Chapter 24
Hours later, Arlo pulls up to a little home nestled in the woods. Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me where we end up, because I’m ready to make our future a priority.
I want this man. I want him in my life in any way he will have me. The past three hours we spent in a car cemented that.
I talked, he listened.
He spoke, I listened.
I didn’t just wait for him to tell me a story. I collected every single word he uttered like cherished jewels. He held my attention the entire drive, and as dusk came, and with it, the turn onto a winding road, I felt almost sad this ride would end.
Until I realized I have this man all to myself for the next forty-eight hours.
Butterflies dance in my stomach as he shuts off the car and stares at the little cabin. Wooden beams and an A-frame design make it look like something out of a fairy tale.
That’s when the twinkle lights flicker on, lining the rails of the wraparound porch to a backyard where I can just make out the edge of what I hope is a hot tub—though I didn’t bring a bathing suit.
Eh, who needs it?
“Well…” Arlo pulls the keys from the ignition. “Here we are.”
“Here we are,” I repeat, suddenly feeling unsure of myself and so far out of my element. I don’t date, and I never run off with a guy. But Arlo isn’t just some guy, he’s my friend and something so much more now. “What were your plans for me tonight, Mr. Larson?”
He groans before pushing out of the car. “Don’t call me that.”
“What’s that, Mr. Larson?” I tease in my best Marilyn Monroe voice. Getting out, I lean on the hood of the car and wag my brows at him.
“I am not Mr. Larson.” He grabs our bags far too forcefully. “That was my father.”
“Yes, sir.” I switch to my military voice.
“In the house, Birdie.”
“Whatever you say, sir.” I spin on a heel and skip to the front door, noticing it has a keypad instead of a lock. How modern. “Got the code?”
“Yep, twenty-one eighteen.” He grunts, pulling my luggage over. “What’s in this thing?”
“Ah, you will be happy to know that I did not, in fact, pack said luggage. Your sisters did, or so I assume.”
“They must have put in a kitchen sink.”
“I hope so.” The door clicks open, revealing the cozy little space. There isn’t much. It’s a loft style cabin with a living area and kitchen smashed together, and steps that lead up to the loft with a simple, flimsy-looking railing.
Arlo throws our luggage into a corner and saunters over to the fridge. “I need a drink.”
“Now I know why you were sipping milk.” I peel off my heavy coat and toss it on the back of a chair. It’s incredibly warm, and I’ve been sweating for the last half hour.
“Had to drive.”
“So responsible of you.” I join him in the kitchen and grab a drink for myself because this feels weird, like really weird. “So when does the third date start? Was it the drive? The plan to spend the night here with you?”
Beer sprays out of his mouth, and he wipes his face with the back of his hand.
“I didn’t.” He glances up at the loft. “Oh no.” He slams his beer down on the counter and takes the steps two at a time.
“There’s only one bed.” His voice echoes across the little cabin, while flurries fall outside, creeping toward a squall.
“Yeah, I deduced that.” I point to the window. “Blizzard?”
“It’s just a few flurries.” He stomps down the steps. “Birdie, you have to know I didn’t—” He flails his hands like a chicken as he struggles to find his words. “It wasn’t—”
“Which one of your sisters booked this place?” Those sweet, meddling women. “Or was it your mother?”
“My mother,” he growls, marching over to his bag where he rips through it, looking for something.
“Arlo.” I take a sip of my drink before setting it down to walk over to him, careful not to impede his mission.
“I know it’s in here.”
“Arlo.” I lay a hand on his shoulder.
He freezes, his phone in his grip. “This isn’t what I planned.”
“I know.” I tug him closer to me, wrapping my fingers in the edges of his flannel. “It’s okay.”
“It is?”
“I think we are on the fourth date,” I tell him. It’s the right thing to say, because his shoulders instantly relax and his hands settle on my hips, his warmth bleeding through my clothing.
“What was the third?” he whispers, his beer scented breath ghosting over my senses.
“The drive,” I whisper back, drawing him closer until our lips are but a breath away.
“Birdie,” he murmurs, and it’s like a dam breaks inside me. I tug him down, my lips finally locking with his.
When I was a little girl and Gram read me fairy tales, the kiss was always my favorite part.
Sure, the fall for the other person made my stomach flutter and my young mind soar with fantasies.
But it was that very first kiss when the two main characters confessed their love that I lived for.
That I breathed for. So much builds up to that moment where they finally surrender to each other.
Love is in that first fairy-tale kiss, and as Arlo’s lips press against mine softly before a groan escapes him, I know he’s it for me.
