Chapter 12
W eeks pass without incident. Each week, Isabelle and I alternate sharing my office at the lodge working independently, and days on the road working in tandem. She's unnervingly polite and respectful, even borderline sweet, while I'm trying and failing not to be a dick.
I wanted to be farther along before the weather started to turn, but we were able to knock out the farthest-reaching properties on the roster. She’s adapting to the job and gets along with everyone else she comes across. I get my shit done like I always do.
I’d like to say that the trips were pleasant—unfortunately, the trips were hell…for me at least. I was trapped in the truck smelling her sweet scent, cataloging her tiny mannerisms, and listening to her cheerful humming. Would it kill her to be less endearing?
We constantly bumped into each other working in the rentals, meaning I was forced to graze her luscious body and pretend it didn’t affect me. Why couldn’t she pack burlap sacks instead of skintight fucking yoga pants and loose tops that only gave me glimpses of her round tits?
I was held captive three meals a day where she did more than her share of cooking and cleaning. For fuck’s sake, can’t she be less considerate?
Worst of all, I was incarcerated sleeping under the same roofs as her. I barely got any sleep knowing she was changing her clothes in the other room and her naked body had been in the same shower as me. Couldn’t she tone down her unintentional sex appeal?
The trips were fucking miserable. For me. I don’t know how it was for her, because she's the epitome of professionalism. Nothing I did phased her.
She gets under my damn skin. Electricity crackles along the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck each time she’s near.
My temper’s been on a hair-trigger. I haven’t spent this much time with another human in the years combined since my accident.
In fact, it’s been my life’s mission to have as little human contact as possible.
She looks at me. That sounds stupid. But she looks at me.
No one looks at me. She looks into my eyes without shying away.
She unabashedly looks at the scarring on my face and neck—and hasn’t asked a single question.
She doesn’t cringe at the slight downturn to my right eye, or to the right side of my mouth.
Never once has she looked disgusted or repulsed by my appearance.
I don’t feel like a zoo exhibit when we're together.
I can feel her eyes on me as we work and eat, but she doesn’t try to make small talk with me anymore. I fucked up my chance at the football game.
I thought taking her out for lunch in town after the last trip would bridge the gap between us. I was sorely mistaken. Just as she started eating, a group of people walked past our table, and she went stiff and turned white before going green. She immediately shrunk in on herself.
I scanned for the culprit but only saw Sheriff Stevens and his son. It unnerved me that she didn’t touch her lunch after they passed. And I’ve never known that girl to turn down food.
When I was in the restroom, she split the check and didn’t let me pay for her meal. I don’t care how modern the world is, if a woman is going out with me, I’m fucking paying.
My hands perpetually ache because I white knuckle the steering wheel whenever she’s in the truck with me. The truck cab is like a pressure cooker, the tension between us is as thick as pea soup.
I can’t breathe unless I have some distance from her. Which is never. Maybe I’m going insane from oxygen deprivation.
Days not on the road, I stay as far away from the lodge as possible.
I take my damn time with the horses in the mornings, dreading going to work.
I find excuses to cut out for late afternoon jobs so I can head straight home when I'm done.
Those horses have never been so well attended or groomed in their lives, I swear.
Yet, every morning, I'm greeted with a polite “Good morning” or “Hello, Reid.” She often brings me a hot coffee or reminds me to eat throughout the day. She doesn’t seem affected by me at all. In return, I gift her with the cold shoulder, slammed doors, biting remarks, and disapproving glares.
I either talk to her like a caveman, or like an asshole. I don’t know why I can’t help myself. My shriveled-up brain can't comprehend why I'm so affected by her, when I don’t affect her whatsoever. While she functions like a full-grown adult, I'm stomping around like a toddler.
The more time we spend together, the more I'm intrigued by Isabelle. I can’t cope.
I never wanted someone in my space, but the cosmos flipped me the bird and laughed in my face by gluing Isabelle to me.
It was like everyone had a meeting about me and decided it’s time I'm dragged kicking and screaming out of my comfort zone.
My reaction to discomfort is to lash out, and she’s taken one hell of a lashing these past few weeks. I didn’t think it was possible to despise myself more than I already did, but every minute I'm around Isabelle, I prove myself wrong again and again.
I can taste the sweet freedom only a Friday afternoon brings. I’ve been saddled to this girl for over a month and a half and the taut string holding me together is about to snap.
I hate this version of her. The version I forced her to be.
I miss the Isabelle who stood up for herself at the banquet and didn’t take an ounce of my shit.
I miss her enthusiasm for our projects. I miss the Isabelle whose eyes lit up like Christmas sipping “Cherry” Pepsi at lunch her first day.
I miss the Isabelle who razzed me at the football game, before I broke her heart.
I miss the real Isabelle. The one who's hiding behind this shield. The one who doesn’t put on an apathetic mask in public around town. I know that girl is hiding beneath her surface, and I desperately want her back.
I impatiently wait for the clock to hit 4:00 p.m. The weekend is just an hour out of reach, and I need to catch Isabelle before she wraps up her day. I don’t find her in the foyer by the fireplace in her favorite chair, or on the window seat overlooking the glittering snow outside.
