Chapter 15
15
Poppy
Marina’s number sits on the screen, but I can’t bring myself to call her.
There’s so much I want to tell her and so many things I would love her advice on. But since we’re on the verge of losing electricity, I turn it off to save my battery, dedicating the next twenty-four hours or more to being alone with Laird.
It’s not a burden.
The connection with Laird is intense. It hit me sideways when I least expected it, a lot like our beginning the other night. I never would have thought the man who pretty much gave me a hard time about everything would also be the first person I’m attracted to in recent memory. Certainly well before the accident happened.
Sure, he knows how to look sexy cosplaying a lumberjack in the woods, but as comfortable as he is, I’m daydreaming about him on the beaches of San Diego. This place is fun for the weekend, a trip down memory lane, a quick escape if he wants to get out of LA but not have to catch a flight. Some people go to Palm Springs. He comes to Deer Lake.
We don’t know how long we’ll be stuck up here, but I sure hope I get to see that other side of him. The thought of him running around half naked on beaches instead of bundled up in flannel might have something to do with it. Though I can’t imagine him looking bad in anything, and I really want to see that tattoo again.
The lights flicker, causing me to sit up and release a dreaded sigh.
Laird was right about the generator going out. I look around the room and regret not grabbing a flashlight. Fortunately, the sun hasn’t fully set, so light still feeds through the trees. The bedroom is bathed in the perfect shade of golden peach sunlight, so I’m not stuck in the dark yet.
Ticking through my list of to-dos to make sure we’re prepared, I’m glad I researched to verify how to manage the food in the fridge. Keeping the door closed is key. It’s cold enough outside to keep some things fresh if we’re worried. If it can’t be saved, I’ll throw it away. We won’t starve. I bought plenty and whipped up a pasta dish for tonight, something easy to reheat near a fire or on the gas stove since we won’t be able to ignite the oven.
A loud crack startles me, choking my breath. I swear my heart skips a beat or ten. I’ll chalk it up to old wiring in the cabin, though this place is hardly rustic. I get up, not wanting to be alone.
From the few sounds I heard earlier—the creak of a door, heavy footsteps to the kitchen and back—I’m not sure where he is—the bedroom where Laird sleeps or in the living room by the fire. I open the door and peek into the dark hallway. “Laird? ”
“In here,” he replies. I find him slipping his boots back on by the front door. “I’m going to check the generator again.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean against the corner of the kitchen area. “Do you think it’s done for good?”
Mulling the question, he straightens back, plucking his coat from the hook. “It might be out, or it could be a fluke. It’s worth trying to get it started again if I can, but maintaining a cabin isn’t one of my marketable skills.”
I still have no idea what his last name is, much less what he does for a living. He zips his coat and grabs a flashlight from the floor. “Are you okay?”
“I’m good,” I reply, reaching the couch and holding the back of it. “Power outages don’t scare me.”
Testing the flashlight, he asks, “What does?”
“Bears,” I reply with a knowing grin. “Good thing you rescued me.”
“Eh, you didn’t need me.” Grabbing the door, he swings a smirk in my direction. “You had it handled.”
“I can give credit where it’s due. The bed here is a lot more comfortable than the back seat of my car. And warmer. Thank you for letting me stay the night.”
“Hopefully, it stays that way.” Something sparks in his expression. “I got the fire going, and we have plenty of dry wood.” Rubbing the heel of his shoe on a mat, he keeps his eyes trained on the action. But then he looks up. “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out by the fire when I return?” He’s quick to add, “If you don’t have other plans, that is.”
How can I resist the sweet suggestion? “As appealing as it is to sit in a dark room with nothing to do but lie there, I’ll be here when you return. ”
“Yeah?” The smile I receive has me glad I’m holding the couch. As if I made his entire day, he nods and pulls the door open. “I’ll see you soon, Poppy.”
“See you soon, Laird.”
I’m given one great look at his handsome face and flashed a smile that feels personal and one the whole world should see. “Bye.” As soon as he leaves, I rush on my jelly knees to the bedroom to freshen up.
Glancing into the mirror, I grab my toiletries and my makeup bag from the top of the dresser and move to the windowsill. I must work fast with the last bit of day casting a blueish haze. It's not the most flattering light, but it will do. I had only bothered with the lightest of applications this morning since I didn’t know what I was in for, but now I’m quick to dab a little concealer in the corners of my eyes, swipe on some rose gold eye shadow that I know flatters me in normal circumstances since everything is by memory because of the light I’m quickly losing.