My head spins, not with lust, not with desire, but with so much love that tears spring behind my eyelids and my body sways into him. My heart swells, and all he’s done is capture my lips with his.
That’s when it happens.
The moment I will always remember.
Just as his tongue slips past the seam of my lips to tangle with mine, I sob, and all that pent-up emotion of denying myself touch for so many years comes pouring out of me.
In one giant snot bubble.
Ladies and gentlemen, I can’t make this stuff up even if I tried, because it just so happens that at the right moment, Arlo licks said snot.
Horrified, I pull back from him far too fast and tumble head over heels, literally and figuratively, over a chair where I roll right onto the floor, my head slamming against the ancient hardwood.
Breathless, mortified, and I admit, a little woozy, I heave out a breath and stare at the high ceiling, feeling a knot form on the back of my head.
Cautiously, I glance at Arlo, who stares at me for a moment before he rushes to my side, his hands flailing like he isn’t sure if he should touch me.
I might combust into flames of embarrassment if he does.
Finally, he drops his hands at his sides as he gapes down at me. “I wasn’t expecting you to fall for me after our first kiss.”
I hiccup a sob because this isn’t at all how that first kiss should have gone. It was moving along perfectly, a storybook fairy tale that I would remember for the rest of my life and tell our grandbabies.
Well, that escalated quickly.
I sob even more.
“What is it, Birdie? Talk to me.” He gingerly touches my face, tilting it toward him. “Tell me you are okay.”
I hiccup again. “Our first kiss needed to be perfect, and I ruined it with a snot bubble.” I sob even more, because why not? I’m one big emotional mess at this point.
“Oh, Birdie, that kiss was perfect, but I need to make sure you’re okay.” He pulls his hand away and blood glistens on his fingertips.
I gag, because blood. I close my eyes, but then everything spins.
“Birdie, I need to see what you hit your head on. Can you roll to the side?” He maneuvers me until I’m in the fetal position on the floor, facing a lovely unlit fireplace. Just thinking about the warmth, I shiver.
I think I gave myself a concussion.
“Give it to me straight, Doc, how bad is it?” I aggressively wipe away my tears.
“Well, I think” —Arlo settles down beside me with a toy car in his hand— “the last people who stayed here had kids.”
A toy car? “How is this my life?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to call the doctor.” He wiggles out his phone, waving it in front of me for a moment. “Do you want to sit up?”
“This is my life now.”
“You are being dramatic.”
“I’ve already moved in, in my mind, though that fireplace would look better with flames.”
“I think you have a concussion.”
“I don’t think they happen that fast.” Pretty sure I have a solid four hours to determine if I do, in fact, have a concussion.
Which means no winery. I chuckle at the absurdity of it.
The phone begins to ring, and Arlo sets it on the coffee table I narrowly missed as the speaker crackles.
“Arlo?” An older gentleman coughs into the phone. “I thought you were away for the weekend. What happened?”
“Birdie—”
“Say no more. What did she do?”
Even a man whom I have never met knows just how much of a klutz I am.
“Well, she tripped backward over a chair, rolled off, and hit her head on what I thought was the wooden floor but ended up being a little Matchbox car.”
The line crackles and the doctor asks, “What kind of Matchbox car?”
“What does that even matter?” I speak up.
“Well, a Jeep will have a different injury than an Impala.”
“He’s right.” Arlo looks at the little red car. “It’s a yellow Mustang.”
“Eh, it’s pretty flat. Keep her awake for a few hours, then wake her every couple of hours. If she gets confused…” He pauses, laughing at himself. “More confused than she usually is, or if she somehow becomes Einstein, take her to the emergency department closest to you.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Oh, and Arlo…” The old man clears his throat. “No strenuous activity.”
I bury my head in my arm in shame and embarrassment.
“Thanks again, Doc.” Arlo hangs up. “Well, looks like this is going to be a long night of concussion watch.”
“I’m so sorry, Arlo.” I push myself up, but my head swims a bit. Luckily, there is a chair behind me, so I prop myself against it.
“I don’t mind, Birdie,” he teases me with a wink. “I get to sit up with you and talk all night.”
“I haven’t done that with anyone since I was a teen.” I wince a little, because that’s a lie. I just did this with the girls at the graveyard. “Okay, maybe when Lark was a baby.”
“First things first.” He stands, brushes off his jeans, and walks over to a door in the corner of the room. I can just make out a bathroom. He returns a moment later with a first aid kit in his hands. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“I feel like role-playing is a twentieth date concept.”