2. Nick
2
NICK
N ever did I think I would find my best friend’s sister stranded on the side of the road on the way back to my house today. Hell, I didn’t even know she was back in town. Last I heard from Wesley was that she was traveling the world with some douchebag she was head over heels in love with.
I’m surprised I even recognized her. Honestly, the FJ is what gave it away. It used to be Wesley’s car back in high school, and I wouldn’t forget all the snowboarding stickers we stuck all over the back of it to his parents’ discontent. I only know it got passed down to Penelope because I was with Wesley when he got his first brand new car after getting his first check for winning a snowboarding competition. He actually offered to buy his sister a new one for her sixteenth birthday, but she really wanted the FJ. And I don’t blame her. I loved that car as much as she does.
I set Pen down in front of the passenger door to my truck and shake my head again when I look down at her feet. Who the hell wears flip-flops in the middle of a snowstorm?
“You don’t have to do this,” she tells me.
I open the door for her and nod my head toward the seat. “I’m not leaving you out here in the middle of this storm.”
“It will blow over soon,” she argues.
I raise a brow at her. “You really don’t pay attention to the weather forecast at all, do you?”
She purses her lips and glares at me but doesn’t answer.
“They say we are going to get up to six feet, brainiac. You can’t wait in your car through that.”
“Some people could survive it.”
I shake my head at her. “Not people who wear flip-flops in a snowstorm. Now get in,” I grumble at her.
She doesn’t fight me anymore and reluctantly climbs into my truck. I can’t help but look at her ass when she does it either.
Because Penelope James is not the little brat who I remember from back when I was in high school when she was just in middle school. Hell, the last time I saw her was when I was home for Christmas break six years ago and had dinner at the James’s house. She was a teenager then. Sixteen years old and as much of a brat as she seems to be now. But she hadn’t grown into her features yet. Not like she has done now.
Not that I should be noticing. But it’s hard not to. Her big green eyes used to be too big for her round face but now they seem to fit perfectly giving her a seductive and alluring look. Her light brown hair that she always wore in a ponytail back in the day is now in soft layers framing her face. And her lips look kissable. I didn’t miss that when she was pursing them at me and giving me attitude. If she was anyone but Wesley James’s sister, I would have smacked that ass and that attitude right out of her and then devoured those pouty lips.
But this is my best friend’s sister. She always has and always will be off limits. But knowing Wes, he would kill me if I didn’t offer her any help right now so that is exactly what I am doing. Being the nice guy for once and not the asshole that most people know me as.
I never wanted to be the asshole either. It just kind of happened with the way I grew up. My mom left when I was only three, and Dad was a tough guy. He always expected a lot from me and my brothers growing up. He wanted us to be men from the day Mom left. For my older brothers it was a little easier, they were ten and thirteen, but I was three. I didn’t even know what it meant when she left. I spent countless hours looking out the window waiting for her to come home for years, but she never did. And that only made Dad push me harder.
I blink away the memories of my youth. I hate going down memory lane. Just as much as I hate being back in Ouray. But because of the man I am, I chose to come back here and know I will leave the first chance I get.
I turn the heat up once I climb back into the truck. I glance over at Pen, and she has her feet propped up on the dashboard near the heaters. I snort at that. Still have no idea what she was thinking about wearing flip-flops in the middle of winter much less a storm.
The drive to my cabin is quiet, and I relish in it. I never was an outgoing person, preferring to keep to myself and only letting my closest friends in. So, I don’t mind the lack of conversation as I drive the two of us to my cabin just down the road.
When I turn into my driveway, I glance over at Pen and see her jaw drop.
I may never have wanted to move back to Ouray, but I’ve done well for myself over the years and didn’t spare any expense when it came to buying a cabin here. Besides, I still don’t know how long I’ll be here and figured I may as well get something I’ll be comfortable in.
“You live here?”
I nod.
“Wow.”
I look over at my cabin which isn’t huge, but the build of it is what’s impressive. Raw thick logs stacked on top of each other to frame the house. It’s elevated off the ground, leaving plenty of room for my truck and toys underneath the house.
The cabin itself is only one story and the perfect size for me. It may look massive and expensive from the outside, but the inside has everything I need. Three bedrooms, two of which I turned into art studios, and an open floor plan.
