Chapter Sixteen
“I’m so sorry, honey.”
It was Christmas Eve.
Mom and Dad were supposed to have landed earlier this morning, but due to an improbable but brutal winter storm trekking across the southeast, flying anywhere was impossible.
“It’s okay,” I lied. “I’m just sad. I was really looking forward to seeing both of you. I feel like it’s been forever.”
“That’s because it has. We haven’t been back to Quincey Falls since…” She hesitated, the steady rhythm of her breath lingering on the other end. “Well, since the wedding, and that was almost nine months ago.”
“Yes, Mom. I’m very aware,” I joked. “You can say it out loud. I’m not going to shatter into a million pieces when you bring it up.”
“I know, honey,” she said. “Honestly, it appears you’re doing better now than you were when you were engaged.
You seem lighter. Happier. And this job at the paper seems to be exactly what you needed.
We know you never wanted to leave Quincey Falls, and maybe you weren’t meant to, despite what your father and I thought. ”
Mom had always had her doubts about Zane. She never said as much, but she didn’t have to. Her little comments here and there, combined with her incessant need to ask me if I was sure about marrying Zane, gave away her stance on the relationship.
“It really is. I truly love it. I know you thought Chicago was going to be my fresh start, but maybe my fresh start was just me, being on my own, here in Quincey Falls,” I suggested.
“Maybe you’re right. Dad has shown all of his friends your article. He has it saved on his phone so it’s easily accessible.” She laughed. “He even showed the woman who was checking us out at Winn-Dixie yesterday.”
A single tear spilled from my eye and I quickly swiped it away, feeling a little silly that at thirty years old I was crying because my parents weren’t going to be here for Christmas.
“That’s incredible. He’s the best.” I sighed, a tiny laugh getting stuck in my throat at the mental image of Dad holding up the line.
“What are you working on now?” she asked. I could tell by the shift in her tone that she knew I was upset.
I peered out my window just as the first few snowflakes floated down from the sky. Snow in Quincey Falls wasn’t a guarantee, so when it did happen, it felt like magic.
A fire warmed the depths of my belly.
“It just started snowing!” I beamed.
“Oh, I bet it’s beautiful.”
“It is,” I said, watching the snow slowly pick up. “Um, but I’m working on a pretty big project right now actually. Ever heard of Stetson Walker?”
It had been a couple of weeks since Donna assigned me the project. Stetson and I had had a few more run-ins since that day at the recording studio, but they’d all proved to be professional—intense, but professional, at least on the surface.
Dad’s voice piped up from the background, refocusing my thoughts. “Is that the country singer who’s always in the headlines for doing stupid shit?”
“Ha. Yep, that’s the one. He’s here, in Quincey Falls, writing his next album. Donna got access to cover his story, and I’m the lucky one who gets to write it.”
“That’s huge, Scar. An artist of that size could really get your writing some acknowledgement. What an incredible opportunity,” Mom said, her voice full of excitement.
“I know. It’s overwhelming and has me questioning myself on a daily basis, but I can’t let Donna down.”
“And you won’t,” Mom said.
“Damn straight. It will be the best damn article that’s ever been written about this Stetson cat,” Dad confidently yapped.
“I love you, Dad.” I grinned. That man always knew how to cheer me up. “Are you two headed back home?”
“Yeah, unfortunately. But your dad did get us booked for a weekend in April, and we can’t wait to see you!”
“I can’t wait to see you two either.”
“We love you, honey. Be sure to send us pictures of the snow.”
“I will. I love you both,” I said, clicking my phone off.
Now I had to decide what I was going to do.
Rolling Meadows was always an option, and if George knew my parents weren’t coming, he would insist on it. But that meant possibly seeing Stetson, and spending a cozy Christmas Eve together didn’t strike me as professional. Not with us.
Maggie’s door was always open too, but she was bringing Booker to meet her family, and as much as I was sure that would have provided a front-row seat to a complete shit show, that wasn’t how I wanted to spend my Christmas Eve either.
Instead, I decided all I really wanted to do was give myself permission to feel sorry for myself, to marinate in my sadness, and snuggle up on my couch with a warm cup of tea, my journal, and my favorite blanket while the snow fell outside of my window.
Lately, I’d felt inspired to write. Not in a journalist kind of way, but more of a creative kind of way.
“Shit,” I said.
The cozy ambience I had playing on my TV flickered off, as did the rest of the electricity in my apartment.
