Chapter 4
Fritha
It’s a few hours later, and I’m wrapped in the comforter perched on one of the wooden chairs facing Rowan. He stares blankly back at me, not giving anything away in his expression.
Damn he’s good at this.
I’ve got a pair of tens and a pair of aces, but with an ace and a queen of spades down on the table he could have a flush or two higher pairs.
I squint at him, maintaining eye contact, and he stares straight back.
“You gonna play your turn or what?” he says.
I purse my lips and peek at my cards, pretending to decide.
I like taking my time. It gives me an excuse to look at Rowan. To study his face and commit every facet of it to memory, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the lines around his mouth, and the dark shadow of hair that’s appeared on his chin as the hours have passed.
Rowan didn’t berate me when I told him why I was out on the mountain so unprepared. I went for a hike and miscalculated the weather. Storms blow in quickly here, and I thought I’d be back sooner. But I took the wrong path and ended up further up the mountain than I intended.
Gramps has kept me under close watch, so I snuck off while he was at work, trying to prove my independence and once again failing. Not that I mention that last part to Rowan. For now, I’m enjoying being here with him, just two people playing cards.
I tilt my head, trying to figure out what’s going on behind those grey eyes. It’s a risk with two high cards on the table, but I’ve got a good hand. I’m not going to let him intimidate me.
I slide four matchsticks along the table. “I meet your bet, and I raise you two.”
Rowan raises his eyebrows at me, and a small smile tugs at his lips.
“I meet your two.” He pushes two matchsticks from his stack across the table. “Show me what you got.”
I throw my cards down on the table next to their matching pairs. “Two pairs.”
He glances at the cards and nods. “You win. Nicely played.”
He pushes the played matchsticks toward me and goes to sweep up the cards.
“Hold up. What did you have?”
Rowan keeps his hand over his cards. “You won, so I don’t have to show you my cards.”
“That’s not fair.”
A smile tugs at his lips, but he keeps his cards covered. “That’s the rules.”
“The rules suck,” I grumble.
Rowan chuckles, and I love the way his eyes sparkle when he does.
He found a pack of cards in one of the cupboards and taught me Texas hold ‘em poker. We’ve been playing for the last few hours after our dinner of a hot pouch meal.
I like the game. I’ve got a decent sized pile of matchsticks but not as big as Rowan’s.
“All right.” He relents. “Since you’re still learning, I’ll show you.”
He throws his cards face up on the table, and he’s got a three of hearts and a jack of spades. I scan the five cards. There’s nothing, not even a pair.
“You were bluffing?”
Rowan chuckles. “Yup. Figured I’d scare you into thinking I had aces and queens.”
He’s pretty pleased with himself, and it makes me want to wipe the smirk right off his face. There are a lot of rules to learn, and I’m obviously not as good at this as I thought.
“You can do that?”
“If you can pull off a poker face.”
The smile drops from his face, and he goes serious and his expression goes neutral. The sudden change makes me laugh.
“That’s a pretty good poker face.”
I try to copy him, and Rowan chuckles. I try again, trying to get my mouth in a straight line and my eyes neutral.
Rowan nods approvingly. “That’s better. You look bored. Try to look bored when you’re playing poker. And don’t jiggle. You jiggle up and down when you get excited.”
I still my body and concentrate on looking bored. Rowan does the same, and we eye each other across the table. My lips twitches from holding in the laughter.
“I feel like we’re in an old western movie and you’re about to turn over the table and start a gun fight. All we need is the whiskey and big cigars.”
Rowan chuckles, and I can’t repress my smile anymore.
“I can help with one of those.”
He goes to the kitchen and rummages in one of the cupboards and holds up a bottle of whiskey.
“Someone left this here for emergencies, I guess.”
He snags a glass from the cupboard and pours out a finger.
“I’ll just take one shot to warm me up.”
I’ve been hogging the blankets. There’s only one set of clothes between us and the temperature’s dropped as it’s gotten dark outside,.
He’s only got his sweatpants on and while I admire the view of his bare muscular chest he must be feeling the cold.
All attempts to give him some clothing have been futile.
He insists I need to keep warm even though the danger of hypothermia has passed.
