Chapter 6
Mia
The wind whispers and the bird sings in anticipation. New hearts find each other, as old love and forgotten whispers wait to be rediscovered.
-The Forest -
The sound of a blender coming from downstairs wakes me up from my sleep. Early morning sunlight streams through the glass window, forcing my eyes to squint against the brightness.
Groaning, I grab my phone off the nightstand and check out the time, and it’s only 6 a.m.. What the hell? He got here a few hours ago. Does he ever sleep? Maybe he is a vampire, a very good looking, and annoying, vampire.
I get up, grab my robe, and shuffle downstairs, still half asleep. He’s in the kitchen wearing a tank top that does little to hide the muscles in his arms. Clearly, he works out a lot. Show off .
He’s pressing down on the blender, the muscles in his arms contracting with the effort. Strands of his hair fall carelessly over his forehead, giving him a boyish charm that contrasts with the rugged definition of his body. Time seems to slow down, and everything seems like they’re moving in slow motion. He’s like one of those models from a protein shake commercial.
He glances up, and catches me staring and grins. He knows exactly the effect he has, and he’s being smug about it.
“Good morning, princess. Sleep well?”
Still with that grin on his face. I roll my eyes brushing off the flutter in my chest his smile brings. It’s too early for this.
“Some asshole woke me up, and it is not even 7 a.m.” I grumble, sleepy and a little irritated. His eyes light up with amusement, a mischievous sparkle dances in them as a wide smirk spreads across his face, clearly enjoying pissing me off.
“I’m sorry, but I need my protein shake after a workout,” he apologizes, and I can’t tell if he’s being genuine or he’s only saying that. “Want some?”
“No thanks, I’ll make myself some coffee.” I walk past him to the coffee maker.
“Oh God, not coffee.” His nose scrunches up in disgust. “I promise this drink will give you more energy, and it’s healthier.”
“Well, I don’t need to be healthy, I need caffeine,” I shout back, turning my head to look at him, and my eyes fall on his ass. He is wearing a men's workout leggings, highlighting everything. The leggings trace the lines of his muscles, from his calves up to his thighs, which are defined in a way that tells you he doesn’t skip leg day, ever.
Then he spins around. My eyes unintentionally catch the detailed shape pressed against his leggings. I should look away, but don't. My throat tightens, my mouth suddenly dry as dust. Looking up, his smirk impossible to miss, arms confidently folded across his chest, as if he knows exactly where I was looking. Ugh, hate his face right now. I scowl at his all-too-pleased expression.
“I need my coffee,” I repeat, more to myself than to him, turning my back to him to compose myself.
“Does your boyfriend know you stare at other guys’ cock?” His low and silky question comes from across the counter.
Seriously? This guy has no filter.
I turn around to face him, and he’s already staring at me. “No… I mean, he…” The words are stuck in my throat. Taking a deep breath, I muster a low teasing response. “There wasn’t much to stare at, really.”
“Is that so?” He smirks. “You seemed quite interested a second ago.”
“Yes, I was looking, but couldn’t find anything…”My eyes drop briefly to his pants, fuck did it get bigger? I quickly meet his gaze again. His smile widens, confident and knowing, calling off my bluff.
I need to get away from here. “I’m going to take a shower, and don’t wake me up before 8 a.m. again, or this blender might accidentally disappear,” I warn, brushing past him. His laugh follows me upstairs, a warm and stupidly annoying sound. “Ducon.” A sshole , I say in French.
Up in my room, I collapse onto the bed and bury my face on a pillow. Il est un chiant . He’s so annoying. Ugh je le deteste. Ugh I hate him. I scream into the pillow.
This getaway was supposed to be about quiet and writing, not…whatever this is turning into. My phone rings, interrupting my meltdown.
“Hey, girl! I gave you enough time to settle in and rest. Now I need details. How’s the house? How’s everything?” Rylee bombards me with questions.
I sit up, holding a pillow to my chest. “The place is gorgeous, better than expected.”
“But?”
I tell her all about the asshole downstairs sharing the house with me. It all comes out in a rushed tumble of words.
There’s a brief pause on the other end before she zeroes in on what apparently matters most. “Hold up. Is he hot?” Apparently, not me sharing a home with a stranger that can be a serial killer for all I know.
I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me. “Kinda.”
“Kinda? Is the guy hot or not?”
I sigh into the phone, feeling a bit foolish. “Fine, yes, he’s stupidly hot. But I don’t care.” I add quickly, “Besides, he thinks I have a boyfriend.”
“Why would he think that?”
“I told him.” I pull out a loose thread from my pillow.
She burst into laughter. “You did what now? Why would you do that?”
I chuckle. “It came out.”
“You’re okay, though?”
I stare at the ceiling, tracing the patterns with my eyes. “I thought I’d be alone here, Ry. It was supposed to be my escape, a place to deal with everything. And now he’s here, and it’s a lot.” My hands move up my neck, pulling out my necklace from inside my shirt, my finger rubbing it mindlessly.
“I get it. But hey, maybe this guy could be a good distraction? When was the last time you had sex? Your toys don’t count.”
Rylee doesn’t understand. To her, sex is just sex. It’s all fun, and she runs away from relationships when things get too serious. I understand her though. Even if she doesn't talk about it much, she didn't have the best examples of it growing up.
She often says men only want one thing, sex, and that's all she wants from them. Just a good orgasm , her words not mine.
