Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
When I let myself into Meg’s place, Kody eyes me from the couch. I give him a wary glance as I pass, half expecting him to attack my ankles. But I make it to the stairs without incident.
Meg’s list isn’t long, but when I enter her bedroom, a cold flush washes over my skin.
I should have waited for Greta to help me, because how am I supposed to go through Meg’s things?
Against the right wall, her queen-sized bed is made up with a fluffy lime-green comforter and matching pillows that look professionally plumped up.
A plain white cotton quilt is folded lengthwise along the foot of the bed, which faces a white dresser.
In the middle of the room, lit by the sun streaming in through the big triangular window, is an off-white sheepskin rug.
I glance at Meg’s hand-scrawled list. She wants shorts, pjs, a fresh t-shirt, and some socks. Underwear isn’t on her list, then I feel like a creep for noticing.
Maybe she doesn’t wear underwear?
Shit. Stop .
I decide to start in the bathroom instead, and retreat to the small space that looks like mine when I bought it—built-in shower with a glass enclosure and a slanted tiled wall behind it, toilet straight ahead and sink to the right—except that she’s added some nice touches.
There’s a handsome linen shelf topped with a healthy-looking fern and a big candle and fluffy white towels rolled neatly below.
She also has an orchid in a shiny ceramic pot on the small sink basin.
And an artsy print of what looks like a foreign street market above the toilet.
Her hallway displayed similar types of art, maybe from her travels.
The way her eyes light up when she talked pops in my mind like a flash bulb.
I can’t exactly relate, but I admire her passion.
I load up her shampoo and conditioner, her razor and the bottle of lime-scented shaving cream.
Do not sniff her shaving cream.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, but it just makes the scents from inside her bathroom more memorable. It’s like fresh-squeezed citrus and cherry blossoms all rolled into one. I scan her countertop but don’t see perfume. Could she just smell incredibly good naturally?
I force myself back to the bedroom. She needs the charging cord for her Kindle, but I don’t see it on the nightstand.
Squatting down, I spot the outlet behind her bed, but the cord isn’t plugged in.
Is it in the bedside table drawer? I slide the top one open an inch and peer in, hoping to snag the cord without having to expose the rest of the drawer’s contents. Still don’t see it.
I’ve officially lost my fucking mind. Who cares if I see her vibrator? It’s not like I’ve never seen one before.
I get up and go to her dresser. Several picture frames decorate the top.
One shows Meg and a woman who must be her mom at the ice rink.
Meg stands in front, her mom’s hands resting on her narrow shoulders.
They’re both tanned from the summer sun and smiling—Meg’s missing both of her front teeth.
It’s a casual shot but the love in the simple moment shines through.
How did Meg’s mom pass away? Was it an illness, like cancer?
Or something unexpected, like an accident?
Not that it matters—losing a parent is tough.
In another picture, Meg and Quinn are dressed in matching navy blue airline uniform skirts, white dress shirts, and matching pumps, both of them mugging kissy lips at the camera.
Another shot is of Meg’s dad on the football field near the end zone, his face lit with joy—a total winning touchdown moment.
The final shot is of the Bitterroot Mountains, taken from somewhere up in the high country, maybe on one of her hikes.
No pictures of Russet or their wedding day, thank fuck.
The two smaller dresser drawers at the top are likely for underclothes and socks, but I don’t know which is which.
I skip them for now and open the first big drawer, relieved it’s stacked with t-shirts and sweatshirts.
I grab a few of each then try the next drawer.
Shorts and leggings are folded in tidy squares.
I grab the running shorts she asked for, then try the next few drawers down until I find the pajamas.
She asked for a sleep shirt, but in my search, I brush past cool satin.
I can’t stop myself from peeling back the layers of clothes to peek at the silky nightgown at the bottom.
It’s a pale blue and edged with delicate white lace and looks totally out of place against the pale wood at the bottom of the drawer.
I’m no expert in women’s clothing, but this has a very special occasion kind of vibe.
There isn’t another one like it in the drawer.
I stare at it for another minute, imagining her at the sales counter, excited about her find.
Then I picture the silky satin hugging her perfect curves and the way the blue would bring out the flecks of gold in her eyes.
I picture her on her knees, those same pretty eyes glancing up at me for an instant before her lips wrap around my dick.
“Mroouw.”