I park my truck in the garage underneath the home and climb out. Pen follows behind me as I lead us to the staircase then head upstairs.
I hold open the door for her and watch as she takes in the space. It’s all open concept, with the kitchen open to the great room, separated by an island and a small sitting area near the doors that lead to a wrap around balcony.
“I like it,” she says as she runs her fingers along the log wall.
I just nod my head at her and head to the fireplace throwing some logs into it and starting it up. “Sorry if it’s a little chilly in here. I’ve been gone most of the day.”
She turns to look at me and then gives me a perusal. “You know it’s not every day I turn into a damsel who’s being rescued by Santa Claus.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, well it’s not every day that I wear this Santa suit.”
“Care to share why?”
I shake my head at her. There is an easiness in talking to her probably since I’ve known her since she was in diapers, but some secrets are better left behind closed doors.
“Suit yourself.”
I throw another log onto the fire then excuse myself so I can go change.
It’s not that I care that I found her while wearing a Santa suit, I just don’t really want to divulge to her that part of my life.
No one really knows about it if I am being honest. Just the people who benefit from it.
I pinch my brow with my thumb and finger before letting out a deep-seated sigh and stripping out of the Santa suit.
I grab a pair of gray joggers and a white T-shirt and throw them on before slipping into some slippers and heading back out into the living room.
Penelope is sitting in front of the fireplace, her flip-flops discarded and her feet dangerously close to the fire. I can only guess she is still trying to defrost them.
I clear my throat. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Have any tea?”
I nod. “Any particular flavor?”
“Black, like my soul.”
I smirk at that and make my way to the kitchen, putting water in the electric kettle and turning it on. I stay leaning against the cabinets as I watch her. She is messing around on her phone, no doubt looking for a signal, but that is one of the things I like most about this cabin. The utter silence from the world. Phone service doesn’t work out here. And while I am sure I can buy some device to make it work, I much prefer the silence and not being disturbed.
When the tea kettle whistles that it’s done, I pour two mugs and toss a tea bag in each, then carry them over to Penelope.
“Thank you,” she says as she grabs the hot mug from my hands.
I take a seat on the worn leather sofa and prop my feet on the coffee table next to the box of cookies she brought in.
“So what were you doing out here in the middle of a storm?”
She sets her mug on the floor next to her and gestures to the cookies. “Making a delivery. Which I seemed to have failed at. And now I’ll probably lose my job over it.’”
“Where at?”
“The bakery in town. I’m just a cashier there, but I was asked to deliver macarons to Mrs. Perez since she couldn’t pick them up because of the weather.”
“Why didn’t someone just tell her she could get her cookies when the weather clears?”
Pen looks at me like I’ve grown a third eyeball. “Of course I said that. But no, Mrs. Marshall said I needed to deliver the cookies to Mrs. Perez. I didn’t realize cookies were life or death. Although they would have saved me from starvation had I been stuck in my car all night.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Marshall won’t fire you over not delivering cookies. I’ve never known her to be the mean type of woman.” Which is true, as a kid I always loved going to the bakery and getting a sweet treat with whatever allowance money I had, and Mrs. Marshall was always nice.
“Not if you are on her shit list.”
I raise a brow at that before taking a sip of my tea. “Do I even want to know?”
Penelope flourishes her hands in the air. “Well apparently, she doesn’t like it when I’m late. But let’s be honest, getting up at six in the morning to make it to the bakery by seven is asking a lot. It barely gives me time to do anything in the morning.”
“So, what you are saying is you are always late.”
“I show up when I find it necessary.”
“No wonder you might get fired.”
“No one asked you,” Pen says as she sticks her tongue out at me.
I can’t help but laugh.
“So how am I supposed to call my dad to come get me when you have no service in your home?”
I nod my head at the ancient device on the wall, a landline.
“What are you? Eighty? Who has a landline anymore?”
“When you live in the middle of nowhere, it’s kind of important.”
I keep my eyes on Penelope as she walks over to the wall where my landline is connected.
“I don’t even know how to use this thing.”
I hold in a chuckle. “I’m pretty sure you are a smart girl. You can figure it out.”
She mumbles something under her breath I can’t quite catch before she picks up the phone off the wall and dials her father.