“Might’ve picked a different option had I known I was going to lose electricity,” I said, maneuvering myself off the couch and into the kitchen in an attempt to locate some candles and a lighter.
Dusk had fallen and the snow outside was coming down thick, leaving a blanket of white over the ground. The standard electric fireplace in my apartment was most definitely put in for the sole purpose of decoration because there wasn’t even the faintest trace of heat radiating off it.
I grabbed my phone, seeing a missed call from George and making a mental note to call him back after I texted Maggie.
Me:
Do you have electricity?
Thankfully my phone was charged and I had a portable charger somewhere around here as backup. But surely this wasn’t going to be a long-term thing, right?
The doubt nestled in and I started to panic.
How long will my apartment stay warm? Do I need to try to get somewhere where there’s electricity? When was the last time I went to the grocery store?
Now I really wished my parents were here.
My doorbell rang, the ding of the chime rattling me. It wasn’t completely dark yet, but it was dark enough to be spooked. “Coming!” I shouted.
I flung open the door, half expecting Mr. Overstreet from across the hall to be standing there in his slippers and robe.
Unless Mr. Overstreet had spontaneously morphed into a six-foot-something cowboy with shaggy brown hair poking out from underneath a trucker hat, a mustache that looked good enough to sit on, baby blues that took your breath away, and a build that made you desperate for a peek underneath those Levi’s, then I was wrong.
Very wrong.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted, quickly glancing down and wishing I’d chosen something other than a raggedy oversized Garth Brooks T-shirt and a pair of black lacy pajama shorts.
The only saving grace was the blanket I had draped over my shoulders, because the winter air was sharp, piercing my exposed skin like a million tiny knives.
It also hid the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra, so that was a bonus.
“Woah, cowgirl, don’t be so excited to see me,” he said, his shit-eating smirk prominent as ever. “Most women would answer the door naked if they knew I was waiting on the other side of it.”
If it weren’t for the fact that deep down, his little smirk catered to desires of mine that had lain dormant for years, I probably would’ve been annoyed by it.
“I’m not most women,” I automatically responded.
“Yeah. That’s for damn sure,” he said.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
My stark question surprised me, but it also reaffirmed my ability to be around this man without ripping off my clothes and begging him to have his way with my right here in my doorway.
Scarlett, get your shit together.
His height allowed him to easily peer around me, doing his best to nonchalantly scope out the inside of my apartment. “Am I interrupting something?” His tone hinted at something, but I wasn’t sure what.
“And if you are?” I asked, letting the blanket slink down my shoulders. My bare leg popped out from underneath as I repositioned myself against the doorframe. I couldn’t control my mouth or my body at this point; it was as if I was desperate to play along, to be a tease.
The muscles in his jaw clenched, visible under the scuff that lined his cheeks. His eyes dropped from mine, loitering over my body. “Well, then I’d say he was one lucky son of a bitch.”
My eyes widened as my heart threatened to beat right out of my chest.
“But based on the fact that your hair is still neatly on the top of your head, your lips aren’t swollen, and your cheeks lack the red flush of pleasure, I’d say you’re full of shit.
” He chuckled, crossing his arms over his strong chest. “That, or darlin’, I’m afraid to say you picked the wrong guy. ”
My hand jumped to my mouth, my pointer finger tracing the smooth inside of my bottom lip. The memory of him and me in the recording studio jumped to the front of my mind, reminding me that these lips hadn’t felt that kind of satisfaction since that day.
I dropped my hand from my mouth as soon as I noticed he was watching me. “Is that your way of insinuating that you’re…” I paused, knowing damn well I was teetering a fine line between teasing and full-blown foreplay.
And to be honest, I wasn’t sure where I wanted to be at the end of this encounter.
His broad shoulders squared in front of me as his boots urged closer. Now he was halfway inside my apartment and halfway outside when he leaned his mouth to my ear and whispered, “I could be the right one, and I have a list of things I’d do to you to prove it.”
Well, I guess that settled that question.
An entire population of chills inhabited every inch of my body, forcing my shoulders to quiver.
He pulled away. “But we’re keeping this professional…” The word professional hung on his lips like he was just as unsure as I was.
I cleared my throat. “Right. Yeah. Professional.” The words were said more as a reminder to myself rather than in agreement with him.
“Any chance I can come inside? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re sort of in the middle of a snowstorm.”
I glared at him.