12. Elora
12
ELORA
40.8021° N, 124.1637° W
W ith the bag of Cheetos I opened minutes ago on my lap and one of the podcasts I like listening to playing through the speakers, I watch water begin to splash against the windshield. It’s not actually raining; it’s more of a mist at this point, but soon, we won’t be able to see the road. At least not clearly.
“Roman.”
“Yeah?” he mutters, switching lanes to pass a semi-truck.
“Uh… I think we need to stop,” I whisper, and he glances over at me, then down at the extra large iced coffee I ordered from the gas station we stopped at not long ago.
Smiling, he shakes his head. “I told you not to get that much coffee.”
I rub my lips together as the mist becomes tiny beads of water that begin to cover the windshield. “It’s not that. It’s the wipers.”
“The wipers?”
“They don’t work.” He looks over at me again, this time frowning. Focusing back on the road, he flips up the lever for the wipers. They engage… but only enough to clear about five inches from the bottom of the windshield.
“The wipers don’t work,” he informs me.
“That’s what I just said.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “They were like that when I bought the van.”
“You drove from Wyoming to Oregon without your wipers working?” he asks, sounding angry or annoyed. I can’t tell the difference—that, or he’s both at the same time.
“I didn’t need them.”
“Everyone needs working fucking wipers, Elora.” He moves to the right lane on the highway as the rain picks up.
“It didn’t rain.”
“Fuck me,” he grumbles, taking the exit for a town called Eureka.
“I never needed them.”
“Thank fuck for that.”
“Don’t be mad.”
“Babe.” He looks over at me as he stops at the red light. “I’m not mad. I’m pissed you’d do something so fucking reckless.” The light turns green, and he turns right, then pulls into the first available parking lot.
“The rain is already letting up.” I motion to the windshield, and I know that was the wrong thing to say when he turns to glare at me.
Whatever. The rain will pass, and we will be on our way.
I dig my hand into my bag of Cheetos.
Shaking his head at me, he grabs his cell phone and starts typing. Two minutes later, he drops it into the cupholder and puts the van in reverse.
“Where are we going?”
“To get the wipers fixed.”
“They can’t be fixed.”
“Anything broken can be fixed, Elora,” he mutters, pulling out of the parking lot.
“Except my wipers. The guy I got my van from said he tried to fix them and couldn’t.”
“Was he a mechanic?”
“I don’t know. He wore those overall thingies, so maybe.”
“Overall thingies?”
“You know… the jumpsuit that astronauts and mechanics wear.”
“So, he could have been an astronaut instead of a mechanic?”
“Maybe we should stop talking,” I suggest, even though it’s not so much a suggestion since he’s annoying me.
“Sure,” he mutters, turning into a parking lot littered with cars, most of them looking like they haven’t been driven in the past ten years. Parking, he starts to shove his door open but stops and looks over at me when I unclick my seat belt. “I’ll be right back.”
“I can come.”
“I got it.” Pushing the door open the rest of the way, he gets out and jogs toward the door of the shop, disappearing inside as the rain starts to fall harder.
Great. So much for the rain slowing down or stopping altogether.
Munching on my Cheetos, I watch through the blurry windshield as Roman and a man his height—with bulky muscles covered in tattoos, wearing a T-shirt and his jumpsuit sleeves tied around his waist—come out of the building together. The two of them stop at the front of the van. The guy fiddles with the wipers that are still in stunted motion and starts to talk while Roman stands with his hands planted on his hips and listens, his frown deepening by the second.
Placing the bag on my lap aside, I wipe my hands with a sanitizer wipe, then push open the door. Since I’m wearing just a thin T-shirt and jean shorts, the rain soaks through to my skin, causing goose bumps to spread down my arms and legs.
“What’s going on?”
Roman’s eyes drop to my chest and narrow. I don’t need to look down to know my nipples are hard. I feel them pressing against my bra. I cross my arms over my chest.
“I was just telling your boyfriend that, with the way the wipers are moving, it’s likely the motor. And in order to fix that, we gotta take apart the whole dash.”
“You have to take the dash apart?” I don’t correct him on the boyfriend comment.
“Unfortunately, and it might take me a day to track down a new motor if the one you’ve got can’t be fixed.”
