Chapter 32
Gable
“How can we not know anything yet?” Ella asks, slamming down her spoon. “Hackers suck.”
For once, I agree with her. Almost three weeks and we’re no closer to finding out what’s on that drive, and the recent guy who had gotten closer than anyone has gone dark. Likely dead or hiding.
It’s getting to the point where Ella is going to have to lie to her dad again, and I know it’s bothering her.
We’ve eased into some kind of civil living situation since our meal.
She’s stopped being such a damn mess, and I’ve started buying twice the number of Oreos, and it isn’t completely terrible now.
She still has one hell of a temper, though.
I feel bad for the granola she’s about to devour.
The time together also means I’m picking up on the subtleties of Ella Gibson, and I’ve noticed that her smiles are a little slower to show, and her laugh doesn’t fill the house as much as it used to.
“It’s poor work ethic,” she says, scooping the food into her mouth. “Shitty workmanship.”
“They play by their own rules,” I say, shrugging.
“There should be some person we could complain to. Like a chief hacker. A chacker.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to suppress my laugh. She keeps doing that, making comments that are actually funny, and it’s getting harder to pretend that I don’t want to sometimes burst into hysterics.
She eyes me. “You liked my chacker joke.”
“You’re a joke,” I hit back, rising from the kitchen island and moving into the living room before she notices the smile I’m trying to hold back.
Motor is staring out the window at the snow.
“Wanna go out?” I ask.
“In that?”
“Not you,” I say. “Motor.”
She tuts. “I know that, but it’s so deep. Maybe you shouldn’t. What if you get lost or eaten by a bear?”
“Fingers crossed,” I mumble, pulling on my coat and gloves.
“I heard that!”
I venture past the living area to the door that opens onto the back porch.
Motor follows. The snow stretches far until it reaches the line of trees, and as I step into the powdered yard, I smile.
Snow wipes everything clean. Growing up in Southern California meant we only saw it this deep when Asher and I first came here.
When we were kids, we would talk about owning a place like this so we could have snow every Christmas.
Leaving deep footprints behind me, I pause and breathe in the cold air.
Something hits my back, and I turn to face the house.
“Bullseye!” Ella cheers from the porch. She’s in her coat and hat, gloves covered in snow, scooping up another snowball.
“Gibson, do not.”
She hops down the steps, almost slipping, and I frown.
How is it possible for a fully-grown woman to slip down the stairs as much as she does?
I’m forever almost catching her, forever making sure she doesn’t slip on the hardwood flooring in her socks or set fire to her damn ponytail on the rare occasions she attempts to light the fire.
She gently tosses the snowball to Motor, and he barks happily, pushing his nose into the snow and flopping onto his back.
She jogs over to the dog, clapping her hands, and he gets to his feet, dancing around her.
She laughs as he hops up onto his hind legs, front paws on her chest, and I watch her quietly, the corners of my mouth twitching into a smile.
What the fuck?
I frown and look away. “Maybe we should go inside; it’s cold.”
“I put my boots on! They’re impossible to get on! We’re walking.” She heads toward the trees and Motor follows. Reluctantly, I do, too.
We’re surrounded by deep forests, thick tree trunks dark against the crisp snow. Asher and I walked these woods with hangovers; we hid bodies out here, too, when we had no choice. Happy memories.
“What do you do for Christmas?” she asks.
“I bake cookies.”
She scoffs. “Your sarcasm is getting a bit much. Answer me seriously for once, dickweed.”
“I don’t know. It’s my first without Asher. We’d usually just have a few drinks, exchange one gift and one gift only, because apparently, I’m impossible to buy for. Then we’d watch movies and drink more.”
“That sounds nice,” she says, and I look down at her. She has snow on her hat, and her arm is linked through mine. I didn’t even feel her get that close. “My dad and I don’t do anything for Christmas. He works, and I just don’t see the big deal.”
“That would be yours and Asher’s first argument, then. He loved Christmas.”
“He did?” She beams up at me, seemingly always eager to know more about him.
“Yep. He got the tree; he decorated it. The movies we watched all day were Christmas ones, which sucked.”
“Except Die Hard.” We both say it at the same time, and Ella’s eyes light up.
She squeals. “Look at us! We’re bonding.”
And she ruins it.
We reach the river and watch the water, both quiet, her arm still in mine, and I steal some glances at her. Her eyes are always wide, like everything she sees is something to potentially write about.
She taps her temple.
“Why do you do that?”
She looks up at me, nose pink. “What?”
