Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
EMMETT
“I’ll help you get everything upstairs.” Her tone is flat as she pulls in the driveway, and it reeks of defeat. I don’t know what happened between when we left the house together and now, but I don’t like it.
“Maybe get you some lunch,” she adds.
For the first time, her offer of help sounds like an obligation.
I like that even less.
Before I can ask her what’s going on, she slips out of the SUV. A few of the bags are slung over her arm by the time I join her, and when I think she’s going to stop, she just keeps adding more.
“There’s no trophy for taking them all at once.”
My weak attempt to break through her shield falls flat. She doesn’t banter with me like she loves to do, or give me shit. She just stares back blankly before shaking her head and starting up the stairs with overflowing arms.
When I catch up, she’s already at the landing, shifting the load to shove the door open with her shoulder. Once inside, she dumps everything on the island in a heap before her hands land on either side of the pile and her head drops between her shoulders.
“I’m pretty oblivious to other peoples’ feelings, so I’m going to need you to clue me in to what’s going on.”
She shakes me off and shoves the carton of milk into the fridge harder than necessary.
“Did I do something to upset you?”
“No,” she says. “It’s nothing you did.”
Her arms fall to her side and she leans back letting the counter take her weight. She looks frayed, and I’ve got an uneasy feeling that I’m the reason for it.
It should make me back off.
Instead, I step forward until I’m next to her, angled and using the counter for support.
“You’ve barely looked at me since we left the General Store.”
She drops her chin to her shoulder, so I notch my finger beneath it and guide her eyes back to mine.
“You haven’t fussed or put me in my place once.”
I can’t stand the distance in her eyes as she stares back at me.
“So, if it wasn’t me, who upset you?”
“Oh, that . . .” Her laugh is soft and doesn’t convince me at all. “It’s self-inflicted—a classic case of a girl overthinking literally everything.”
“Aspen.” I drag a hand through my hair. “Say the word and I’m gone.”
“No.”
The answer flies out of her so fast it catches both of us off guard.
Her eyes widen slightly, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Mine narrow.
“It’s not you,” she says again, quieter this time. Her fingers drum the edge of the countertop, like she needs something to do with them. “Emmett . . . I promise you’re not the problem.”
Then what the hell is?
She blows out a shaky breath and finally looks at me. “I’m just . . .” Her mouth twists. “I’m dealing with a guy at work who doesn’t seem to understand that I’m not interested in him.”
Something dark and ugly unfurls in my chest.
For fuck’s sake, toddlers understand the word no better than some men. Any dick who can’t grasp a simple concept like enthusiastic consent doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as any woman, let alone this one.
“The scrub-clad-scrote’”
Aspen blinks.
Then—despite everything—she laughs. “Excuse me?” she asks.
“It’s the doctor that follows you around the hospital like a lost puppy.” I try to keep my voice level, but my blood is boiling.
She cocks her head to the side. “Jere—Dr. Smith?”
“Never noticed his name, just looked like the type.”
My morals grind together. At least now I know exactly who it is that I want to throat punch.
“He’s bothering you.”
I don’t need her confirmation, but I wait for it all the same.
Her lips press into a thin line. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
Whether or not I think she should have to deal with this on her own doesn’t matter.
And I can’t exactly throw a punch the way I want to right now.
Still, my instincts roar with the need to do something. My jaw locks so tight it aches.
Aspen frowns, worry lining her forehead. “How’d you know . . . about Jeremiah? We’ve been careful not to advertise that we were . . . whatever we were doing.”
Her use of past tense does something to me.
I square my body to face her, dropping my head until her focus is glued to me and nowhere else.
“You’re not easy to miss, Aspen.”
“What?” she huffs.
It’s almost like she doesn’t get it—doesn’t see what I see.
She doesn’t tiptoe around me. She doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t back down, but she doesn’t push.
“I couldn’t give a fuck about him, but I notice you. And he made you uncomfortable. All you have to do is pay attention and you can see as much.”
“And you’ve been paying attention?”
I lean in closer. “Since the moment we met.”
The corner of her mouth twitches as shakes her head and asks, “It’s the helicopter, isn’t it?”
