11. Brock Jones
Chapter eleven
Brock Jones
I inhale the mountain air, a smile tugging at my lips.
“This is much better than a sunrise run,” I say as I tilt my head up toward the sun filtering through the pines.
“So you won’t be joining me for my run tomorrow?” Her voice is lined with amusement.
“Do you go every day?” I ask instead of answering. My instinct is to say no, but as much as I love to tease her–and I love it a lot–the run was a good way to start my day.
“Pretty much.” I glance over to see her tugging a duffel bag out of her trunk. She slings it over her shoulder with a huff.
“Want some help?”
“I’m good.”
She walks to the door, leaning to one side to support the heavy weight. I chuckle at her stubbornness. She’s dressed in more casual clothes for the drive. A baggy Duke sweatshirt and a pair of black biker shorts that show off her toned legs. Yeah, she looks like she runs every day.
I force my gaze to scan the cabin instead of her. The last thing I need is to be caught checking her out. Then she might think my comments in the car were something more than jokes to mess with her.
A stone path leads to a black A-frame cabin with gleaming windows. There are flower beds out front with yellow and pink blossoms peppering the shrubs. It’s picturesque and cozy. The kind of place people honeymoon at. Nope . Don’t need to go there. I reroute that train of thought.
Ariel types in a code above the door handle, then turns the knob.
She takes two whole steps inside before dropping her duffel bag.
Without any kind of welcome or preamble, she heads for the back deck that I can spy through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I grab the bag she left in my path–which must be filled with bricks because wow is it heavy–and walk deeper inside the cabin.
The inside is just as cozy as the outside suggested.
There’s a brown couch with plaid and tan pillows.
A coffee table with books and travel guides artfully arranged on top.
There’s a large, round chair with an ottoman in front and the softest-looking blanket I’ve ever seen.
I run my hand over it as I pass, confirming it’s as buttery as it looks.
To my right is a small kitchen with an island that has two stools pushed up against it.
The scent of pine drifts in from the open back door. Ariel leans against the railing, her long brown hair in a messy braid down her back. I set her bag down behind the couch, then walk outside and join her.
“I love this view,” she says.
I brace my forearms on the wood rail. “I could tell by the way you sprinted out here.”
She laughs under her breath. “I do this every time I visit. There’s something about the mountains that calms my soul. I look out and see how big everything is. It reminds me of how small I am, and makes my problems feel just as small.”
I wish I could relate to that. Instead, the vast peaks and valleys seem too large. As if they’re towering over me like the skyscrapers back home. I look at Ariel instead, grounding myself in the familiarity of her.
“Is that why you brought me here?” I ask.
Her indigo eyes meet mine. They sparkle in the late afternoon rays like twin pools of glittering water. “I might be hoping the mountains have the same effect on you.”
“And if they don’t?”
She shrugs, turning her attention back to the mountain range. “We’ll figure something out.”
“I still don’t think there’s anything wrong with me.”
“The worst ones never do.”
Her words hang like a banner over my head. I don’t reply. After a few minutes of silence, she pushes off the rail.
“I’m going to get started on dinner. You can work while I cook for us if you want.”
“You don’t have to cook for me,” I tell her as we walk back inside. “I can have a sandwich or something. Wait–how do you have food here already?”
She walks to the kitchen and opens the retro-style fridge. The inside is stocked full of drinks, fruits, vegetables, and plenty of other things I can’t make out from across the room.
“I had groceries delivered, then asked the cleaning crew to put them away for me. Also, I’m going to cook for myself anyway, so I might as well cook for two.”
She begins pulling ingredients out of the fridge.
“You’ve brought me on a free vacation. I can’t let you cook for me too.”
“I abducted you and took you to a cabin in the woods. The least I can do is feed you.”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
She laughs. “Go get your laptop, Carolina. I know you’re dying to check work.”
I actually haven’t thought about work since we got here. My brows push together. I haven’t thought about work. Sure, it hasn’t been long, but I can’t recall a time where it wasn’t at least a background thought. Maybe Ariel’s weird plan is working.
I shake my head. Distractions are something I can’t afford.
I go out to the car and get my black leather messenger bag. When I come back inside, Ariel is placing a cast-iron pan on the stove. I sit down in the circle chair that faces the mountain view.
“Password for the WiFi is Dukeblue1 with a capital D ,” Ariel says.
