Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Skylar
It’s still dark out when my personal furnace slips out of bed. He tucks the covers around me and kisses my forehead. “I’m going to take care of the animals. You have about an hour before we need to leave for Ridge’s.”
“I’m too warm and comfy.”
“If I have to come up here to get you out of bed, it’ll involve a bucket of snow being dumped on your naked body.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
He dresses and leaves the room with the door cracked and the hallway light on. I snuggle deeper into the sheets, debating going back to sleep, because surely he was kidding, but since I can’t be sure of that, my mind can’t relax enough to fall back asleep.
“Damn it!” I shout into the void as I roll out of bed. Sprocket must not understand the difference between someone really needing help and someone just pissed off at the world, so he charges through the mostly closed door, sending it flying into the wall with a loud bang . He jumps onto the bed, his head swinging side-to-side, looking for the danger.
After reassuring him I’m okay, he finds the warm spot on the bed I just vacated and snuggles in. Asshole . But he’s still a handsome and brave boy, so I give him scratches for a long minute.
A quick shower wakes me up enough to at least get to Ridge’s, where I can hopefully go back to sleep on his couch. Between Walker fucking me for an hour before bed and waking up every hour because this little nugget was pressing on my bladder, I didn’t get nearly enough sleep.
I dress in the seemingly endless number of long johns Walker owns and hobble downstairs, where I find a fresh pot of coffee. I’ve just fixed it up the way I like it when Walker appears.
“You about ready?” he asks, not bothering to take off his coat, hat, gloves, and boots.
“Sure. Do you have a travel mug or something I can put this in?”
“Um, no.”
“No? You don’t ever take coffee with you?”
“I do, but you shouldn’t be drinking that.” He takes my only reason for existence away from me and dumps it down the drain.
“What the hell, Walker? I needed that.”
“I was reading up on pregnancy, and they said you should limit your caffeine intake.”
Every muscle in my body freezes except my head, which cocks to the side, and my brows pinch together. “You were reading about pregnancy? When?”
“Last night, while you were snoring like a freight train.”
I hold up a finger. “We’ll come back to the freight train in a second because I don’t snore.”
“Baby, you d?—”
“I said we’re coming back to that. Let’s get back to the whole reading up thing.”
“I know how to read. I even went to college, remember? You were there, supporting me. I didn’t graduate, but—” I slam into him, wrapping my arms around his middle and knocking the wind out of him. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
My throat closes and my nose stings, but I fight back the tears. I don’t care that I could blame all the blubbering on hormones; I’ve cried more in the last couple of days than I have in the last couple of years—including Dad’s funeral—and I hate it.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just. . . you read up on pregnancy.”
“I know. I’m the one who told you that. Pregnancy brain must be a real thing.”
“Shut up. We’re having a moment.”
“I wish I knew what the moment was.” He pats my back like I’m a child.
“Why did you read about pregnancy?” I ask.
“Because you’re pregnant,” he says slowly. “I’m late to the game, but it sounds like all I missed was you puking in the morning, which I’m a little happy about, since I’m a sympathetic puker. But I’m just in time for a heightened sex drive, and it’ll be hard, but I’m willing to step up to the plate. You can use my body any time, day or night. I’m selfless like that.”
I hiccup. “You’re an idiot.”
He crouches down—yes, he has to crouch to look me in the eye—and tips my chin up. “What’s all this about?”
“It’s not your baby,” I say, though that’s not exactly what I mean. I just can’t find the right words.
“Sweetheart, just because the baby hasn’t been born doesn’t mean I want nothing to do with it. If you’d shown up with a five-year-old and we decided to give us another chance, I wouldn’t ignore your child. You’re a package deal, so when I said I wanted you, I meant I wanted you and this baby.” He places a hand on my lower belly, and it’s so heartbreakingly sweet, I can’t hold the tears in anymore. “And since I don’t know shit about pregnancy or babies, don’t be surprised that I’m reading up on it, especially when I can’t sleep because you’re sawing logs.”
I give him a shove, knocking him off balance and making him fall back onto his ass. “I don’t snore.”
