Chapter 22 Este
ESTE
My heart sinks when I open the door to let the dogs out and see green. A lot of green.
Yesterday, the ground was still covered in a decent layer of, albeit slushy, snow. This morning, it’s half-melted.
The dogs whine as I nudge them outside, clearly as unhappy about it as I am. I sigh, leaning against the doorframe as I watch them gingerly step off the porch steps and onto the grass.
“You okay?” Nico comes up behind me, immediately curling his arm around me, pressing his hand flat against my stomach, like he’s pressing me into him.
When I look over my shoulder at him, he’s so focused on me, he hasn’t even looked outside. “The snow’s melted,” I tell him, and he glances past me, his eyes dulling when he sees the green grass beyond.
“It was warmer last night.”
We stand silently for a moment, and I’m pretty sure he’s thinking the same thing I am.
It feels too soon. As of tomorrow, I’ll have been here for four weeks.
In some ways, it feels longer. This place feels so familiar to me that I could’ve been here forever.
And Nico… the way I feel for him is not the way I should after only a few weeks.
But mostly, it just doesn’t feel like I’ve had enough time. I haven’t breathed enough of the mountain air into my lungs. I haven’t woken up pressed against Nico’s chest enough times. I haven’t learned everything there is to learn about him. It’s not enough.
I can’t keep the road blocked by sheer force of will, though.
“Does this mean the road…?” I trail off, unwilling to finish the sentence, and Nico’s hold on me tightens a fraction.
“I’ll take the dogs down and check it out.”
Nodding has never felt like such a betrayal of what I want. “I’ll make breakfast.”
He kisses me, deeper and slower than a usual morning kiss, like he’s savoring it. I’m breathless when he pulls away and shrugs into his jacket. He gives me one more kiss, chaste this time, before heading out into the spring morning.
I watch him go, whistling to the dogs so they follow him, until the trees swallow them, then I squeeze my eyes together tightly to stop myself from crying. Tears will only make us both feel worse.
There are birds chirping in the trees, and snowdrops popping up around the perimeter of the forest. It’s beautiful—a promise of warmer days to come.
I slam the door closed so I don’t have to see it.
Though the air isn’t as cool as it was a couple of weeks ago, I expect Nico will still be freezing when he gets back.
I turn on the stove and measure out oats and his favorite hazelnut milk to make chocolate and hazelnut oatmeal.
I’m not as good in the kitchen as he is, and he’s barely let me cook for him since I’ve been here, since he’s so hellbent on taking care of me, but there’s something satisfying about making a meal to nourish someone you care about.
I clean the kitchen while the oats are bubbling away, another task I don’t particularly enjoy doing at home in Chicago, but I don’t mind here.
Again, probably because Nico doesn’t let me do it often.
I know he likes taking care of me, but I like taking care of him, too.
And if this is one of the last chances I get to do it, I’m going to take it.
By the time I hear the cabin door open thirty minutes later, the room smells like hazelnut and chocolate, the kitchen is spotless, and there’s a jar of Nico’s homemade raspberry preserves warming up on the stove.
“That smells amazing, angel,” he says as he kicks off his boots. The dogs rush over to me, and I kiss each of their noses before splitting a treat from the dog cookie jar on the counter and tossing them each half.
“Chocolate hazelnut oatmeal. Figured you’d want something warm.” I can’t tell from his demeanor what he found, and I’ve never wanted to ask anything less in my life. But I have to. “How’s the road?”
He stops at the edge of the kitchen, looking at Earl chasing his tail around rather than me. I know before he opens his mouth. “It’s… not bad. Slushy, but the Jeep could handle it.”
“Oh.”
“But…” Nico continues, finally looking at me. My stomach is in knots, but there’s a determination on his face that gives me a little bit of hope. “It would be safer to wait until the ground is less wet.”
The relief I feel is almost comical. I don’t think I was this relieved when I opened my college acceptance letter. “Yeah. Yes. Absolutely. We should wait until it’s safer.”
Nico blows out a breath, and his shoulders relax with it. “Good. We, uh, probably have a week until the road is clear enough that people could drive up it.”
Right. Because we can’t put this off forever—only until people can call us out on it.
A week. It’s better than it could be.
I grab bowls from the cabinet, and we move around each other, perfectly in sync, as I serve breakfast and Nico makes tea. Every time he passes me, his hands graze me. And every time, I feel his touch from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
We sit across from each other, but I lift my feet, resting my legs on his lap while we eat. Nico eats one-handed so he can rest the other on my shin.
“I have some work to do today, and I could use an extra set of hands if you’re up for it,” he says, and I frown over my cup.