I add a little blush, though I probably didn’t need it since he makes me blush quite a bit. I skip the more involved processes like eyeliner and just add a few coats of mascara before dragging a brush through the mess on my head.
Up or down?
I lift my hair and then let it fall again. Down.
Deodorant and a light spritz of perfume are the final touches. Although I would have preferred to wear something more flattering, I thought I would be cooking today, so I went with my usual—a T-shirt I don’t mind if it gets ruined by stains and a pair of leggings. Sometimes I wear jeans if I know I’ll run into the clients. I wish I could wear one of the cute dresses I stupidly packed for a week in the woods, but it’s too late. Laird has already seen me today. A lot. If I’m wearing something different, he’ll think I changed clothes for him, and I could ruin it by adding pressure where neither of us needs it.
I pull the shirt toward the light, humiliated that I’m stuck wearing a shirt with a marinara stain on the front. Should I call Marina?
No. It’s fine. It’s fine. I got most of it out with soap. He’s a guy and won’t care anyway. He probably won’t even notice.
“You got a little something.” Laird’s eyes are directed at my chest. “On your shirt.” And now I shall die of embarrassment in front of him. His eyes only reach my chest once before returning to the higher ground of my eyes. Thank God.
I knew I should have changed. If he was going to be staring at my breasts, at least it could have been with a little fanfare to celebrate them. A cute little ruffle trim or a V where the dress dips.
Any change now would be too much in both our faces, so I ask, “Are we drinking tonight?” I sound like someone who buries their troubles at the bottom of a bottle of wine nightly.
Sitting forward as if he’s been called to duty, he asks, “What are you drinking?” Bartender in a former life?
“I brought beer, whiskey, and wine. Those were on the dossier.”
“I don’t remember requesting wine.” Surprise infiltrates his words, but his expression remains neutral.
“No, that’s for me. I brought it just in case.”
Easing into a smile, he chuckles. “In case of?”
“Not all jobs are created equal. I never know what I’m walking into. A client obsessed with Principle One racing or one who sunbathes in the nude for everyone to see. I get requests for obscure meats from the jungles of the Amazon, which is a no from me or to cook wearing nothing but an apron. So yeah, I bring wine to have on hand because it’s necessary some days.”
“You, in nothing but an apron. I didn’t know that was an option.”
I burst out laughing. “It’s not.” Though Laird is making me reconsider my stance on the matter. “Doesn’t stop some from requesting it anyway. Call me boring or run-of-the-mill, but I just want to cook innovative foods or even traditional meals with a twist. I like feeding families, impressing industry titans, and sometimes I even work with elusive celebrities.”
“How did I end up here?” I ask.
He shakes his head, glancing toward the kitchen. Rubbing the back of his neck, he’s unsettled in his composure as if I’ve hit a nerve. “I’m going to have something stronger. What can I get you?” He leaves, causing me to question what I said wrong.
I angle myself to watch him for any signs that might clue me in. Since I’ve already crossed many lines with him, stronger doesn’t sound so bad right now. “Whatever you’re drinking.”
“I didn’t plan the trip, but things were put in place to make it easier for me to agree.”
“Things like me.”
With the bottle of whiskey in his hand, he pauses with his back to me. The light from the fire doesn’t extend that far, so I can’t make out his expression, but I have a feeling it’s not full of the welcoming fuzzies I was given when I first came out here.
“I didn’t mean it— ”
“I know,” I say, believing him. I turn back around, keeping my eyes on the fire. “I’m not offended. I’m part of the staff, though, and you keep making me forget that.”
“I prefer it that way,” he says, not missing a beat. “I don’t need staff. I rarely have it at home. If I’m not traveling, I occasionally get my place cleaned because I’m a fucking mess and don’t do a great job at it. Sometimes I pay someone to stock my fridge. Otherwise, I’m on my own.”
A lowball glass appears over my shoulder. I glance up and meet his eyes as I reach up to take the whiskey. I wouldn’t call it a standoff, but no one makes the first move after that. I don’t know what comes over me. I can’t blame the alcohol since I haven’t even taken a sip. “I don’t want to overstep, but the way information is being disseminated leaves my imagination to run wild. It’s not my place to pry—”
“Your place is as a guest of mine, Poppy.” Releasing the glass, he returns to the chair closest to where I’m seated on the couch. “No requirements. No demands. I want you to enjoy your time here if you can. Obviously, the weather might put a damper on things—”
“The weather is fine.” I tip my glass toward the fireplace. “This is nice. No complaints. Cheers.” I take a long pull of the drink, unable to hold eye contact under the fire he lights in me. Instead, I let the alcohol warm me as it slides down my throat while he does the same. “You’re making me work hard for the double pay,” I tease.