He pats his coat pockets and pulls out his phone. “I can prove it. I took a video.”
“I’m leaving now. Hopefully, you warmed up that monstrosity of a truck because I hate being cold.”
A sound that couldn’t possibly have come from me fills the air. “Hold on, this is my favorite part. You snort like a cute little piggy.”
“I hate you.” I throw my middle finger in the air.
“You love me,” he says right before sleeping-me snorts.
The drive to Ridge’s place left me white-knuckling the “oh shit” handle with one hand while the other clutched the dash. Walker’s truck looked big and bad with the big snow shovel attachment on the front, but he still lost traction a couple times down the hill, then again as we drove up the neighboring mountain hill Ridge lives on.
I quickly realized all my future winters will be spent at home, where it’s safe. Halfway down from Walker’s place, we passed evidence I shouldn’t drive in the snow. My rental car was still right where I left it, crashed into a tree. Of course, I could only see the top half of it, since the bottom was buried under snow. Hard to believe that was just days ago.
After the longest thirty minutes of my life, we finally pulled up to Ridge’s home. It’s a modern double A-frame cottage with glass exterior walls, meaning I can see right through it to the other side. Walker tells me it was prefabricated into three parts and trucked in before being reassembled on top of six-foot stilts.
“Why is it on stilts? And why are there no outer walls?” I ask as I stare up at the home.
“You’ll have to ask him about the walls because I have no fucking clue other than he’s a strange dude. The stilts have something to do with keeping the snow off the glass and not wanting his house to disturb nature. This way, it can do its thing underneath. Plus, the ground is cold, so keeping it up higher makes the temperature inside easier to control.” Walker pulls off his beanie and runs a hand through his mussed hair. “But in the summer, those walls swing all the way open. It’s pretty cool.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. I guess living way out here, he doesn’t have to worry about people spying on him, huh?”
“That and Rowan?—”
“Made his place safer than Fort Knox, same as you.”
“You’re catching on.”
“You’ll be back by tonight, right?” I ask.
“Yep. You have the burner phone?”
I nod and hesitate, not wanting him to go. Anything could happen, and it would be all my fault. “Are you sure you want to do this? I don’t mind wearing your clothes for now.”
“Not that I don’t like this oversized potato sack look you’ve got going, but I want to find your bra on the bedroom floor. I want to get annoyed when your makeup takes up the whole bathroom counter, and most of all, I want you to be comfortable. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wanted to see just how closely Klutch is monitoring things too.” He leans over to give me a sweet kiss, but I hold him in place and deepen it, hoping it’s not our last. Eventually, he pulls away. “Sweetheart, I promise it’ll be okay.”
I bite into my inner cheek, tasting blood since I’ve been chewing on it all morning. “Be safe.”
“I will. Now go annoy the shit out of Ridge. It’ll be good for him.”
The path to the stairs feels like a tunnel with how tall the snowbanks are on either side. I’m guessing some sort of electric plow is a must in these parts. I don’t miss the fact that the path is clear and the stairs have a fresh layer of sand sprinkled on them to stop me from slipping. Ridge might play like he’s emotionally shut down, but I think it’s just his way of keeping people at a distance.
I don’t have to knock because Ridge is waiting for me at the door. “Hey.”
“Good morning.” I step inside and get an up-close look at the living room I could see from the car, which is practically nothing—a modern, slate blue sofa with overly round edges, a wood stove, a bookshelf, and a furry brown rug with a bear head attached to it. I point to the offensive object. “Is that?—”
“Real? Yeah. Rowan and I took him down earlier this year.”
“Why?” I ask, horrified.
“I didn’t want to, but he was being a menace around here. Most bears are shy around humans, but this asshole tried to attack me multiple times. Once he even broke one of these panes of glass trying to get inside. I’m sure somewhere during his life, some idiot human fed him, which made him equate humans to food. It wasn’t his fault, per se, but he didn’t go to waste. His meat stocked mine and Rowan’s freezers, and I got a rug.”
