Chapter 8 - Charlotte
EIGHT
CHARLOTTE
I can't sleep the entire night.
My body is exhausted, but my mind refuses to shut down. Every creak of the cabin makes me freeze, wondering if it's him. Is he coming down the hall? Will he knock on the door? Should I want him to?
I pull the covers up to my chin, staring at the ceiling.
What am I even doing here? This is Koda. My dad's best friend.
But he's also the man who looked at me tonight like he was seeing me—really seeing me—for the first time.
I strain my ears for any sound of movement from the living room, but there's nothing except the storm and the occasional pop from the dying fire.
He's not coming.
Of course he's not coming. He's Koda Wilde. He has morals and boundaries and loyalty to my father that runs deeper than blood.
Still, I can't help the tiny spark of disappointment that flickers in my chest.
Around midnight, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it, squinting at the bright screen.
**Sarah:** Hey! Just saw the news about the ice storm up there. Roads are supposed to be terrible. You doing okay?
I bite my lip, considering how much to tell her.
**Me:** Yeah, I'm fine. Power went out at my place though.
**Sarah:** Oh no! Are you freezing? Do you need me to call someone?
**Me:** Actually... Koda showed up and brought me to his cabin. I'm staying here until the roads clear.
There's a long pause. Then:
**Sarah:** WAIT. Koda? Your dad's hot best friend Koda???
**Me:** He's the only Koda I know.
**Sarah:** Charlotte Marie Palmer. You are snowed in. At his cabin. Alone.
**Me:** It's not like that.
**Sarah:** Uh huh. Sure. And I'm the Queen of England.
**Me:** He's just being nice. Making sure I don't freeze to death.
**Sarah:** Girl. The man drove through an ice storm to rescue you. That's not "just being nice." That's romance novel behavior.
**Me:** Stop.
**Sarah:** I'm just saying... convenient timing
**Me:** You're ridiculous. Nothing is happening.
**Sarah:** But do you WANT something to happen?
I stare at the message, my heart hammering.
**Me:** I need to sleep. Talk tomorrow?
**Sarah:** Fine, avoid the question. But I expect DETAILS when I get back. Stay safe. And maybe have a little fun? You deserve it
**Me:** Goodnight, Sarah.
**Sarah:** Night! Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Which leaves you with a LOT of options
I set the phone down, my cheeks burning. Sarah knows me too well. She can probably sense my conflicted feelings through the phone.
When pale morning light finally filters through the curtains, I've maybe gotten two hours of broken sleep.
My eyes feel gritty, and my muscles ache from tension. I lie there for another thirty minutes, listening as the cabin comes to life. Then I hear the sound of a door closing and the clink of something in the kitchen.
Koda's awake.
I sit up, suddenly nervous. What do I say to him in the harsh light of day? How do I act normal when I spent the entire night thinking about him?
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, tugging Koda's shirt down over my thighs. At least I have the sweatpants now. I slipped them on sometime around 3 AM when I got cold.
I splash water on my face in the bathroom, finger-comb my hair, and try to make myself look somewhat presentable.
It's a losing battle.
With a deep breath, I step out into the hallway and follow the scent of coffee to the kitchen.
Koda stands at the counter with his back to me, the muscles in his shoulders shifting under a faded gray t-shirt as he reaches for a mug.
His hair is pulled back in a messy knot at the nape of his neck, a few strands escaping to brush his collar.
The morning light catches on the silver streaks, making them shine against the darker brown.
"Morning," I say, my voice coming out raspier than intended.
He turns, coffee pot in hand, and for a split second, something flickers across his face. Something warm and unguarded.
Then it's gone, replaced by his usual careful expression.
"Morning," he replies. "Coffee?"
I nod, grateful for the simple question that requires no real thought.
"Please."
He pours a second mug and slides it across the counter to me.
"Sleep okay?"
I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, avoiding his eyes.
"Yeah, fine. Your bed is really comfortable."
The lie comes easily, even as heat creeps up my neck.
"Good." He takes a sip of his coffee, then gestures toward the window. "Take a look outside."
I move to stand beside him, careful to leave space between us, and gasp at the sight.
The world has transformed overnight into a crystal wonderland. Every tree, every branch, every surface is encased in a thick layer of ice that glitters in the morning sun. It's breathtakingly beautiful. And completely treacherous.
"Wow," I breathe. "It's like a glass forest."
