessing she’s got a polite, serene layer that was developed over a long time, and that’s what most people see. I haven’t seen much of it. Instead, I’ve seen the fire that burns through that polite layer.
If true, I’m not sorry that she hasn’t been polite and serene. I like the fire.
When the chasm in my stomach has a heap of pancakes at the bottom, I slow down and search for something that’ll help me get to know her—and for her to know me. I have to tread carefully. We have one point in common for sure. Well, two points. But no way in fuck will I bring up my mom and her dad running off and dying together. So we have one point in common that’s a viable direction.
“You’ve been working for Harris how long?”
“Four years.” That seems like it’ll be it. Then she apparently decides to make an effort, too. Those good manners kicking in. “You’ve been friends since high school?”
“Elementary. He lived just a block over from us.” And this is already veering too damn close to the point I won’t mention—how Harris was there after my mom died. How I was always over at his place to avoid my dad. Abbie seems to recognize the danger, too. She’s cutting a triangle smaller and smaller. “Is he a good boss?”
“He is. Not always easy to work for but…generous.” She casts her gaze around the cabin, as if to indicate that her trip here was part of that generosity.
Which is exactly like Harris. Yet for a moment, something heavy and dark grips my chest. Wondering if there’s something more between them. Wondering if his generosity might have another meaning than the obvious.
But if Harris was interested in Abbie Walker, he’d be out here with her. He wouldn’t have left her to face an intruder with only a poker.
“He is generous,” I agree finally. Reeling a bit. Was that jealousy that just hit me?
It couldn’t be.
At least now the cabin is another point in common that’s safe to discuss. She asks, “Do you come out here often with him?”
“By myself, usually—when I’m on deadline or I don’t want any distractions. It’s a good place to be alone with only your own thoughts for company.”
“I thought it would be, too,” she says dryly. Then, “On deadline?”
Before I can stop myself, my gaze shoots to the paperbacks under the side table.
Shit. I’d been so thrown off by the jealousy gripping my chest, I didn’t even think about what came out of my mouth. My books aren’t something I tell people about. Particularly since my earliest work hits real close to home. Anyone who knows me would recognize the basis for a whole slew of characters.
Including the Walkers.
I look away quick, but Abbie’s not slow. Her eyebrows shoot sky high.
“Do you come out here to sneakily read or to sneakily write about zombie megafauna?”
“Write.” No point in lying.
“And that’s why you came out here this time?”
I nod, though it’s only partially true. Until the shitshow at my dad’s lodge, I had no intention of visiting the cabin. But once I left, my plan was to come here and write. I cleared a few weeks off my schedule to plow through a first draft, but the beginning of the story is giving me more trouble than I’ve ever had. And now I’ve lost a couple of days when I could have been working, thanks to the concussion. I’ll have to make up for it.
Her eyebrows draw down in a puzzled frown. “You’re an author, then—but I thought you were an engineer? Something like that?”
“A structural engineer. I do house inspections.”
I don’t consider it an unusual profession but her confusion deepens. “Inspections? What kind?”
“For people buying or selling their houses. Usually for people buying, making sure there aren’t any hidden issues that will cost a fortune to fix down the road.”
“Oh.” The reason for her confusion becomes clear when she adds, “I always assumed you worked with your dad.”
I can’t stop my short, bitter laugh. “No. I’m an independent contractor.”
“Ah.” Her gaze falls to her plate, where her fingers are clenched tightly around her knife and fork. “So you don’t work for him. But you were there when he bulldozed my mom’s house.”
“That reason was more personal.” And ended up being a day that opened my eyes to who my father truly was.
No, that’s not right. My eyes had been opened for a while. But it one of the final nails in the coffin of our relationship. Not the final nail. That happened right before I came here.
And we’ve gone way outside of our safe zone. I try to steer us back.
“So, what exactly is it you do for Harris?”
At some point I hope to make her smile, but the one she offers now is a twisted, sneering version of one. “I throw shit in his face, then say it’s his own damn fault. Then I never take responsibility for the damage I do.”
A syrupy glob of pancake and peanut butter wedges itself in my gullet. For a second, I think that must have been something my dad said. But, no. It was me. Harris told me that he was hiring a Walker girl, and I shot back with a variation of the same thing I’d likely said a dozen times to him over the years.
Harris must have told Abbie. Knowing him, he thought she’d get a laugh.
She’s not laughing. Abruptly she stands and carries her plate to the sink.
I never take responsibility for the damage I do. I said that about her. But the description fits me, instead. Saying shit that could have cost her a job. A good job. Though I didn’t really know a thing about her.
I need to apologize, but the pancake is still stuck in my throat. Then she returns to her armchair by the fire but turns her back toward me. Clearly not wanting to hear anything I might possibly have to say.
I will apologize. When she’s ready to listen. I don’t think she’d listen right now.
And I hope to fuck she never reads my first book.