Somewhere along the line, this girl learned that making herself small made everyone else’s lives easier. From the doctor, to the quip about the helicopter, it’s in everything she says and does. And here I am, pushing on the part of her that always gives—her need to fix things.
“No.” I’ve never said the word with so much conviction, but she needs to hear this—hell, she deserves to.
Her gaze lifts to mine, something softer breaking through.
“It’s you.”
I hesitate just long enough for her to feel the edge of what I’m about to say.
“You walk into a room and everything else just . . . drops off.” My hand tightens on the island. “The noise, the bullshit, none of it matters.”
Somehow, this woman makes my demons go quiet.
Her mouth opens and closes, lost for what to say.
Her lips part slightly. “What?”
I drag a hand over my face, already in far too deep with her. “Don’t believe me? I can keep going.”
Her nod is small, like she’s not sure she’s ready to hear what I have to say. I’m not sure I’m ready to tell her, but I want her to know.
“You’re sharp.” Voice rougher than I intend, I swallow hoping to smooth it out. “Always a step ahead. You aren’t put off by my attitude.”
Her throat bobs.
“You don’t back down when something is important to you, even when most people would. You fight for what you think is right.”
Her hazel eyes widen, and she shuffles back a step, bumping the fridge.
“You can’t know all of that about me.” She can’t hide the waver in her voice.
I meet her eyes, holding them a beat too long. “I do.” The certainty in my voice surprises even me. “But if I keep praising you, this is going to get dangerous.”
Aspen freezes just for a second before her gaze skitters around the loft, looking anywhere but at me.
Not the reaction I was going for. The cocksure grin slips off my face as I stand taller, giving her room in the small kitchen.
The silence stretches until it’s all I can feel.
Aspen’s fingers tighten on the edge of the counter, and for a second, I can’t tell if she’s about to bolt . . . or is holding on for dear life.
She stays, clearing her throat and breaking the silence. “Can I ask you something?”
No. My nerves are too raw.
“Depends.”
“The other day, when you had a panic attack . . . Does that happen a lot?”
It’s the first time she’s named what happened the other night, and the need to flee sparks in an instant. I don’t do this. Talking about my past—how it impacts me—it’s a no go.
But those big, sad eyes pin me in place.
With a heavy exhale, I say, “We’re done talking about you?”
She shrugs. “It was getting awkward.” She waves a hand dismissively, and her eyes drop to the floor between us. “Sorry. That was none of my business. You’re not my patient.”
Her apology annoys me as much as her refusal to accept praise. Enough that I find myself needing to answer her honestly.
“Generally speaking, no.” I fight through the rise in my heart rate that comes with this conversation.
“Certain things trigger it. Talking about . . . family.” I avoid saying her name.
“Smells, words, weather. It can be anything or nothing at all. But it’s been a while since I’ve had one like that. ”
Slowly, her eyes climb until they find mine again.
“And the noise you mentioned? Is that always there?”I look at the ceiling but the answer isn’t there.
“Usually.” My palms slide against the granite damp from how hard this is.
“When you’re around . . .” I shrug like it doesn’t matter nearly as much as it does. “It fades into the background.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Like a human sound machine.”
The gruff chuckle that comes out takes me by surprise. “Yeah.” I hold her gaze. “Something like that.”
Aspen shakes her head, teeth catching her lower lip. “My brother’s call me Little Ms. Fix-it.”
The annoyance in her voice doesn’t match the spark back in her eyes.
Good.
“Is it terminal?”
She sighs dramatically, popping a hip against the counter.
“The prognosis is uncertain.”
My eyes drop to the narrow space between our hands. Close enough to touch. Close enough to make my pulse kick.
“Sounds exhausting.”
Confusion tugs at her mouth.
“What does?”
“Fixing everyone else.”
Her head tilts, like she’s considering it for the first time.
“Sometimes.” Then softer . . . “Other times I don’t mind.”
Something tightens in my chest. It’s pathetic how badly I want to hear her say that I’m an exception.
“And me?” The question is out before I can stop it.