I’ve heard him laugh quite a bit, but the deep and genuine sound of it filling the intimate space is my favorite. He replies, “Worth every dollar.”
But there’s no laughter attributed this time. He sounds like he means it. “You’re making me feel bad for sitting on my ass and making you do all the work.” I don’t actually feel bad. I quite enjoy him being in service to me for cocktail hour.
His expression shows no sign of quibbling over money. I’m not sure what to think about that. I can’t have him pay, especially when he’s now serving me. When he gets up once more, I stay snuggled on the couch under a blanket he procured for me earlier.
He returns with the bottle of whiskey and two cans of soda, setting them on display on the coffee table. I ask, “Trying to get me drunk?”
His eyes dart to mine, the blue less so as his pupils widen, taking me in. I see his chest slowly fill, and then he exhales again. The need for air is familiar when I’m around him as well. “Figured we’d just bring the party over here.”
“Good idea. Though moving around keeps the body warm.”
When he finally relaxes back again, stretching his long legs in front of him, he chuckles. “I’m not sure the expenditure is worth the effort.”
“That could be said for many things in life.”
“As could the opposite.”
“Checkmate.”
Intrigue shapes his face. “Do you play chess?”
“No. My mind isn’t that conniving.”
His eyes narrow, and a smile appears. “Conniving or strategic?”
“It’s the same, Laird, no matter how you slice it. You’re either a victor of war or dead on the battlefield. Does anyone really win in the end?”
With his eyes trained on the amber liquid in the glass, he says, “Speaking of love lives . . .” He sends me into a fit of laughter.
Holding up my glass again, I reply, “Well played.” Happier than I’ve felt in some time, I take another drink and allow myself to indulge in his presence because it feels too good not to.
“No sous chef at home?” he asks, too good at controlling his tone. I can’t tell if he’s asking to make conversation or if he's curious for himself. Pfft. Of course, he isn’t inquiring for his own purposes. It’s casual small talk at best.
“Oh, you were really asking?”
“I was.”
“No,” I reply, swirling the liquid around the glass. “No sous chef, head chef, or any other kind of chef in my life. You?” I hate that my stomach knots itself to brace for the response.
“You’re the only chef in my life, Poppy.”
Laughing, I rest my head back, enjoying the fun of this evening. But as I relax, I catch him staring at me without apology and not laughing. “Oh, um. It’s good to cook for yourself sometimes.”
“Are we speaking metaphorically or culinarily?” I don’t know if he realizes his foot has shifted and presses against mine, but I sure do. I don’t want to move a muscle in fear he’ll remove it.
“Both,” he replies and then finishes off his drink. It’s tempting to keep pace, but I’m a lot smaller than he is and don’t think passing out is the right move.
He picks up the bottle and pours more than a shot. With his attention on the glass, he spins it around on the coffee table, his fingers steady and swift, and then says, “I fell in love once.” His gaze shifts to me ever so briefly before returning to the glass. “I thought I’d been in love before I met her, but she made me realize the difference.” I love how a smile plays on the corners of his mouth just thinking about her. It’s invasive on my part to watch, but it's so romantic that it would hurt too much to look away. “She knocked me on my ass the first time I saw her.” Sliding back into the leather chair, he angles toward me. “She’s the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen and so fucking clever. She made me laugh until my stomach hurt and made me fall so fucking hard in love with her before we ever fell into bed.”
My heart races just listening to him, but the connection we’re sharing—our eyes, our pain, about ourselves, and even the way our feet touch—has me thinking about us and the possibilities. I shouldn’t. I can’t . . . I just . . .
“I knew . . .” He continues. “I just knew . . .”
I take a gulp, needing to quell my nervousness or drown it altogether. The last thing I want to do is upset him by asking the wrong question. “What did you know, Laird?”
His gaze finally fades from mine, and he turns to watch the fire instead. When he blinks, his lids stay closed a beat longer before he swallows. “That she was the woman I loved in every lifetime I’ve lived. And I’d finally found her again.”
The purity of emotion in his smile causes me to smile in response. If it were possible to light from within, his thinking about this love has achieved it. I’m ready to live in his loss. I’d rather stay in the love he found, hopeful in my own life. “Do you think everyone finds their soulmate?”
The conviction he has shines brighter in his baby blues when he says, “Only the lucky ones.”