I look at Roman when he unzips the hoodie he’s wearing over his shirt. Taking it off, he walks over to me and wraps it around my shoulders. Uncrossing my arms, I slip them into the long sleeves.
“We should check the weather. Maybe it will clear up,” I tell Roman, and he gives me a look filled with contempt, then glances at the guy standing across from us.
“We’ll get a hotel. Do you know of one nearby?”
“Roman,” I warn, but of course, he ignores me.
Well, that’s not exactly true. He wraps his arm around my waist.
“There’s a hotel right down the road,” the guy tells him. “Though, I’m not sure they’ve got any rooms. Everyone seems to be here in town this week.”
“If I bring the van back in an hour, can you start working on it?”
“Most likely.” He shrugs one bulky shoulder, which looks slightly comical given his size.
“All right, I’m going to get us checked in somewhere, and then I’ll be back.”
“Sure thing. See you in a bit,” the guy says, turning toward the shop.
“Come on.” Roman places his hand on my lower back and leads me to the passenger door, opening it.
“We’re not actually going to a hotel, are we?” I ask, looking at him as I climb up into my seat.
“Yes, we are.” He grabs my seat belt and pulls it loose, then leans in, buckling it in place.
“Roman, the rain is going to stop soon. We can wait somewhere until then and save the vouchers I have for a hotel until we?—”
“Quiet, Elora.” He steps back and slams the door shut before I can get more out.
Glaring at him, I watch him through the windshield as he walks around to the driver’s door and slides in behind the wheel. I continue glaring at him as he picks up his phone. Not that he notices.
“Did you seriously tell me to be quiet?” I ask when he drops his phone into the cupholder once again.
“Yep.” He glances at me while placing his hand on the back of my seat before turning fully to look out the rear window so he can reverse out of the spot we’re in.
“You told me ‘quiet,’ like I’m a child?”
He focuses on me. “Elora, I’m not going to argue with you about getting the wipers fixed.” His hand moves from the headrest to the back of my neck. “That’s not something even up for discussion.”
“Not up for discussion,” I whisper-hiss, looking into his eyes that have fascinated me since the moment we met.
“Are you in this car?”
“Yes,” I snap.
“Then I’m going to make it as safe as I can without pushing it off a cliff and replacing it completely.”
“I think I’m done talking to you for the day,” I mumble, and he grins, giving my neck a squeeze before letting his hand fall away.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I focus my attention out the passenger side window while he puts the shifter in drive and pulls out of the parking lot.
After about ten minutes, he parks in front of what can only be described as a Victorian mansion. The outside is painted a pretty pastel pink with lacy white gingerbread trim, huge bay windows, and an elegant turret.
“What’s this?” I ask, all thoughts of the silent treatment I planned on giving him leaving my head in an instant.
“Where we’re staying.” He gets out while I stare at the house through the windshield.
“Roman, we can’t stay here,” I tell him when he opens my door a moment later.
“It’s just for the night while they fix the wipers on the van.”
“I don’t have a voucher for this place.”
“It’s fine, and when I was looking online, this is the only thing that came up with rooms available.”
“Probably because all the guests have been scared away by the ghosts who live here.”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts, Elora.” He leans around me and unhooks my seat belt.
“Says every person before a malevolent spirit attacks them,” I murmur, looking over his shoulder at the house that must be over a hundred years old and is for sure haunted. Not even the pink paint can hide that.
“Come on. I want to get the van back to the shop so they can start working on it.”
“If I die?—”
“Don’t—” His hand strikes out, wrapping around my jaw so fast my breath catches in the back of my throat. His grip on my jaw doesn’t hurt, but it’s firm and unyielding. “—ever joke about that, Elora.”
“Okay,” I breathe, resting my hand against his chest, where I feel his heart thundering against my palm. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right. Just…” He shakes his head. “Just don’t say shit like that.”
“I won’t again,” I promise, and his fingers loosen on my jaw as his eyes scan my face.
Moving my palm from where it’s resting over his heart, I slide my arms around him and press the side of my head against his chest while his hand falls away.
