Thirteen
Saint
It was never my intention to eavesdrop on Winter, but when I heard the distress in her voice, my plans went out the window. It was as if my body and mind had lost all communication with each other. My brain screamed at me to move, and my body locked me in place.
So, I’m unprepared when Winter finishes her call and then promptly spins in my direction, catching me in the act.
Her warm chestnut eyes are large with shock. Either I was excellent at being quiet, or she was deep into her conversation. Clearly, she had no idea I was here.
Shooting her a sheepish smile, I rub the back of my neck and look away. I’m a little embarrassed about our current predicament, but I’m not that embarrassed about it—more than anything, my curiosity is piqued. I’m having a hard time reining in all the questions I have.
Deciding to start with the basics, I ask her, “Are you okay?”
I brace myself for a sharp reply or snark like normal, but instead, her barriers fall before my eyes. Her shoulders slump and I swear a sheen covers her eyes. The wetness gleaming there sends me into instant panic.
Without thinking, I step closer to her and pull her into my arms. Surprisingly, she lets me.
Her arms wrap around me, and she hugs me back.
I’m glad that while we’re embraced, she can’t see my face because my eyes are wide in shock from the fact that I hugged her without thought, and then she willingly accepted it.
With Winter in my strong embrace, time seems to move strangely.
It could be seconds or hours that pass, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you.
Having her nestled into my body feels right.
This moment feels like perfection. I can’t help myself as I bring a hand up and stroke it through her silky black strands.
I place a light kiss against the crown of her head before pulling back to look at her.
We’re no longer intertwined, but neither of us takes a step back. Our faces remain only inches apart.
Lost in her gaze, I run my fingers lightly over her cheeks, wiping away tears she must have set free while we were hugging. “What’s wrong, Win?” I whisper, lips a hair’s breadth from hers.
Her throat works on a swallow a couple of times before she replies.
Once she starts talking, it’s like an avalanche of words, more and more spilling out.
She tells me all of it. About what happened in New York following her new book release.
Fleeing here when she had no clue what to do.
About how she hasn’t been able to muster up the courage to start writing since she’s been here.
And finally, about the phone call with her agent, who’s expecting a completed pitch ready for her publisher after the holidays.
I give a reassuring squeeze to her shoulders and smile at her.
“Even if I had something planned to write—which I don’t—I don’t even have a quiet place to work. It would be impossible to write at my parents’ house without one of my parents interrupting or one of my brothers being noisy.”
“I have the perfect place for you to work,” I tell her. It’s true. I do have a spot that will be great for her to work undisturbed. However, it means sharing a secret of my own. One that I wasn’t ready to share, but knowing she needs help, it feels right to be vulnerable.
Taking a minute to clean up my art supplies in the studio room gives me a chance to center myself—an opportunity to take a few calming breaths and hope for the best.
When the paints are returned to their spots and the brushes have been rinsed and laid out to dry, I leave my little haven and turn off the light on my way out.
I collect Winnie and with her hand clutched in mine, I lead her out to my truck and prepare for what’s to come.