I watch her as she waits for him to answer. The way her brow scrunches with impatience, the way she taps her bare foot on the hardwood floors, the way she wraps a piece of that delicate brown hair around her finger. I shouldn’t be watching her as much as I am. I am also entranced by her. By how beautiful of a woman she has become over the years. Nothing like the teenager I remember. She is a woman now, a gorgeous one, one that I would normally fall for. I hate to admit that she is just my type, I hate to admit that I even have a type, but she is it.
I listen as she leaves a voicemail for her dad to call her back then hesitates when she doesn’t know the number. I rattle it off to her, and she repeats it before hanging up the phone.
“He didn’t answer.” She shrugs.
I nod. “You aren’t a bother,” I tell her. “You can stay here as long as you need.”
She studies me for a second before speaking. “Why are you being so nice to me? I always thought you hated me.”
I sip my tea and lean back into the sofa. “I never hated you, Pen, but it was just so easy to make fun of you when you were my best friend’s little sister. It was easy to play off his razzing.”
She purses her lips at me then nods before sitting back down in front of the fireplace. I can’t help but watch her as she sips on her tea and pulls the sleeves of her sweater over her hands.
“So why did you move back to Ouray? I always thought you wanted to leave?” she asks me out of nowhere.
I hesitate to answer because I really don’t want to. I honestly prefer not talking at all, but if she is going to be stuck in my home, I feel like I am going to have to talk to her at some point.
“I didn’t think you wanted to be here either. Your brother said you were traveling the world.”
She glares at me. “Don’t think I didn’t see what you did there. But because I am an open book, I will share with you.”
I give her a knowing smirk then let her continue.
“I am only here to get back on my feet before I step out for my next adventure. And it’s a lot easier to get back on your feet when you can live rent free at your parents’ house.” She pauses to take a sip of her tea. “But I miss the open road. I miss seeing things that you can only see in certain places. Seeing the way people live in different parts of the world is one of my favorite things. Immersing myself in the culture of others, its mind-opening, and I want to go back so bad.”
“Why don’t you?”
A frown falls over her face, but she quickly covers it up with a smile. “Money. Isn’t that what everything comes down to these days?”
“I suppose it does.”
“Well anyway,” she huffs. “We ran out of money. And then…” she trails off with a look of hurt on her face, and I know it was more than just the money. “Well then I ended up back here,” she says with a smile.
I study her as she turns back toward the fireplace and wonder who hurt her. Because I know from that look in her eyes that money wasn’t the only reason she stopped traveling, there was definitely another reason.
“So, what about you?” she asks me.
“What about me?” I raise a brow at her.
“What has Nick Snow been up to the last six years? Last time I saw you, you had just graduated from NYU, and you were looking to get out of this town.”
“I’ve been working, building up my photography business.”
“Here?”
I shake my head. “No back in New York City.”
“And how did that go for you? I always remember you carrying a camera around and taking shots of my brother doing snowboarding tricks.”
I laugh at that. “Well, I moved past being a sports photographer. Never really was what I wanted to do. I actually do street photography now and have signed a few contracts do some documentary photography.”
“That’s exciting! So, you get to share people’s stories through photos?”
I nod and run my hand over my head. “Yeah, I find people complex and interesting and being able to capture them in moments they don’t realize are happening has always been one of my favorite things.”
Penelope lights up at that. “I want to see!”
“See what?”
“Some of your photographs, you dummy. I want to see the world through your eyes.”
I chew on my lip, not really sure if I want to show her my studio. I don’t know why I hesitate. My pictures have been hung up in galleries around the world, but for some reason this seems more personal.
“Oh, come on,” she says as if sensing my hesitation. “I won’t judge your artistry that hard.”
I nod and stand up. “All right, I guess I can show you what I’ve been working on.”
A smile breaks across her face, a giddiness taking over her.
I lead her down the hall of my home and nod toward one of the doors. “I have a darkroom there to develop the photographs that I don’t take digitally.”
“You still use real film?”
“At times. Depends on my mood and the story I want to portray. Sometimes I think raw pictures show so much more emotion and depth than edited photos. There is something more real about them.”
“I get that. I mean when I was traveling, I spent so much time editing the photos I took. It made so much of what I was doing seem more fake. I lost the realness, I guess.”
