Chapter 6 #2
“Christ, this is like another village up here,” I murmur to myself as we bypass a large red barn and a pasture on our right.
The driver continues up the gravel path that leads us toward three unique cabins, all spaced far enough apart to give a guy some space, but close enough together you’re still very much neighbors.
The first one has striking, angular windows and looks like it was built right in the thick of the forests.
There are giant panels on the roof that I assume are solar.
I remember reading up about Mount Millie before I said yes to the work visa opportunity, and its headline on their website said that it was Colorado’s first fully sustainable rescue center.
The next home is a rustic, more modest log cabin with a front porch that has some nice rocking chairs out front. It’s similar
to the third one, except the third has flat wood siding, but it’s also somewhat modest. My eyes snag on a chicken perched
on its porch railing, like the damn thing lives there or something.
When I turn my gaze to the final cabin tucked in the back and nearly concealed by the trees . . . my jaw can’t help but drop.
Holy Christ on a bike, it’s something.
It’s a glass, modern, boxy sort of structure that’s perched near the edge of the ridge and wrapped in a wide cedar deck that
looks out over the canyon below. It’s all clean lines and dark wood siding that blends into the trees on one half, but then
the other half is entirely large square panes of glass that reflect the pine trees and pinkish-purple skyline like a damn
painting. The cabin, if you can even call it that, is tucked away, almost separate from the rest of the compound, but still
very much a part of everything. Like a fancy star on top of a Christmas tree. I even spot a bubbling stream running down a
small slope behind the cabin and a walking path that looks like a perfect place for me to run.
If this is what money can buy, I reckon I’d like to say fuck all to rugby and becoming a lawyer and work for Everly’s father.
“I’ll get the bags,” the driver says as he comes to a stop in front of the large double-door entrance.
“Right. Sure. Thanks,” I reply, not bothering to tell him I’m not staying here. I’ve only got my two bags and a carry-on,
so I can manage it back down to the barn after we get Everly dropped off.
I glance inside and can just make out the warm glow of pendant lights and exposed beams above polished concrete floors.
A curvy woman with wild, curly hair steps out of the front doors of the cabin and waves eagerly in my direction.
I recognize her as Trista from our video interview we did a few weeks back.
I turn on my heel and lean over to give Sleeping Beauty a gentle nudge. It’s strange to see her in such a vulnerable way.
She inhales deeply and makes a funny kissing noise with her lips, not even remotely waking up. I fight back the urge to laugh
because she looks a hell of a lot more peaceful now than she did an hour ago.
“Hey, Stretch, we’re here,” I say softly as I glance over my shoulder and see the woman letting the driver inside with all
our luggage.
“Everly,” I state a bit louder.
“Mmm . . . thunder thighs of destiny,” she murmurs.
I jerk my head and frown. Is she talking about me? Surely not, right? Then again, this wouldn’t be the first time she’s remarked
on my thighs.
“They could definitely crack a watermelon,” she coos and giggles in her sleep, and I have to cover my own mouth to stop myself
from laughing as my stomach swirls with amusement. Whatever that pill was that she took has messed her up properly, no doubt
about it. But bloody hell if there isn’t a dark, quiet part of me that likes the fact that I’m seated so firmly in her subconscious
because she’s been in mine a time or two as well.
I turn to see the driver accepting a tip from the woman and beginning to make his way back to the car. With a growl, I grab
Everly’s white tote bag and throw it over my shoulder before bending down to pick her up. If she’s dreaming about thighs of
destiny and refusing to get her arse moving, I’ll move it for her.
I grunt as I stand because she’s an awkward-as-fuck load.
All dangling, long limbs and arms flung out like she’s dead.
When she first came to Trinity, she was skinny.
A bit too skinny, if you ask me. But she’s filled out some in the four years I’ve seen her around.
Her arms have thickened, along with her hips and legs.
She’s got a bit of a belly too, and I like that look on her.
She’s healthier at this size and looks less like a faint wind could blow her over.
With a jerk, she curls in and nuzzles her nose against my neck like I’m her cuddly teddy bear, not the arse she was snapping
at on the plane just hours ago. The scent of jasmine wafts over me, and I feel my body shudder over the close proximity to
her. I’ve never touched Everly Fletcher before, and I know instantly I’m going to have to wash this bleedin’ shirt to get
her scent off me.