Has she already left? Did she have a meeting I didn’t know about? Did something happen to her? Is she ok? Apparently, all it takes is ten seconds for my brain to go full scorched earth and panic. Awesome. Take one gruesome accident, add one dead brother, and become a fucking anxious mess.
I turn to head back to my office when I hear soft singing. I redirect towards the sound and find myself in the lodge’s small library. It isn’t a highly trafficked part of the lodge, tucked behind a pillar not everyone would know to look around. Guests sometimes use it to take business calls.
What I find isn’t anything I could’ve prepared for. Isabelle has removed every pillow and cushion from the sofa and chairs in the library and created a nest in a corner where two floor to ceiling bookcases meet. Her combat boots are set neatly to the side by her tote bag.
Her stocking feet are tucked beneath her like a pretzel. Her head bops as she sketches and sings to herself. I can’t make out the song, but I could become addicted to the lilting melodies filling the air.
I lean against the doorframe, just out of her view and truly take her in. I’ve worked extremely hard to never look at her for any extended period of time. I can’t get electrocuted if I dart my eyes away from her, never meet her gaze, and generally pretend she doesn’t exist.
There's no denying it. She's gorgeous. My eyes roam over her glossy white hair, tucked behind tiny elvish ears, and across her striking light blue eyes, rimmed with black, and obscured beneath those adorable fucking pink glasses. They sit atop the dainty slope of her nose. My eyes move down her cupid’s bow to succulent raspberry lips that she bites and licks—hypnotic breaks in her singing that send need pulsing to my groin.
Her knockout body is hidden beneath an oversized, tattered grey hoodie and a throw blanket from the library. Is she wearing a fucking men’s hoodie? The idea of her wearing another man’s clothes sends rage barreling through me. Does she have a boyfriend? I don’t even know. Fuck.
I must let out a noise of frustration because her head jerks up and her eyes find mine instinctually. She averts her gaze immediately, a faint blush coloring the apples of her cheeks. I hate that she feels like she can’t even look at me without getting her head bitten off.
It’s now or never. I came to find her for a reason, and it’s too late to turn back.
Time to lure this kitten from her cage. It’s fucked up, but I want to know if she’s suffered the way I’ve suffered these past weeks.
I need to know if she feels the pressure that's been building between us since that ill-fated night at the banquet.
She dares another glance at me and asks, “What?”
A predator hunting my prey, I stalk into the room. “You give off this hellcat vibe. I keep waiting for your claws to come out, but they never do.”
She's stunned. I’ve caught her completely off guard and she hasn’t had time to fortify her shields—she's vulnerable to my provocation.
“I know you’ve been hurt.” She immediately goes to protest so I cut her off. “Don’t try to deny it. Damage recognizes damage. I can tell your pieces were put back together with school glue, just like mine were.”
I’ve come to stand directly in front of her. She has to crane her neck back uncomfortably to see my face.
“You're so polite and professional all the time. Not once have you let me see how I get to you. Who are you trying to fool?” Flames dance in her eyes, I hit a nerve.
“This isn’t you at all, is it? This isn’t who I met at the banquet.
I’ve seen you when no one is watching. I see how your shoulders slump with relief when I leave the room.
Or how you pretend to be asleep in the truck.
I feel you move around me like a moon orbiting a planet, always keeping a safe distance. Safe for who, Isabelle? You? Or Me?”
She's getting more flustered the longer I go on. Her little pierced nostrils flare, pink heat spreading across her gorgeous face, hands clenched at her sides. I saw how this kitty cat can bite at the football game. She handed me my ass without hesitation.
I suspect she grew up fending for herself. Based on my own high school experience, I bet she was bullied for coming from the other side of the tracks. I can see the fight in her. I'm sick and tired of being the only person going out of their mind in this fucked up game.
“Look me in the eye and tell me how much you love spending time on the road with me. Thank me for ignoring you and leaving you to figure out your job alone.” I pause, and she says nothing, but seethes with anger.
“Tell me that the Isabelle I’ve spent these weeks with is the real you. Tell me that everything is fine. That you are fine . Tell me you don’t need anything from anyone, especially from me.”
This girl is impressive, silent and stoic in the face of my taunts. I’m going to have to play dirtier if I want to see her unleash.
I bend slightly at the knees and grip my straining quads as I lean in towards her. “Tell me you aren’t angry at me for what I said to you at the football game. Tell me I didn’t embarrass you. Tell me how you don’t care that I made assumptions about you based on townie gossip.”
I stand up and back away a single step, waiting for the impending explosion.
Isabelle calmly shuts her sketchbook and tucks her things into her bag.
She stands, back straight as a board. She tips her chin up in the air and somehow looks down her nose at me, despite being shorter than me.
Her eyes are molten with anger. Steeling herself, an eerie calm settles over her entire being.
She looks straight into my soul and with hollow detachment says, “Fuck. You.”
She doesn’t bother to put her boots back on, let alone clean up her nest. She slams her shoulder into my arm, pushing me aside as she walks out of the library, head held high, with all the grace of a panther.
My first thought is holy shit . And my second thought is, there she is .