After a moment, he curls me against his chest and rests his chin on top of my head. I close my eyes. It was careless of me to joke about dying, but I had no idea he’d have that strong of a reaction. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. Our connection is tangled up with loss, and even if we didn’t know each other prior to experiencing the kind of pain that comes from losing someone you care about, we’ve come to depend on each other. Or at least I know I’ve come to depend on him . If he were to say something similar, I’m not sure how I would react.
Would I feel it like a physical blow?
My heart clenches at the thought, telling me I would.
After a couple of minutes, his lips touch the crown of my head, and he steps back and helps me slide out of my seat. Standing on the sidewalk, I watch him open the back door and unload our luggage.
“Here, you take this one.” He pulls out the handle of his suitcase, which rolls smoothly across the uneven pavement. I take it while he lifts my two bags off the ground since the wheels on both are now almost totally useless.
Walking up to the house, I stop at the front door and press the bell that is far too modern for the exterior.
“Hello,” a woman with a bright smile answers in less than a minute. “Welcome to The Pinc.”
“Thank you.” I smile as she moves back, allowing us to enter. The moment I step over the threshold, I feel like I’ve been teleported back in time. All the elaborate woodwork is deep red, from the window and doorframes to the stairs, which look handcrafted. All of the furniture and decor, from the rugs to the tables, couches, and lamps, are antique and fit the exterior of the house perfectly.
I don’t know where to look because there is so much to see, and I’m so lost in every detail that I miss the check-in process. Really, I’m not sure if there is one. It isn’t until Jacqueline takes us to our room and talks about the house's history and the mansion across the street that I fully focus on her.
I listen with rapt fascination as she tells us this house was a gift for the son of the original owner of the mansion across the street after he got married. During the gold rush era, the Carsons made their money from the redwood timber industry. After the father passed away, the couple who lived here moved across the street to his house and sold this house to two sisters, who later had it seized due to it being Nazi property. It was a boarding house for a few years after that, but it soon fell into disrepair until it was bought and restored. Apparently, it changed hands a few times after that until it became what it is now—a bed-and-breakfast and wedding venue.
When we get to our room, she opens the door, then walks across the small space to flick open the blinds.
“If you need anything at all, I’ll be around, and there are treats and tea downstairs that you’re welcome to any time,” she says, walking back toward the door.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy your stay.” She leaves, shutting the door behind her, and I look around.
The small room is clean and decorated the same as downstairs. Everything seems to be antique, including the bed with its iron head and footboard, white quilt, and colorful throw laid across the end. The only thing out of place is the bistro table set up in a curved alcove in the corner of the room, where the turret must be outside the house. Roman takes the backpack from me, placing it on the end of the bed, and then gets in my space.
“I shouldn’t be gone long.”
“I should come with you.”
“No, it’s raining, and you don’t need to be out in the cold. Stay and read or watch TV.”
“I’m not going to melt in the rain. And this is California. It’s not that cold.”
“Elora, please.”
“Fine,” I give in, wondering if I should.
Eventually, he and I are going to have to untangle the mess of strings that have tied us together, and I’m not sure I’m doing either of us any favors by allowing him to take care of me, which it seems he has set out to do.
After he touches his lips to my forehead, he leans back to look at me. “Plug in your phone so it doesn’t die and call me if you need anything.”
“Sure.” I wrap my arms around my middle, then watch him as he leaves, shutting me in the room alone.
Going to the window, I look down at the street and see him get into my van, and when he drives out of sight, I glance across the street. From here, I can see the mansion that Jacqueline mentioned. It’s the opposite of this house in every single way. The dark green looks almost gray, and all the gingerbread detailing around the windows and doors is painted a similar color, only a touch darker. It’s like in that movie Addams Family Values when Wednesday goes to summer camp and has a roommate, and on her side, it’s all doom and gloom, but her roommate’s side looks like a little girl who loves pink and everything girly got ahold of her parents’ credit card and decorated to her heart’s content.
It makes me curious if both colors are original or if sometime through the changing of hands, they decided to update the paint. When I see Jacqueline, I’ll have to ask her about it.
Not wanting to sit in the room alone until Roman gets back, I grab my phone which is almost dead, and my book I haven’t had time to read, then take both with me downstairs. I find the beverage cart Jacqueline mentioned, make myself a cup of tea, and carry it with me into a small room that is set up like a library with a few chairs for lounging. Getting comfortable near a window, I listen to the rain and start to read about a hero who isn’t so much a hero for anyone but the woman he’s falling in love with.