“I’d almost rather not have WiFi than have to type that in,” I say, drawing a laugh out of her.
“My plan is working,” she teases.
More than I’d care to admit.
I shift my focus to my email inbox. I need to be productive, no matter my location.
After a few minutes of responding to brands and clients, Ariel asks, “Do you mind if I play some instrumental music? I like to listen to it while I cook.”
“It’s your place,” I say with a wave of my hand. “You do whatever you want.”
“If you keep being weirdly polite, I’m going to take you to the nearest hospital.”
I laugh. “I don’t know how to act when I’m in a cabin with you against my will.”
“A little more hostility would be appreciated,” she jests. “Or do you already have Stockholm syndrome?”
“Are you asking if I’m in love with you, Duke?”
“I never said anything about love.” She smirks. “Is this your way of confessing you’ve been harboring feelings since the day we met?”
I snort. “The only feeling I have around you is annoyance.”
She smiles in spite of my words. “Ditto.”
She grabs her phone and clicks a few times, then soft jazz begins to pour through the room. There must be a speaker somewhere with how clear the sound is.
I return to my work, but it’s not long before my attention is drawn back to Ariel again.
Her back is to me. She’s cooking something on the stove while swaying to the saxophone playing.
Her braid swings back and forth with her hips, and there’s something hypnotic about the movement.
I feel a tug toward the kitchen deep within my core.
Before I can refocus on work, I stand and cross the room.
“Can I help?” I ask.
Ariel startles, then looks over her shoulder in surprise. I smile. Her reaction tells me she forgot I was here.
“Oh, uh, sure.” A gold band on her right ring finger glints in the golden-hour light as she gestures toward an array of vegetables on the counter. “Can you chop those veggies for a salad?”
I nod. “I can do that.”
Her genuine smile catches me off guard. It’s bright and sweet, a contrast to the smirk she usually throws my way.
“Thanks.”
We work back to back for a while. I cut grape tomatoes, cucumber, red onion, and a bunch of herbs.
Ariel hums along to the music as she cooks.
I don’t know if I’ve ever cooked with anyone.
My mom was the type to shoo us out of the kitchen instead of having us help.
Not that I do much cooking alone, either.
My meals tend to be ready-made from the grocery store or take-out.
“What are you making?” I ask her as I dump all of the vegetables into the wooden bowl she placed nearby.
“Seared lamb chops with a balsamic reduction,” she says casually, as if that doesn’t sound like it belongs on a menu somewhere in a five-star restaurant.
“I didn’t know you were the chef type.”
“I’m not.” She lets out a soft laugh. “This is one of a few Pinterest recipes I’ve mastered since moving out.”
“Well it smells delicious,” I say, because I can’t come up with anything to tease her about. My cooking skills are limited to the chopping I just did, and I’m pretty sure, judging by how smushed the tomatoes look, even that ability is subpar.
“Let’s hope it tastes as good as it smells.”
She sets two white plates on the kitchen island and places two lamb chops on each before drizzling a dark red sauce over them.
Then, she grabs a lemon out of a bowl on the open shelving above the sink and cuts it in half.
The fresh scent of lemon mixes with the earthy herbs as she squeezes the juice over the salad.
A few cracks of salt and pepper later, and it’s done.
She tosses the vegetables and spoons them onto the plates.
“I’m going to eat on the porch swing,” she says as she hands me a fork and knife.
I look through the windows and see a wood swing lined with what looks like a small mattress and topped with green pillows. It looks like it’s meant for couples who want to snuggle as they watch the sun go down–like it is right now.
“I’ll hang out in here. I need to get some more work done.”
She raises a brow. “Did you think that was an invite?”
I push a hand through my hair. “My mistake.”
A playful smirk pulls at her pink lips.
“Pull a chair outside if you get tired of working yourself to death. I’m not sharing my swing.”
I return her smirk with one of my own. “And what about the hot tub? Is that open?”
The tops of her cheekbones turn the color of the flowers out front. “Not to you.”
She grabs her plate and heads for the door.
“I thought I was supposed to relax while I’m here?” I call after her.
“Go answer an email or something,” she shoots back, making me laugh.
The door closes behind her, leaving me alone with a plate of delicious food and jazz music that sounds a touch too romantic. I take my plate to the couch and try to focus on work. If I glance out the windows every now and again, who can blame me? The mountain view does have a certain pull to it.