I look back at her as she says it, and again, she has a sadness on her face. One that she tends to hide when she knows I am looking at her. One I would photograph because that sadness seems like the real Penelope not this fake one who puts on a smile all the time.
Not that I want to know more about her, but people fascinate me. They always have. I’ve liked standing on the sidelines and just people watching. Seeing the hundreds of emotions that cross people’s faces, seeing the loss or happiness or struggle that hits people when they think others aren’t looking.
I stop at the open door to my studio and hold out an arm, gesturing for her to walk in. “It’s kind of messy, wasn’t really expecting company.”
A look of awe takes over her face as she crosses the threshold. I have a few of my favorite portraits hung up on the walls. The rest are all either stacked in frames on a table pushed against the side of the wall or leaning against the walls.
I watch her as she carefully looks through the photographs, her face changing from excitement to sadness to pensiveness as she takes each one in.
I grab one of my cameras off the table and quickly snap a photo of her, then another. Penelope is beautiful in so many ways, something I never noticed about her when we were just kids, but now that she is an adult, I can see things I never would have seen before. And the joy that is on her face right now as she takes in my art is something I feel compelled to capture.
She doesn’t notice me taking her photos, and I’m glad for that. I don’t want her thinking of me as some kind of creep. It’s just in my blood to take photos of people. I do it more often than not.
“I love this one.”
I freeze and quickly set the camera down before making my way over to her to see the photograph she is looking at. It’s a picture of a homeless man on the streets of New York. He is probably somewhere in his late fifties, wrinkles giving his face stories of a life long-lived.
“That’s Jimmy,” I tell her. “He was homeless for fifteen years, but you would never be able to tell.”
And you can’t from the way his smile takes up the photo. The man is happy no matter what.
“Wow. I never would have guessed. I mean, most photos I see of the homeless are all depressing but this one…it just has so much light to it.”
I nod. “He was a character. He would always bring a smile to my face when I saw him. He was constantly cracking jokes and telling stories about his life. He was a great man.”
“What happened to him?”
“Cancer. He died last year after not being able to get the medical treatment he needed. Not that he wanted it. He always said that God would take him when the time was right. He believed it was God’s decision that he was homeless too. He was a man of God, and he was happy with his life. He never regretted anything that happened to him. He was a good man.”
“That’s so sad,” she says. “He seems so happy.”
“That he was.”
She frowns as she sets the framed photo down and moves through the room. She stops when she gets to the corner where I have an easel set up and canvases stacked in the corner too.
“You paint?”
I shrug. “Somewhat. Kind of a new hobby of mine.”
“Are you blushing?” She smiles at me. “A new hobby! How exciting!”
She goes to round the corner of the easel, and I grab her arm, pulling her back.
“You don’t want me to see?”
I shake my head. “Like I said it’s a new hobby.” I also don’t want her to see that that new hobby includes nude paintings.
She pries my hand off her arm. “Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad.”
Before I can stop her, she is rounding the easel and taking in the self-portrait I was in the middle of painting. I can feel my cheeks turning red, something that rarely happens to me. But I know what is on that easel. A pinned picture of me in the top corner that I took standing in the mirror. Me flexing my abs to get the Adonis look I was going for to paint the picture of myself.
I watch as her eyes go directly to it and bug out, a blush taking over her own cheeks as she takes in the photograph of my very naked form.
“I…ugh…I mean, you look great.”
I grab the canvas off the easel and set it down on the floor facing the wall. I don’t even know what to say to her, as she got a full-frontal view of my body and my cock.
Silence takes over the room, and I stand awkwardly in front of her not missing how her eyes peruse down my body and over the gray sweats I am wearing.
My cock twitches in my sweats, and I try to think about anything other than the gorgeous woman in front of me giving me an eye full. But I think about how this is my best friend’s little sister and how every one of my thoughts is a line I shouldn’t cross.
I clear my throat and go to speak, but Pen cuts me off.
“Maybe I should try to call my dad again,” she says with a blush creeping up her cheeks.
“Good idea.”
She walks out of my studio so quickly you would think her feet were on fire. I lollygag behind not wanting to chase her out of the room and wanting to gain my composure a bit. She did just see a picture of me completely naked, and from the look on her face, she liked what she saw.
I curse myself for even thinking about her, but I can’t help myself. And I know if she doesn’t get out of this house soon, it may mean trouble.