“Aren’t artists supposed to be vegan pacifists?”
“Not the kind that lives off-grid in the mountains.”
“You’re completely off-grid?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“How do you cook? Or keep your food cold?”
He sighs. “I guess I have to give you a tour.”
I smile. “I’d love one.”
He walks me through the living room and into a kitchen with newer-looking appliances, just smaller. His fridge is no taller than I am, his stove being two burners on top of a toaster oven, and there’s a single-unit washing and drying machine. There’s no dishwasher, and the counter space—some kind of nice solid surface material—is limited.
A small hallway connects the two A-frames and leads to two bedrooms. One has a king-size bed covered in white bedding, a black nightstand, and a black dresser. On top of the dresser is a catch-all tray and an urn. Since he’s not incredibly forthcoming, I don’t ask about it. The second room is an office with a solid wood desk and another bookcase. On top of the desk sits a laptop, and that’s it.
“Minimalist, huh?”
“I guess.” He reaches down to a metal handle I didn’t notice before in the floor and pulls up, revealing a hatch. “You have to climb down to see the rest.”
Even though it feels like he’s leading me to my own grave, I follow after him. Because it was buried under snow, I didn’t notice it before, but underneath this portion of the house are two more rooms. The first one is windowless, something of a utility room full of things I don’t recognize.
“This is where the solar energy I harvest is collected and dispersed to wherever I need it. Then there’s a water heater and the other boring shit of a house.”
“Where are your solar panels?”
“On the cliffside.”
Much like Walker’s house, Ridge’s is close to a mountain drop-off, giving him spectacular views. If I had to guess, the other two men in their friend group have the same.
“What’s in there?” I ask, pointing to the closed room.
“It’s my art studio.”
“Can I see?”
He shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable. “I guess. No one besides me ever goes in there, so you’ll have to excuse the mess.”
“I’m a pretty messy person. It used to drive Walker insane. He said it’d take him two hours to get his apartment back to its original state after I came over. Imagine what he’ll say now that?—”
My words die on my tongue because this is so fucking cool. The room is glass but buried under snow. There’s an obvious drop in temperature, so much so I can see my breath. But right now, I don’t care because my eyes are too busy taking it all in.
Ridge is an artist . Walker already told me as much, but now that I’ve seen his work, I get it. Stacked against every available surface are finished paintings on canvases. He seems to favor scenic painting, but there are a few that lean toward portrait without a focus on the person because the background is so magnificent.
They’re abstract, but also not. It’s just color on canvas, but it’s as though your mind takes in what he gives you and then naturally adds details, completing the image. My favorite is just blue and green with little crackly lines of darker blue and lighter splotchy green. The color slowly fades to white in the center, and even though it’s conceptual, I immediately know his inspiration is what it would look like to stare up from under the ocean.
“Ridge, these are amazing.” I should ask to flip through the canvases, but I’m too far gone in my awe of him.
He clears his throat. “Thanks.”
“You did the paintings in Walker’s house and library, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Why keep them all down here? They should be hung on your walls—if you had walls, but still, you could figure out a way.”
“I need to be able to look at the world without being influenced by previous works.”
“Makes sense.” I shrug. “But why do you work down here where it’s freezing cold?”
“My blood flows when I create, and I get hot.” He allows me to explore for a few more minutes while I take in the canvas he’s currently working on, but eventually, he grows bored of it. “Ready?”
“Sure.”
Once back upstairs, I settle on his sofa. “Can we watch a movie or something?”
“I don’t own a TV.”
I don’t know why I didn’t notice until now, but the furniture is so sparse, there’s nowhere to hide a TV. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I don’t own a TV,” he says, much slower this time.
“What do you do all day?”
“I read, create art, or just sit with my own thoughts.” He takes a seat on the other side of the sofa, his gaze falling on the beautiful view out the windows.
“Sit with my own thoughts,” I repeat, drumming my fingers on my thighs. “I can do that.”
“It’s good for the body and soul.”
As it turns out, I can’t do that and minutes later, I shift to face him. “Do you have a deck of cards?”