Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
DAHLIA
Rustic warmth surrounds me like a hug.
So this is what solitude looks like.
My hands shake as I fight to peel off drenched clothes. Wet Spandex should be outlawed.
I remove my waist holster, set the handgun carefully on his dresser.
For a moment, I wonder what my mom would say.
The flesh beneath my clothes is inhumanly cold, my brown nipples pebbled, my body a mass of goose flesh. Teeth clank together as if I feel colder the warmer I get. Still, the heat of Denver’s cabin is like a miracle, the bedroom hearth blazing with curling golden flames.
Cozy, romantic.
The bed’s big enough for two. Does he have a woman somewhere? Maybe.
All I can care about right now is hot water.
I notice other details as I grab the pile of dripping clothes and throw them onto the bathroom floor’s pristine white tile. Can’t cause as much trouble there. After one more pause, I grab my gun, place it on top of the toilet within easy reach of the shower. Won’t do me good anywhere else.
I open the top drawer of the dresser he nodded towards, finding memorabilia instead of clothes.
Newspaper clippings, military medals, a Purple Heart, a photo of a hulking, clean-shaven Marine.
The blazing hair and eyes look familiar.
Eyes so blue I could almost see through them. Denver in another life.
From the other room, I hear rustling and cabinets opening. My eyes dart to the bedroom door. The knob doesn’t lock. My body shivers, naked, vulnerable, and yet not nearly as vulnerable as I was alone in the damp and dark.
I find a big fluffy gray towel, place it on the sink, and another on the floor before playing with the water. My body’s so cold, I start with the faucet cranked to the C. Still feels like fire on my frozen hands.
I climb in the shower, take my time turning it up incrementally until I get to the halfway point between H and C.
Every few minutes, I crank it a little higher, blood pooling back into my fingertips and toes with a hearty burn.
Steam curls until I can no longer see the bathroom mirror, towel, or the gun.
I relax my shoulders, exhale luxuriously. For the first time in months, I can breathe without hearing the city in my head.
“You’d laugh at me now, Maya,” I whisper. “But I’m finally doing it.”
I grab a green bar of homemade soap. Rich cedar and earthy pine fills my nostrils.
Like the faint warmth I noticed on Denver earlier by the fire—the way the light shimmered over his burgundy beard and hair, tightening a knot low in my stomach.
The sounds of his gruff voice rumbling make it curl, snake into places I refuse to admit.
I gasp, realization hitting me all at once. I need to be documenting every moment of this!
“After the shower, Dolly.” I chuckle. Amazing how quickly a body can swap basic concerns like getting warm for more abstract stuff like getting famous.
I step out reborn, wrapped in thick towels and padding back into his cozy bedroom. I eye the bed, throat tightening. It smells like him. The whole room does, and now so do I, too. I drop down a drawer at the dresser, find oversized flannel and sweats to sink into.
I grab the shirt, bury my nose in it, soaking up the forest before sliding it over my arms. My nipples pebble again, not from cold but the thought of this impossibly soft fabric brushing over his muscular chest. I wonder if he’s got red hair there, too. How far it trails.
The gray sweatpants are buttery soft and in danger of sliding past my hips. I pull the drawstring tight, roll the waistband three times. My hand goes to the top drawer again. Curiosity, I tell myself. But another glance at the photo makes warmth pool behind my ribs.
“You are not,” I gasp, gliding back into the living room. Enormous socks that add three to four inches of empty wool to the front of each foot pad my footfalls.
He turns, catches his breath, then looks away again, cheeks burning. “Not what?”
“Making hot cocoa from scratch?” I sigh, eyes taking in the saucepan where he stirs creamy milk and a thick round of chocolate with a wooden spoon until it looks thick as pudding.
He shrugs. “There a problem?”
“One thing,” I say, raising a finger and beelining to his spice rack. Cinnamon and cayenne powder. I sprinkle a pinch of cinnamon in the bubbling brew, then an expert dash of cayenne pepper.
His eyebrows raise, like I’ve committed a sacrilege.
“Mexican hot chocolate.”
He shifts his weight, face hesitant.
“Warms you from the inside out,” I say before catching myself.
His eyes find mine, and now my cheeks burn, my explanation suddenly a whole different type of promise.
I add, “Spice for the mountain man. Trust me, you’ll love it.”
“Try anything once,” he mutters, stirring the thick beverage.