Aspen’s lips part and she sucks in tight breath. “What about you?”
I nod toward the groceries and bags yet to be put away.
“Am I work . . .” My jaw tightens. “Or are you here because you want to be?”
A fresh wave of pain spears me from the tension, making my knees lock to keep me upright.
Aspen’s expression shifts instantly. The teasing, the walls, the overthinking . . . gone.
She pushes off the counter and drags the stool out from the island.
“Sit.”
I glance at the stool, then back at her.
“That’s not an answer.”
Her eyes roll, like she thinks I’m the idiot here.
“And being so stubborn you pass out in my kitchen isn’t a personality trait.”
Despite myself, my mouth twitches. “Technically, it’s my kitchen for the next eight weeks.”
I sink onto the stool, ribs protesting the whole way down.
Before I can argue, she’s already moving—pulling bread from the cabinet, cheese from the fridge, humming under her breath, like taking over was always the plan.
I could remind her I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.
One sharp inhale reminds me my ribs disagree.
Besides . . . watching Aspen take over is becoming a problem I’m not in any hurry to solve.
I sink onto the stool.
“Now that we’ve covered that, how do you feel about grilled cheese?”
“If you’re cooking it, I’m eating it.”
She moves away from the counter, getting right to work, as she glances over her shoulder at me. “You say that now.”
“Meals at camp are usually whatever we can shovel down between shifts,” I explain.
Soft, melodic humming drifts through the kitchen as she moves around me.
It’s an old country song—one I remember my grandmother singing on long drives down Wyoming backroads on our way home to the ranch . . . before everything changed.
My chest tightens.
The panic starts to creep in, sharp and familiar.
But I keep my eyes on Aspen.
And somehow . . . I breathe through it while she makes me the most overbuilt grilled cheese I’ve ever seen.
My eyes track her as she grabs tomatoes and an avocado from my grocery haul, slicing them, before adding them to the bread and topping it with sliced turkey and cheese.
“That looks like more than just cheese and bread.”
She flips the sandwich, then glances over her shoulder, her hazel eyes skimming over me. “You need more than that to sustain you.”
I get the feeling she’s not looking for a reply, so with nothing else to do, I keep watching her from the stool, trying to figure out what it is about this woman that makes it so damn hard to look away.
A sense of calm that I haven’t felt in years settles over me here in a kitchen where I don’t belong, with a woman I don’t get to keep.
I don’t remember much about the flight other than waking up to her face and knowing as long as I was with Aspen, I’d be okay.
It’s the same now, and every time I’ve been near her since—like she gives my nervous system a chance to rest, and I have to remind myself that getting attached is the most dangerous thing of all.
After what feels like an hour of silence between us, she sets the sandwich in front of me. “There you go.”
“It smells incredible.” My stomach growls loudly in agreement.
I lift the sandwich to my mouth, biting. Cheese spills over the edge of the bread, landing on my chin, and I’m quick to wipe it away. “Anything beats hospital food, but I think this is the best sandwich I’ve ever had,” I say, taking another large bite.
Damn, it’s good.
Her smile is radiant, and I see it—this is one of those things she doesn’t mind doing to take care of people.
She brushes me off with a shake of her head. “It’s just a sandwich.”
It’s not just a sandwich. Not even close.
“No, it’s not.” I swallow down the bite, struggling with how to tell her what this means. “This is the first meal anyone outside of my crew has cooked for me in fourteen years.”
Her eyes widen, and something soft breaks across her face before she quickly tucks her hair behind her ear, looking away. “Wow.” Her voice falters. “That’s . . . a lot to put on a sandwich.”
I set down the sandwich. “I’m telling you because . . .” My chest tightens. “I’m not used to this.”
Her brows knit together.
“If I seem ungrateful . . .” I shake my head. “Just know, it’s not you.”
She forces a lightness into her voice that doesn’t match the sadness in her eyes. “Eat up. I’ll check on you later.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
Then Aspen slips out, leaving me with the best damn sandwich I’ve ever had, and a problem I never saw coming.
Because somewhere between the helicopter and this kitchen, I forget how dangerous wanting can be.