I jump, knocking my head on the slanted ceiling. Rubbing the spot, I glare at Meg’s mini tiger. He just spins and gives me a flick of his tail. Like he’s satisfied with breaking my train of thought.
Little shit.
Returning to the drawer, I pack a long gray shirt with a snoozing polar bear on the front into the bag.
Next, it’s time to decide which top drawer has the socks. If this was my setup, and I was coming out of the shower, I’d want underwear first, so it’s more likely in the drawer closest to the bathroom.
But when I slide it open, the scraps of colorful cotton and satin inside has me slamming it shut just as fast.
I huff a slow sigh. Time to get the hell out of here .
Drawer number two has the socks I’m looking for, which means I’m back to my final item: the charging cord.
When I turn to face the bedside table, I get an idea.
Back home, Meg’s leveraging her way up the stairs.
“Whoa, there, where you headed?” I set her things down and hurry over.
She hinges onto the next step, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth in concentration. “To this famous bathtub.”
“Let me help.” Guilt flickers white-hot inside me. It’s killing me seeing her struggle.
She leans on her crutches and pants a few breaths. “I’m getting a good workout.”
“You’re supposed to be resting, shortcake.” I tilt her into my arms.
“Linden,” she protests.
The way she groans my name knocks around inside me like a Ping-Pong ball. I focus on carrying her without clipping the banister and not how good she feels in my arms.
Inside the bathroom, I set her down near the sink so she’ll have something to lean on, then turn on the tub. It’s another homestead salvage find Greta and I picked up last winter. It was so heavy, I had to enlist Dad and my brothers for help.
“I’ll get your shampoo and things.” I rise and head for the stairs. “You want me to bring the clothes?”
She tucks a stray curl behind her ear but won’t look at me. “Please.”
I have the urge to reach for her hand or touch her somehow to reassure her. Instead, I hurry from the room and trot down the stairs.
When I get back, she’s leaning on the edge of the tub with her crutches propped up next to her.
Asking if she needs more help is on the tip of my tongue, but the tense look in her eyes is its own kind of answer, so I hang two big towels on the hooks behind the tub, then I pull out her shampoo, conditioner, razor, and the shaving cream and place them on the shelf next to the tub with a washcloth.
“I’ll be close by if you need anything.” I slip from the room, closing the door behind me.
Being idle is a surefire way for my inner monologue to get the upper hand.
I need a long run, a hard paddle, or a purpose, like a project or a busy shift.
But none of those things are available while I wait for Meg to finish in the bathroom, so I use the loft floor to complete my daily shoulder PT exercises, then get out my yoga mat and roller and get into some deep stretches that push the pain envelope just enough to keep my mind occupied.
My phone buzzes with a text.
MOM:
Family dinner Friday to celebrate the good news!
I text her a thumbs up.
The “good news” is Everett and Vivian’s engagement. They’ve decided to tie the knot at Ruby Gulch and keep the guest list small. September will be dry but pretty, the sun-bleached prairie grass rustling in the breeze and the puffy clouds sending lazy shadows across the foothills.
MOM:
You’re welcome to bring Meg
I scowl at my phone screen. Mom can be worse than Sepp when it comes to stirring up shit, and that’s saying something. He was at The Limelight that night. Did he tell Mom about Meg’s injury or was it Everett?
Just what I need right now.
LINDEN:
I’m bringing Greta
Mom doesn’t reply, which only makes her point more obvious.
When I’ve exhausted what exercises I can do up here, I head downstairs and decide that it’s a great day to make a loaf of Mom’s sourdough.
I’m just finishing kneading when the bathroom door pops open upstairs. I rinse my hands and walk to where I can see Meg. She’s leaning on her crutches, cheeks flushed, wearing a sun-yellow t-shirt and the black running shorts I brought over.
“Feel better?” I ask.
A soft relief fills her eyes. “Yeah. That skylight was the bees knees.”
I climb up the stairs.
“I think I’m ready for that nap now,” she says with a half-smile while swinging over to meet me.
When I pick her up, that subtly sweet citrus fills my senses and her damp hair tickles my bare arm. “How’s the pain level?”
She scrunches her nose. “Okay. More Advil I think. ”
Inside the guest bedroom, she frowns at her bedside table that I brought over. “Um, what is that doing here?”
“I didn’t feel right going through your things.”
“So you relocated a piece of furniture.” Her lips twitch with the hint of a smile.