“It’s my favorite. “My mom’s side of the family are Hispanic.”
He grunts, side-eyeing me. “Your favorite? Mental note taken.”
A broad grin captures my face.
He stops, scrutinizes me long and hard. “That sunshine ever set with you?”
I giggle. “Never. Hope it doesn’t annoy you.”
He grabs two rustic stoneware mugs, one stamped with a wolf, the other with a raven. Fills them in equal measure. “No whipped cream. Sorry.”
“Are you kidding me? This is perfect!”
He fights the smile tugging at that granite face, runs a hand through his thick red locks. “Tomorrow, I’ll work on your cabin. Tonight, relax.”
His eyes sweep to the fireplace and the rough-hewn mahogany leather couch piled high with oversized plaid pillows.
We take a seat, enough space between us for Bear to snuggle at our feet, curling up. I pet him with my toes, both hands wrapped tight around the warm mug. I raise it slightly. “Thank you for this.”
He grunts, looks away like he’s perturbed.
The fire crackles, sinewy flames flickering as my eyes sweep the cabin, taking it in.
Huge, hand-hewn logs comprise the walls, tightly packed against any drafts.
They glow golden against the brown bark mantelpiece and the gray and blue river rock of the hearth.
“This place is gorgeous. Did you build it yourself?”
Denver nods, eyes wary.
Shoot! I should be filming this. I reach for my cell phone.
He glares. “Keep that away from me.”
Instead, I flip the camera, take a series of selfies before turning it on Bear. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the big mountain man watching me. He turns away quickly, and the corners of my mouth tilt up.
For a second, I forget the camera, the challenge, the followers. It’s just him, the fire, and me.
For the first time since Seattle, I feel warm.
The fire burns lower, shadows stretching long.
My eyelids droop, comfort sinking into my bones. Had no idea how tired I was.
Denver glances over from the hearth, that furrow deep between his brows.
“You’ll freeze if you sleep sitting up,” he mutters.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, though my teeth chatter in protest.
He huffs. “Take the bed.”
“What about you?”
“Couch,” he says too quickly.
I hesitate. There’s only one bed. We both know it.
He doesn’t meet my eyes when he adds, “We’ll figure it out.”
Silence settles between us. But it doesn’t feel heavy or awkward. More like understanding. Rain pelts harder, wind slamming the windows. I shiver, imagining the alternative, a cold, weather-beaten car in the shadow of the dilapidated Wheeler house.
I measure the man’s height with my eyes. Make up my mind. “You’ll never fit on this couch. I’ll take it.”
“Nope, not comfortable.”
Frustration pricks at his stubborn tone. Like no one can change his mind. “Bed’s big enough for two.”
Heat flickers behind his eyes. He tugs at the collar of his flannel.
Another great gust slams the side of the cabin, and I jump, squeeze my eyes shut. Am I really going to admit this?
“Storms scare me. Don’t want to sleep alone.”
He grimaces, runs a hand over his face. Then, nods. “Alright, then.”
Rising, he takes my empty mug and heads back into the kitchen.
What the hell am I doing?
Bam! Another gust of wind, and I’m ready to run.
Denver eyes me curiously.
“What?”
“Nothing—wondering how you planned on managing storms alone?”
I twist my hands together, cheeks warming. “I know. I’m being childish.”
“Nope.” His face is free of judgment.
It melts me. “Thought this challenge would get me past my fear. That’s the point of it, really.”
“That or fame?” he asks, glancing at my phone. His voice is flat as he turns, not expecting an answer.
I head towards the bedroom, heart racing. Retrieving the gun from the bathroom, I place it under my pillow, taking the side furthest from the window and the storm. Lying down, I cover my head with the blanket, squeeze my eyes shut, pretend I’m not losing my mind.
The bed jostles when Bear jumps on top, big paws weighing down the comforter. Denver enters quietly, floorboards squeaking. Soft, precise sounds of a nightly ritual.
I exhale, heart pumping, breath racing as I slide a hand beneath the pillow, clutching cool steel. Lights out. The bed shifts once, then settles.
Later, in the softening gusts of the receding storm, I lie awake staring at the log ceiling. The steady sound of his breathing anchors me, deep and even. If peace had a sound, it would breathe just like that.
A dog sighs somewhere between us.
Maybe solitude doesn’t have to be lonely.