“You tap your temple.”
Ella smiles. “It’s a secret.”
“Is it your annoyance reset button? It recharges the batteries.”
Ella laughs and looks back at the water. “Something like that. Wanna head back?”
We walk back in silence, and I’m glad I lit the fire, because I didn’t realize how cold it was until we return to the house. Ella sits at the bottom of the stairs, struggling with her boots.
“Bodyguard, help,” she says, wiggling her foot at me.
“No.” I take off my coat and hang it up, dusting off the snowflakes and making a mental note to mop up the footprints before going to bed.
“Please! My fingers are all numb.”
“Nope.” I sit on the couch, turn on the TV, and feel her eyes burning into the back of my head. I’m biting back another smile, because I can sense her annoyance from here.
She suddenly sits next to me, boots still on, and puts her feet on the coffee table.
“No, don’t do that,” I say. “Get your feet down.”
“Nope,” she says, imitating me.
I frown. “Ella.”
She blinks. “You just called me Ella.”
I falter, words failing me for a moment. “Gibson, get your fucking feet off my coffee table.”
She ignores me, arms folded, and I huff out my frustration, sitting on the table and yanking her boots off. She grins and watches me do it.
“You’re annoying as shit,” I say, putting her boots by the door and returning to the couch.
“Am I? Or am I charming? What should we watch? Let’s watch Die Hard! It can be our thing.”
She snatches the remote, and I sink back into the couch, sighing. Once she finds the movie and presses play, she falls asleep within ten minutes, her feet on my lap, and I watch most of the movie alone. Even her damn feet are warm. Is this woman a furnace?
I watch her from the corner of my eye. She took out her braids before lying down, and her hair fans the cushion and her shoulder.
She’s in a sweatshirt I haven’t seen before and has a pillow in her arms, squeezing it.
She’s in a deep sleep, breathing steadily, and maybe, just maybe, I like her this way. Quiet. Approachable.
Maybe I get why Asher stayed for her. She isn’t totally terrible.
She’s funny sometimes, her cooking is great, and I like how animated she gets when she talks about her books.
Sometimes I don’t even listen, I just watch her—the brightness of her eyes, her smile, her hands flying everywhere as she describes a scene or character.
And then there are times like this, when she’ll fall asleep on the couch, and … yeah. I can see why Asher gave up everything for her.
Because as much as I don’t want to admit it, she’s kind of beautiful.
I’ve never looked at a woman like I look at her. I’ll hang around her in the hope she’ll make me laugh or tell me something about her that I don’t already know. She’s … interesting. Almost fascinating.
Sometimes, I linger in the kitchen as she cooks, watching how she cuts vegetables or prepares meat. She’ll talk about her dad, her mom, school and work, filling the silence with endless stories that sound so much better when she tells them.
She’s like … a friend. I’ve never had a friend other than Asher before.
I move her feet off my lap. I need to wake her up; it’s almost seven, which means time to write, but a selfish part of me wants to keep her like this a little longer.
I sit beside her and hover my hand over her arm.
I should wake her, but now I’m closer, and my hand is on her arm, and for the first time, I enjoy the warmth.
Protecting Ella Gibson has its issues; I always knew it would, but I didn’t think this would be one of them. I didn’t think a part of me would protect her for something other than Asher’s memory.
“Ella,” I say quietly.
She opens her eyes and looks at the TV, then up at me.
“I missed the movie,” she says, propping herself up on her elbow and rubbing her face.
Her eyes meet mine. I can see the flecks of gold in them, the freckles across her nose.
The proximity to her isn’t unusual. I’ve slept closer to her than I am right now, but this feels different.
My hand is still on her arm, and I’m screaming internally at myself to move away, run for my damn life, because this is … different.
This isn’t listening to her stories or watching her cook.
This is two people alone, at night, a fire crackling, and not enough space between us.
Before I can stop myself, I move her hair from her face. My heartbeat fills my ears, and goose bumps rise across my body, lifting the hairs on my arms as our gazes remain locked. Her chest rises and falls with steady breaths, and the quiet is too quiet.
“Gable.”
The whispered word has my attention dropping to her lips, and images crash through my mind. Of kissing her, of her whispering my name, crying out, begging me to touch her—
I snatch my hand back. “It’s almost seven.”
Standing, I almost run from the room, my conscience on my heels. Back in my room, I slam the door shut and rest my back against it.
And I remind myself that even if she hadn’t been Asher’s, she can never, ever be mine.