Koda’s voice is close enough that I can feel it rumble through me. "One of the worst I've seen up here."
"How long until it melts?"
"Forecast says temperatures should rise by noon. But even with the sun, it'll take at least a day for the roads to clear." He takes another sip of coffee.
I bite my lip. "I guess that means I'm stuck here for another day?"
"Looks like it."
My heart does a little flip.
Another day with Koda. Alone. In this cabin.
"Is that okay?" I ask, hating how uncertain I sound. "Me being here, I mean."
Koda gives me another one of those looks I can’t read.
"I wouldn't have brought you here if it wasn't okay."
We drink our coffee in silence for a few minutes, both of us staring out at the frozen landscape. It's not uncomfortable, exactly, but there's a tension humming between us that wasn't there last night, Or maybe it was, and I just didn't recognize it.
"So," I finally say, setting my empty mug on the counter. "Are you still up for letting me practice on your hair today? I'd understand if you changed your mind."
Koda turns to face me fully, his dark eyes studying mine.
"I meant what I said. I trust you."
Those three words hit me harder than they should.
When was the last time anyone put that kind of faith in me? Certainly not my professors, who watch me like I'm going to set the school on fire with a curling iron. Not even Sarah sometimes, who insists on double-checking my work.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than he knows. "I'll just grab my bag from your room," I say, slipping past him. "I have my tools in there."
In Koda's bedroom, I quickly change into my now-dry jeans and shirt, though I keep his sweatshirt on.
It's too comfortable to give up, and something in me likes wearing it, likes having his scent wrapped around me.
Then I dig through my bag for my styling kit for the basic tools I always carry.
I grab a pair of shears, scissors, a comb and a small bottle of styling product.
When I return to the main room, Koda has moved one of the kitchen chairs to the center of the living area. He's laid a towel on the floor beneath it and set a bowl of warm water on the side table.
"Will this work?" he asks, looking almost nervous.
I nod, touched by the thoughtfulness.
"It's perfect."
I drape a towel around his shoulders, my fingers brushing against the warm skin of his neck. He tenses slightly at the contact, and I pull away quickly.
"Sorry," I murmur. "My hands are probably cold."
"It's fine." His voice is gruff.
I take a deep breath, trying to channel my inner professional.
This is just a haircut. I've done dozens in school. The fact that it's Koda—imposing, mysterious, forbidden Koda—doesn't matter. Right now, he's just a client.
"We should wash your hair first," I say, slipping into my professional voice. The one I use when I'm trying to convince myself and everyone else that I know what I'm doing. "It'll cut better wet."
Koda nods and drags the chair over to the sink.
His broad shoulders make the wooden frame look like doll furniture, his knees spread wide to accommodate his large frame.
I swallow hard.
"Lean back," I instruct, turning on the faucet to check the temperature.
He complies, tilting his head toward the sink.
I position a dish towel around his shoulders, acutely aware of how my fingers brush against the warm skin of his neck.
When I guide his head under the stream of water, his eyes close, dark lashes fanning against his cheeks.
I pour a small amount of shampoo and work it into his hair.
The moment my fingers touch his scalp, a low sound rumbles from his chest. Something between a sigh and a groan that shoots straight to my core.
"Sorry," he murmurs, eyes still closed. "Been a while since anyone's done this."
I can't speak.
My fingers work through his thick hair, massaging his scalp, watching his face relax under my touch. When my nails accidentally scrape against his skin, his lips part slightly, and I have to clench my thighs together against the rush of heat between them.
I rinse his hair thoroughly, then wrap another towel around it, patting gently. When he sits up, water droplets trickle down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
I want to follow their path with my tongue.
"Where do you want me?" His voice is deeper now, rougher around the edges.
I nearly choke.
"Right here is fine. Just sit straight."
He positions himself, and I stand awkwardly, assessing the best angle.
There's only one way to do this.
I take a deep breath and step between his spread knees.
His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't move. Doesn't close his legs or back away. Instead, he looks up at me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle.
"So," I say, unfolding my scissors with fingers that still shake. "How much are we taking off?"
"Whatever you think." His eyes hold mine. "I trust you."
Those three words settle in my chest like stones.
He trusts me. But should he? When all I can think about is how his thighs feel pressing against the sides of my legs?
I start cutting, focusing on the familiar motions to ground myself.
Comb, lift, snip. Comb, lift, snip.