Chapter Eighteen
Dallas
Incredible smells have been drifting into this room for hours.
I feel like a major dick, being in here while she’s out there slaving over a dinner I’m not even going to enjoy.
Looking down at my book, I realize I haven’t turned a page in… well, maybe since I sat down. I slam it shut knowing I can’t get the captivating brunette on the other side of that door out of my goddamn head.
When I glance at my surroundings, it makes me feel all kinds of guilty. I pick up one of my favorite sculptures and trace my finger along the edge.
A knock on the door has it slipping out of my hands. It almost hits the floor, but I scoop it up right at the last second, my heart pounding at the thought of how close it came to being a shattered mess.
“Dinner’s ready,” Marti sing-songs through the door.
I blow out a relieved breath, place the sculpture back where it belongs, then straighten a painting that’s tipping awkwardly off the end of an easel. I study it for a half-second before leaving the room.
Instantly I’m bombarded with the mouth-watering scent of fresh bread, cooked meat, and all kinds of other amazing foods my palate hasn’t experienced in a long, long time. Out of nowhere, I find myself looking forward to a meal.
As saliva flows across my tongue, I momentarily wonder if it’s the meal I’m looking forward to—or the company.
I glance at the table, all done up with fancy napkins and shit. “Where did you get all this?”
“Don’t you know Amazon delivers everywhere?” She laughs and I look at her like she’s nuts. “You don’t do much spring cleaning around here, do you? You had this stuff in the bottom drawer of that hutch.”
“My mother must have put it there when she and my dad brought up some of my belongings.”
Her head cocks to the side. She’s going to ask me something.
“Smells great,” I say quickly to avert any questioning. “I can’t believe you threw all this together at the last minute.”
I peruse the spread of food on the counter. Homemade stuffing. Green bean casserole. Sliced beef tenderloin. Even mashed potatoes and gravy.
“Do you want to pick a bottle of wine?” she asks.
I hesitate. Wine would make this feel like it’s something it’s not. Sure, I drink it with meals all the time. But alone. Not with someone else. And definitely not with a woman. Because this isn’t a date.
But she’s gone through all this trouble. It’s the least I can do.
“Not the special occasion bottle,” she adds. “Just your ordinary everyday wine will do. Hell, give me a glass of Barefoot and I’m good.”
I cringe. “You won’t find anything like that in this house.”
“No. I suppose I won’t. I am looking forward to tasting what you have, though. You’ll forgive me if I don’t sniff it, swish it, and talk about things like body and acidity. I’m just a girl who likes what she likes.” She shrugs. “Or spits out what she doesn’t.”
“Spit out my wine and you’ll be sleeping outside tonight.”
A smile reaches her stunning hazel eyes that dance with laughter. I question why she’s even doing this. Doesn’t she hate me after what I said last night? You’d think she’d be pissed off at me, not cooking me dinner.
When her cheeks pink, I realize I’ve been staring. It’s the first time today I’ve really looked at her. There’s a tug in my gut, like a tractor beam holding me hostage to her. Sheepishly, she tucks an errant hair behind her ear. She bites her lower lip, chewing on it anxiously. Her feet shuffle. She does all those things, but the one thing she doesn’t do is look away.
A crackle of raw energy passes between us. The attraction is palpable. Our eyes are locked onto each other. A pang of excitement has me stirring below the belt and some foreign emotion cascades through me. It’s a longing I haven’t felt in eons. One I never thought I’d feel again. And the way it sneaks up on me and pounces, like a lion finding a meal, knocks the wind right out of me.
That longing gives way to guilt, and finally I break the stare and turn to fetch the wine.
Behind me, she lets out a deep, audible exhalation that I try to ignore as I select a bottle. I take far longer to pick one than I should, needing time for my erection to abate.
While I open the bottle, she dishes food onto our plates and brings them to the table.
She sits and puts her napkin in her lap, waiting for me to join her. Our eyes connect again, and then…
The lights go out, leaving us shrouded in darkness and silence. The propane has finally run out, the only light coming from the fire.
Instantly, I know it’s not even the power I’ll miss. It’s the noise. The constant drone of the generator that’s always there in the background. It’s gone. The silence is almost deafening, leaving nothing where there once was something. Like that ever-present hum of grief that lives in my head, it’s been a source of comfort almost. The white noise that keeps me from overthinking shit.
It’s gone now. And I miss it.
Marti is most definitely not having the same reaction. In fact, she’s laughing.
“Wow.” She giggles heartily. “That couldn’t have been better timing.”
I set the opened bottle on the table and put a few more logs on the fire. It’s midday, but the sky is gray, offering little in the way of light.
Marti gets a few candles from a cabinet. I watch her every move, trying to decide if I’m disturbed by how well she knows her way around my cabin after such a short time.
She takes them to the fireplace and lights them, then places them on the table. Then she sits, looking over at me expectantly.
Dinner. Wine. Candlelight. It’s all a little too romantic for me. I’ve half a mind to turn and go back outside and chop wood until the woman sitting at my table gets the fuck out of my head.
But my mother would have my balls on a platter if she knew Marti had gone through all this trouble and I bailed. She raised her sons better than that. So I sit. Despite the warning sirens in my head.
“I wonder if Anita’s family is doing anything for Thanksgiving,” Marti says, staring at her plate of food. “I think it’s important to keep up some semblance of normal when life spins out of control.” She sighs. “I guess I’m missing Charlie a lot today.” She looks up from the table, guilt in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
I shake my head, pick up the wine bottle, and fill our glasses. “You don’t need to filter yourself for my sake. You have a kid. It’s natural for you to talk about him.”
“Yeah, but…” Her words trail off.
“Marti, it’s fine. Really.”
I go to dig into my food when she puts a hand on mine, halting the motion. “Wait. My family has this tradition. It’s something we’ve done as far back as I can remember. My father would make us say one thing we were thankful for. He’d say no matter how bad life was, there always had to be something, however small. After he died, we kept up the tradition.”
“Sorry. Not playing.”
Her hand falls away, disappointment in her eyes.
“Fine. I’ll go.” She chews that bottom lip again, deep in thought. “I’m thankful for snow. Snow angels, snowballs, snowmen. All of it. Even if I haven’t done the latter two. But maybe…” She looks at me hopefully. Then her body shivers. “But not ice. I’m definitely not thankful for ice. Which reminds me, I’m also thankful for you. You saved me. Twice.” She looks at me, her gaze soft and inviting. “C’mon, there has to be something .”
I push food around on my plate.
“One thing,” she says. “Anything.”
I shuffle my foot. It runs into something soft. Bex is under the table. “Bex,” I say. “I’m thankful for Bex.”
I don’t elaborate and tell her why. That if he hadn’t barked his head off and led me to her, she’d be dead. And I’d be stuck here, trapped, with no way to escape. Visions of her under the ice cloud my mind. Her limp body. Her blue lips. Then the limp body becomes Phoebe’s. Her cold, lifeless, blue body lying on the steel gurney at the morgue. Panic crawls up my spine and I can feel the wine glass shake in my grasp.
For the second time, a soft hand lands on mine. “Well, there you go.” She picks up her fork. “Let’s dig in.”
One touch. That’s all it took. One touch from her to keep me from spiraling.
My heart rate slows. I gulp down some wine. Then I eat the best meal I’ve had in years.