I carefully make my way out of the shuttle, turning sideways to not whack her against anything. When I come around the front
of the van, Trista’s eyes go wide.
“Is Everly sick?” she exclaims and rushes down the long flight of steps to greet me.
“Not that I know of. I think she’s just jet-lagged to oblivion.” I offer a rueful smile. “I tried to wake her, but she’s out
of it. I think she took a sleeping pill.”
“Oh, my gosh, let me get the door for you.” She hustles up the steps ahead of me, opening the glass-paned doors to allow me
to carry Everly inside.
“Cozy said she’s going to be sleeping in here.
Just follow me. I’ll get the covers pulled back.
” Trista rushes past an elegant but simple kitchen on the right and down a hallway through the door at the end.
Everly squirms lightly in my arms, making the most dick-rising noise I’ve ever heard.
I stop for a second to get my head on straight when her hand slides up the back of my neck and tugs my hair, making me physically flex every muscle in my body as I hold my breath.
I must be fucking tired if this is all it takes to almost bring me to my knees.
I release a slow, controlled breath and double-check she’s still unconscious and sleeping and not awake, about to lay into
me.
Growling softly at the knackered, infuriating girl, I finally step into the bedroom, doing a sideways move that has me almost
smacking her head on the doorframe.
My brows lift. I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s just as stunning as the outside. It’s got giant windows that overlook the
stream out back, and I can’t help but think how easy it would be for someone to stare inside at her. My throat tightens as
I glance at the big white bed in the center of the room. Will she have men in here? Why is that any of my fucking business?
I shake away that intrusive thought and turn my focus to the large printed photograph of the Rubrics building at Trinity.
It’s placed on the wall opposite the bed and wrapped in a thick, studded leather frame, adding a richness to the photo and
making me wish I had something like that for my own space. I hadn’t lived in the Rubrics, but I sure looked at that building
enough for it to leave its mark on me.
“Here you go,” Trista says, folding back the blankets for me to lay the girl my sister befriended her last year of college
down onto the bed.
The sheets brush the backs of my hands, and I fight the urge to crawl inside and make room for myself. Christ, I must be tired if I’m fantasizing about falling asleep with Everly Fletcher in my arms.
When Trista begins pulling off Everly’s shoes, I make a hasty exit to give them some privacy. Me being in Everly’s bedroom
is not a good idea. Not ever.
My eyes sweep the living room. It’s clean and simple. Long black leather couch. A telly and a couple of end tables and lamps. Everything looks expensive. I refuse to sit down because I’m sure I’d ruin something just by existing.
Moments later, Trista comes rushing toward me, out of breath and pushing her curly hair back behind her ears. “That girl always
knows how to make an entrance,” she replies with a laugh and then smiles warmly at me. “Hello, Conri. It’s nice to finally
meet you in person.”
I grip the back of my neck, trying to rub away the feeling of Everly’s hands that were just there, and nod. “You can call
me Wolf if you like. Everyone does.”
“Wolf it is. You can call me Trista.” She reaches out and shakes my hand. “Welcome to Fletcher Mountain.”
My brows lift as I take in the full view of the sweeping mountain canyon and all the cabins and the red barn downhill. “It’s
really something.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Trista stares out at the view like she doesn’t live here and see it every day. “Can I show you to your
place?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
She grabs my smaller suitcase despite my protests, and we lug them down the long steps to load them into a Ranger ATV she
has parked beside the house. I slide into the passenger seat, feeling so weird not having a steering wheel in front of me.
I can only imagine how odd that’s going to be, driving on the wrong side of the road, and she zips us down the gravel lane
headed toward the barn just as darkness sets in. I glance at the three glowing cabins as we drive by and swear I see people
in the windows duck and hide. Not just in one cabin either. All three of them seem to have someone inside trying to have a
nosy peek.
I suppose I’d be curious about an Irish rugby player moving onto my mountain as well.
I really hope I get on with this family, or it’s going to be a long bleedin’ summer.
Trista parks in front of the red barn and once again fights me on taking one of my suitcases, even though I’d really prefer she carry nothing. We step inside the dutch doors, and she flicks a light on, bringing the quaint barn to life.