“Elora.”
Startled, I jump and drop my book, my eyes landing on Roman standing in the doorway.
“What happened?” I frown, taking in his hair and his T-shirt, which are soaked.
“I had to walk back.”
“You walked back?” I know it didn’t take us an hour to drive here from the mechanic shop or anything, but the walk had to be at least fifteen minutes, if not longer.
“I couldn’t get a car.” He walks toward me and picks my book up from the floor.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” His eyes meet mine.
“That you had to walk in the rain after dealing with my van.”
“I’m glad it was me and not you.” He hands me my book, then leans over me, resting his hand on the arm of the chair. “After I shower and change, we can figure out dinner. Do you want to stay down here or come upstairs with me?”
“I’ll come with you.” He nods, unfolding from his bent position, and holds out his hand.
“Did they say anything about the van?” I ask as he pulls me up.
“Just that they’ll call in a few and give us an update after they get the dash off and check out the motor.”
“Hopefully, it will be an easy fix and won’t cost much.” I glance up at him as we walk up the wide stairs and see his jaw clench ever so slightly. Oh no. “Did they already tell you how much it’s going to cost?”
“No, but it shouldn’t be much.”
That’s doubtful since they have to remove the entire dash, and most places charge by the hour.
“You never told me how much this place is a night.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Roman, I want to know so I can pay you back, and I’m paying for my van when it’s time to pick it up.”
“Did you eat something?” he asks, ignoring my comment completely, which is beyond frustrating.
“You do realize I can just look up the price per night for this place online, right?”
“We’ll talk about it when you close on your land.”
“Fine.” I sigh as he opens the door to our room.
“I spoke to a friend of mine, Jace, who lives in San Francisco. He and his wife Penny live there, and they invited us to stay with them when we get into town.” He steps back to let me enter the room before him. “We don’t have to, but I figured it would be a better option than sleeping in the van.”
“Can I meet them first, then decide?” I walk across the room and place my book on the nightstand beside the bed.
“Sure,” he says, distracted, as he lifts his hands up over his head and takes off his wet shirt that was clinging to him.
“How do you know him?” I ask, trying and failing not to stare at his sculpted torso and the tattoos covering his arms when his shirt is off.
He’s beautiful, even the parts of him that are not visible from the outside.
“He’s bought a couple pieces of property in New Y—” His words cut off, and I look up, meeting his gaze and feeling my cheeks heat when I realize he caught me checking him out.
“Sorry,” I whisper, and his hand clenches around the shirt he’s still holding.
“Why are you apologizing?” He takes a step toward me.
“I don’t know.” I lick my lips.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and my pulse skips a beat.
Since that one time back at the hotel, he hasn’t given me a single indication that he’s wanted to kiss me again, but something hot and thick fills the air between us now, making it difficult to breathe. Making my pulse race.
I step back when I realize he’s still closing the distance between us.
“What are you doing, Elora?”
That’s a good question. What am I doing? This room is small, and it’s not like I can run away.
Do I even want to run away from him?
Before I can figure that question out in my head, he’s in my space.
Leaning…
Around me.
I watch him pick up his backpack, feeling lightheaded.
“I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“S-Sure,” I stutter, watching him turn and head into the bathroom.
With my heart pounding, I fall to my bottom on the side of the bed and stare at the open bathroom door, hearing the shower turn on. Did I want him to kiss me? Yes. Am I disappointed he didn’t? Also, yes. The real question is, did he even want to kiss me? If he did, he would have. Wouldn’t he? I’m pretty sure the answer is yes, but not knowing for sure makes me feel off-balance and awkward. Not wanting to be in here when he gets out of the shower, I push off the bed and walk across the room.
“Roman.”
“Yeah?” he calls out over the sound of the shower.
“I’m going to go downstairs.”
“What?” He rips the curtain to the shower open enough to look out at me.
“I’m going to go down and talk to Jacqueline about the house across the street, so when you’re done, I’ll just meet you downstairs.”
“Give me ten minutes, and I’ll go with you.”
“It’s okay.” I back away from the door. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
“Elora,” he calls, but I ignore him as I grab my purse and leave the room, breathing a sigh of relief.