He knocks the whiskey back and goes to put the bottle back in the cupboard.
He didn’t even offer me one, and that stings.
I’m still a girl to him, not a woman who might want a drink of liquor.
It was clear earlier when he offered me hot chocolate thinking I’d want marshmallows.
Gramps’s pictures all around the fire house can’t help.
How am I supposed to get this guy to think of me as a woman when there are all these reminders of me as a girl?
“Can I have one?”
He stops with the bottle in his hand and turns to me with a frown. I give him a sweet smile. I’ve never had whisky before, but it seems like something a woman would do.
“Just a shot to warm up,” I say causally.
“How old are you?” he asks.
“I’m almost twenty.” I meet his gaze steadily. I feel way older than that some days. As anyone who’s lost both parents will tell you, you grow up fast.
“You’re nineteen.”
I hate the way he says it with finality, making his point.
I’m not even old enough to take to a bar.
“I’m old enough to have a drink with an adult. And isn’t whiskey good for warming you up?”
He tilts his head, considering, and I give him my best poker face, bored and still. But my leg jiggles, and I can’t help smiling.
“Just a tiny bit to bite back the cold before bed.”
He pulls another glass from the cupboard and pours out about half of what he gave himself.
“One half shot, and only because you had hypothermia and I need to make sure you keep warm. Otherwise, your grandpa will kill me.”
I don’t like him mentioning gramps. It reminds me of how he sees me, as his boss’s granddaughter.
He hands me the glass, and an acrid smell hits my nostrils. I try not to react, which is good practice for my poker face.
I swirl the glass around a few times, and the amber liquid lets off more of its pungent aroma. I’m questioning my stupid decision to prove my womanliness with hard liquor, but I can’t back down after making such a big deal of it.
I put the glass to my lips and knock it back.
The liquid burns my throat and I swallow quickly, controlling the splutter that wants to come out and turning it into a cough. My eyes shut involuntarily and I bring my fist to my mouth, waiting for the burning sensation to pass.
When I open my eyes there are tears at the corners of them, and Rowan is laughing at me.
“Delicious,” I say, and my voice catches on the burn in my throat and it comes out as a squeak.
“It’s an acquired taste,” Rowan says. “For old men whose tastebuds are ruined.”
He takes the glass off me and washes it out in the sink.
The whiskey leaves a trail of warmth down my esophagus and into my belly. It tasted like acid, but the warm feeling is nice.
I yawn sleepily, feeling tired from the cold still. But I don’t want this night to end. I’m hanging out with Rowan Evans, and I don’t want to ruin it by having to sleep.
“Time for bed,” he says in a way that brokers no argument. I may not be ready for the night to end, but it’s clear he wants to get some sleep.
I keep the comforter wrapped around me and waddle over to the bed. The one bed. Memories of him wrapped around me make me blush. My naked body pressed against his and the warmth between my legs cutting through the cold.
A delicious sensation goes through me as I think about an entire night wrapped in Rowan’s arms.
“You take the bed, and I’ll sleep on the floor,” he says.
Well, there goes that fantasy. He’d rather sleep on the hard floor than have a repeat of earlier.
“Will you be able to sleep on the floor?”
He smiles at my concern.
“I slept in worse places when I was in the military.”
Which I guess is true. But he’s got no blankets and nothing to cover up with.
He drags his rucksack over and squashes it down for a pillow.
“You better take the fleece.”
I unzip the jacket, and then I’ve only got his t-shirt on underneath. I don’t even have any panties on, but the t-shirt is so big it hangs to my knees.
“Are you sure?”
But I have the comforter and the mattress. I can’t leave him on the floor with nothing.
“I’m fine now. I’m not cold anymore.”
I burrow under the blankets and he lies on the floor, spreading the fleece over him.
If I was braver I’d ask him to share the bed with me. If I was braver I’d suggest another way we could keep each other warm.
But I’m not that brave, and as soon as my head hits the pillow, I’m overcome with tiredness. It’s cold without the fleece around me, but I burrow as deep as I can under the comforter.
Rain hits the roof in a steady rhythm that hasn’t let up since we got here. With the steady beat of the rain, my tired body falls into a deep sleep.