But I want more. Sex is supposed to be intimate, sharing a part of yourself with someone in a vulnerable way. I need to know that person and feel that emotional connection, the butterflies. Seeing myself falling in love with that person before even thinking about sex.
“I don’t need a distraction.” I need some time alone to grieve.
“I know, I’m sorry, sending you a big virtual hug.”
“Thanks.” I pull the pillow closer to my chest pretending it’s my best friend hugging me.
“Hey, send me a picture of him. I’ll do a quick FBI check.” She half-jokes, trying to lighten up the mood.
We talk a little more, but as I hang up, the room is even more lonely. The thought of bumping into Mr. Hot-and-asshole downstairs isn’t helping.
I head towards the bathroom for a bath, still in awe of how gorgeous this bathroom is. There’s a tub in the middle of it, with black exterior and white on the inside. There is also a stand-in shower on the side. Beyond the glass, the lush forest provides a serene backdrop, the trees swaying gently in the breeze, a view that invites tranquility.
I turn on the faucet, letting the water fill the tub, and add my favorite jasmine soap with a drop of coconut oil. My curls go up into a bun before removing my clothes, dropping them on the floor. Stepping inside the tub, a content moan escapes my lips as I sink into the water.
“Alexa, play relaxing music!” I close my eyes. Instantly, her image floods my mind, her smile as comforting as ever. “I miss you so much, mom.” A tear escapes my eyes and I quickly wipes it away. The calm is too much, too raw.
“Alexa, switch to R they’re stuck, blocked by their own fears and expectations. What if I’m no good at it? Can I capture the magic like she did? Can I really write again, knowing she won’t be there to read my first draft, to offer her critique and feedback?
With a sigh, I shut the laptop lid. Not now, not yet. It’s too soon.
Setting my laptop aside, I pull out the yellow envelope from my bag. Inside, there are many letters, each with a title. I read the first one titled, “Your First Step.” That’s how I found out about the cabin and all the booking information.
This one is the second; it says, “If You Need a Little Push.” I open it with trembling hands. Her handwriting is always so cursive and beautiful. It’s written in French.
Salut, ma belle,
Remember that story you wrote when you were ten? As a little girl, I saw the light in your eyes when you talked about the stories you wanted to write, and I felt the passion in your heart when you started writing. You used to lose yourself in the worlds you created. Writing isn’t just something you did; it’s who you are.
You are a writer.
It tore me apart watching that light disappeared from your eyes as fears and doubts took over. If I had in any way made you doubt yourself, I’m sorry. But this is not about me; it’s about you. You are more than enough. Your voice, your stories, and your imagination are gifts, and you need to share them with the world.
Not everyone is going to love them. It will not happen overnight. It took me almost five years before I could get an agent and publish my books.
But don’t let that stop you. Don’t let fear or doubt hold you back. The best stories come from the heart, and you have the most beautiful heart I’ve ever known.
Be a waterfall, mon amour.
Don’t let the rocks get in your way, flow through them.
Je t'aime tellement!
Maman
Tears spill over, burning my eyes. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, but they keep coming, each one a release of the pain and longing I’ve been holding back.
It has been a rough couple months since Mom died. I’ve been holding my breath, and now everything comes flooding out. The tears fall uncontrollably as memories of her flash through my mind, her laughter, her warm hugs.
Oh God, I miss her so much.
The pain in my chest intensifies, each drop pounding against the wall of my chest, drowning the sound of the waterfall. It’s as if I’m standing under the cascading water, gasping for air.
I hold my chest, gasping for air, and try to stand up, but I stagger as my vision blurs. The ground spinning under my feet. I lost control of my balance, but muscular arms wrap around me, catching me before I hit the ground. I scream, struggling to free myself, my breaths coming in short, desperate bursts.
“Get off me,” I cry out, “Please, let me go.”
But they don’t let go, instead they pull me closer. “Mia, it’s me, just breathe.” A calm voice says, and I know this voice. I like that voice right now. I open my eyes and find a pair of green eyes looking at me, filled with concern. It’s him.
“Breathe, in and out,” he says, calmly.
I follow his instructions, focusing on my breathing, and slowly, air fills my lungs again. He smells of pine trees after rain. My body relaxes into him, comforting like a warm blanket on a cold winter day.. The tears don’t stop; they keep flowing, soaking his shirt, my body shaking with sobs. He doesn’t say anything; he holds me while I break down.
I shouldn’t feel comfortable with him holding me like this. I don’t even know him. He’s the asshole interrupting my quiet time alone. But right now, he feels like anything but that. My body trusts him, like it has known him forever.
We stay in that embrace for what seems like forever.
I pull away, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. But are you sure you’re okay?” He seems so different from before, as if he’s actually worried about me. Why would he care about me, he doesn't even know me?
“I’m fine, but really you need to stop sneaking up on me.”
He regards me with an expression mixed with regret and worry. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” His frown deepens. “But you were not okay; you couldn’t breathe, and you almost fell.”
I steal a quick look back at him, noticing a brief flash of worry cross his face before he smooths it into a casual smile. “Thank you for catching me,” I laugh, awkwardly. “I guess I’m light-headed. Missed breakfast, you know, but I’m fine.”
“You were crying, that didn't look fine to me.”
“I’m fine now.” I shuffle my feet, eager to put some distance between us. “And this never happened, okay?” I say, more to myself than to him, before turning to walk away.
“Hey, it's Jake, by the way, since you never asked,” he calls out after me.
Jake, huh? I prefer A sshole ; I chuckle to myself.