Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
QUINN
“Where’s all the snow?” As we leave the airport, I gaze around at the bare concrete, damp from the rain falling in a light drizzle.
“Alaska gets summer like anywhere else. It’s still August.”
“You’re still August,” I grumble in response, disappointed that my great trek north hasn’t resulted in a beautiful white tundra to ogle.
“Yes, I am.”
He grins down at me, but I can see the strain at the corner of his eyes, and I scold myself. This isn’t some romantic getaway. August is here for his parents, and I’m here for August. None of this trip is about me. I already made the plane ride about me, and that’s quite enough self-centeredness.
“You are. I guess this is now my favorite month.” Pressing up on my toes, I give him a smacking kiss on his cheek. “Now let’s grab a cab. Do you want to go straight to the hospital or drop our stuff off at your parents’ place first?”
His arm wraps around my shoulders, drawing me to his side in a hug that also seems like a thank-you.
We opt for a quick stop by the house, August reasoning he could grab his dad some essentials while there. I’m happy for the detour because I can change into something more presentable than my baggy, sexy-dampening flight outfit.
As we unload our bags from the cab, I stifle another exclamation of confusion.
Turns out, I’m naive because I imagined that everyone in Alaska lived in a cabin.
Really, it’s August’s fault with how he decorated Land of Ice Cream and Snow.
How was I supposed to know that the Nords lived in a perfectly normal-looking house?
It’s still a very nice house. The roof slopes dramatically, which gives the inside high ceilings. I bet August loves that. No bumping his head here.
Mrs. Nord is a big fan of quilts, and I’ve got to say, I like her style. I vow to one day sit in a window seat wrapped in a quilt as I sip from a steaming hot drink.
A girl has to have goals.
“Is this the house you grew up in?” I ask as August leads me through the front room toward a wide set of stairs.
“Yeah. We’ll put our things in my old bedroom, change, then head out.”
Both our things? In one room?
I want to ask if he thinks his parents would approve. I also want to point out that sleeping in the same bed isn’t exactly smart. But I stop myself. Now is not the time to question or debate. Now is the time to support and make life easy on August.
Sleeping-arrangement discussions can come later.
The bedroom we walk into is surprisingly sparse. Not to say there isn’t anything in it. There’s a bed, with another beautiful quilt, and all the basic furniture someone might need, which seems to have been carved out of rough wood. The place is a perfectly quaint guest room.
“Where are all the naked-lady posters?”
August stumbles at my words, gripping a bedpost to steady himself before he turns to stare at me. “The what?”
“You know, the posters from a magazine’s swimsuit edition. Or, like, a shot of a hot model on a sports car or something. Normal teenage boy decor.”
“You thought I’d have pictures of naked women all over my walls?” August’s voice comes out strangled, but all I can do is shrug.
“I grew up with two sisters. I have no frame of reference other than movies. But I didn’t envision this.” I spread my arms to take in the charming but impersonal room.
The bedsprings squeak as August sits down heavily, his eyes on me with an odd expression, his teeth digging into his lower lip. “What else did you expect?”
I pace to the window and peek through the curtains, finding a large backyard with a high fence surrounding it. “You know. Sports stuff. Random clothes. Action figures. Car engine manuals.”
“Car engine manuals?”
“Maybe! Teenage boys like cars. Right?”
“Some do, I’m sure. What else?”
When I realize August finds my guesses amusing, I keep going, happy to do anything that’ll bring a smile to his face, even if I look silly in the process. Mentally browsing the teenage films I’ve seen, I throw out another option.
“Dirty magazines stashed under the bed!” Now that I think about it, those could still be there. I drop to my knees, searching for some sign of sixteen-year-old August. But there’s only a plastic bin, which looks to contain more quilts.
“Come here,” August says, using a growly tone that’s laced with laughter.
I follow his command, pushing back against the warmth that sparked up at his voice.
When I’m around on his side of the bed, he reaches for my hand and laces our fingers together.
“A couple of years ago, my mom redid this room. She said her baby bird had flown the nest, so she was going to make the nest look however she wanted.”
I affect an over-the-top pout and enjoy his cheeky grin of a response.
“Here, I’ll paint you a mental picture.” August begins to describe the room, pointing as he speaks. “My bed was there, dresser there, desk by the window—usually covered in school papers and maybe a recipe or two. All my hockey gear ended up in a pile in that corner—”
“Sports stuff! I was right!” I pump a triumphant fist in the air. “You played ice hockey?”
He nods with a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah. I was okay, probably because I was bigger and good on my skates. But I was never aggressive enough.”
That makes sense to me; I remember back to how sure of himself he was on our first date in that ice rink. How, even when I fell, I knew he’d be there to pick me up.
Yeah, August is not the kind of guy who would excel in a sport that so often breaks out in fights. In this moment, I vow to myself to fight for him. To be his rabid honey-badger protector if he ever needs one.
“Okay, I have a mental vision of the stuff. Now, I’m guessing this wall”—I point to the one he’d easily see while lying in his bed—“had the bootylicious babe.”
August just chuckles, shaking his head. “No. No bootylicious decorations in here. You remember that I go into super-freeze mode when I’m turned on, right? My whole goal was to keep from getting horny so I didn’t turn the house into an ice hotel.”
“What are you saying? That you were celibate the entire time you were a teenager? Even with yourself?” I at least took care of things in the shower every so often.
August shrugs, still giving me an adorable half smile. “Most of the year, it’s around or below freezing outside. I’d just go off on my own for a while.”
“You went on hikes so you could masturbate?” I stand in between his knees, cupping his cheeks with my hands. “You poor, sexy ice god.”
His skin is cool when I press my lips to his forehead, but I don’t mind. I never mind.
Normally, my heat feels comfortable, normal. But when I touch August, it’s like my fire has grown stifling, and he’s a cold glass of water after a long run or a dive into a pool after sitting in the sun for hours.
“Pretty sure it’s blasphemous to keep calling me a god,” he murmurs as his hands grip my thighs and pull me closer. Close enough for him to bury his face in my cleavage. His hum of satisfaction has me laughing and shoving him away.
Even though I want to hold him against me, maybe sink down on the bed with him and fulfill all his horny teenage fantasies, we have somewhere to be.
Plus, I don’t want to set his parents’ house on fire. Not a good first impression. Especially not when we have other serious shit to deal with.
I make another silent promise that once we make it through these next few hours, I will help August in whatever way he needs, including being a distraction from worry and grief.
“I think our gods are pretty forgiving.” Stepping out of his hold, I offer my hand for him to take. “Now let’s go see your mom.”
The humor on his face drops away. I expect it to be replaced by solemn conviction or grim determination. Instead, he stares into my eyes, his own having faded to a pale icy blue that reveals a cavern of vulnerability.
“You’ll come with me?”
His palms are rough in mine as I leverage him off the bed. With efficient determination, I don my honey-badger cloak. If this world tries to mess with my man, I’ll fuck it up.
Watch me.
But to him, I merely say, “Of course.”