“You trust me to help you with work stuff? One time, I took a pottery class and broke the pottery wheel. I’m not good with my hands.”
“I beg to differ on that last part,” Nico replies, and my cheeks flush. “And of course I trust you. You can handle rubbing some stain over a tabletop. Or you could just come read in the workshop.”
I smile into my oatmeal. “If you want to spend time with me, you can just say that.”
He squeezes my foot. “I want to spend time with you.”
I was planning on forcing my company on him anyway today, if not every day. There’s no chance I’m wasting any time we have left together.
“I can probably handle staining a tabletop. How catastrophic will it be if I fuck it up?”
He laughs, the vibrations ricocheting up my leg. “It’s very hard to fuck up. But on the off chance you do, I can fix it. There’s very little you can’t fix when it comes to wood.”
I can’t stop the smirk that curves my lips. “God. The jokes really do write themselves.”
Turns out, even I can manage to wipe a sponge soaked in what smells like straight-up gasoline over a piece of wood.
Nico failed to mention that the tabletop in question was the beautiful mixed-wood piece he’s been working on since before I got here.
But as nervous as I was with the first swipe of stain, everything is fine.
It has a built-in chessboard on one side, a regular dining table on the other, and Nico has designed a fancy hinge mechanism to allow the owners to flip it easily.
It’s heading to a family up in Canada when it’s finished, and Nico is also making a set of matching chess pieces that will live in a hidden drawer.
He’s so unbelievably talented, and it’s nice to think of some kids growing up a thousand miles away, making memories with something he made here.
“Looks good, angel,” he says, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around me. I’m not complaining, but since we talked last week about what would happen when I left, he’s been a lot touchier than he was before. And he’s only gotten more so since this morning. I’m a big fan.
“I think that has more to do with your table-making skills than my staining skills.”
“A team effort,” he corrects, pulling a rag from his tool belt and wiping a brown speck from my hand before it stains me.
I drop the sponge in the box he keeps beside his workbench of old rags and sponges, and turn to him, just for him to back me up against the bench.
“Thank you for helping.”
His eyes are dark and focused on me, and his cock is pressing against my stomach. If this is my reward… “Anytime.”
“I have something for you.”
“I can feel that.”
He rolls his eyes. “Not that,” he says, stepping away.
What the fuck? Yes that.
Nico slides open a drawer and pulls something out, laughing when he turns back and sees my expression. “Quit pouting,” he says, tapping my lips. “You can have that later.” Better. “Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
I raise a brow but do as I’m told. Something small but weighty lands in the palm of my hand, and I automatically close my fingers around it. I can tell it’s wood, with some kind of cool metal.
“Open your eyes, angel.”
I open them, and my fingers, and gasp. A tiny wooden teddy bear is sitting on my palm. It’s remarkably detailed, considering how small it is, with a gold necklace chain coming from the top. I take in the star on its tummy, my eyes burn.
“Oh my god. It’s Amelia Bearhart.”
Nico nods and picks it up, showing me the bear’s feet. One has a tiny A, the other a B. “I know you can’t take her everywhere with you, but this is small enough that you can tuck it in your pocket even if you don’t want to wear it, and maybe it’ll comfort you when you need it.”
It’s the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever been given. And he made it. Holy shit.
“Nico…” I breathe, looking up at him. Alarm flashes on his face.
“Hey. Don’t cry. Shit, I’m sorry, I thought it would help I—”
“I love it,” I cut in quickly, wiping my face. “I can’t believe you made this for me. No one has ever done anything like this for me—something so special.” Except him, I guess, when he made my memory box.
“You deserve everything special,” he says, wiping my cheek with his sleeve.
“It’s from the same tree as your memory box.
” The first tree. The one he only uses for the most special projects.
“I wanted you to have something, you know.” When you’re not here.
He doesn’t have to say it. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.
“It’s perfect. Thank you. Will you put it on me?”
Nico nods, and I turn around so he can loop the chain around my neck.
His hands are too big for the tiny clasp—I still can’t believe he can carve things on such a small scale—but he manages to close it after a few attempts.
The bear sits right in the center of my chest, the weight of it already comforting.
When I turn back to him, his gaze falls to the bear, and his lips part. “What do you think?”
He draws in a long breath and swallows before answering. “At the risk of sounding like a possessive asshole, I didn’t consider how much I would like seeing you wearing something I made.”
He licks his lips and traces his finger down one side of the chain, pauses right above the bear, then up the other.
“Please, feel free to sound like a possessive asshole. More so, even,” I whisper, as his finger traverses my throat, settling right below my chin. “You know I like it when you claim me.”
His eyes flame, and, before I can blink, I’m bent over his workbench with my underwear around my ankles.