Chapter 14
I ’m sitting in my truck waiting for Isabelle to pack her overnight bag. I shrug out of my coat and throw it into the backseat. I’ve cranked the heater to make sure the truck is warm for her and I’m fucking sweating.
I’m sweating from the heat. Not from nerves. Because I’m not nervous.
That’s a lie.
Another lie is that I needed a second set of hands this weekend.
And come to think of it, the Dreamhouse didn’t actually lose electricity.
Nor was it rented this weekend.
Until I rented it.
Lie.
Lie.
Lie.
I’ve lost my damn mind. I want time with Isabelle.
I feel like I finally saw a glimpse of her, the real her, when I goaded her yesterday afternoon.
When she told me off and stormed out, I was elated and aroused.
I had to readjust my halfie before I cleaned up her pillow nest and headed back to the foyer.
I like her. I really fucking like her. I feel so stupid admitting that to myself.
I was perfectly fine, stewing in my own self-loathing.
Happy? No. Surviving? Yes. And then Isabelle blew in to my life like a freak Colorado storm.
Electrical currents skate along my skin, raising every arm hair every time she makes eye contact with me.
She makes me feel exposed. And for the first time in years, I want to let someone in.
I think about her all the goddamn time. On top of being a hermit and an asshole, I’m also not worth her time. She’s smart and funny and kind—everything I’m not. I’m a fool to think she’d give a man like me a chance.
This weekend might be the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. But I'm on this train committed to riding it right off the rails. A switch flipped yesterday for me. For as much as I accused her of hiding her true self and denying it, the pot smashed into the kettle and gave me a wakeup call.
I’ve been hiding since my accident. From the outside I’m sure it sounds vain. Oh, his face is fucked up, boo hoo, poor golden boy . But I lost so much more than some skin that day. It’s like I died and was unwillingly reanimated.
It didn’t take long recovering in the hospital to notice only my family came to see me. Not my riding crew, not my football bros, not the girl I was fucking. It became painfully apparent that I hadn’t had much to offer the world aside from a good time.
No one checked on me when I went into isolation. When I went into town, people I’ve known my entire life pointed and leered, avoiding interacting with me. At first, I was furious that I'd gone from the top of the social food chain to the barren bottom. How dare this town turn its back on me.
It’s become painfully clear how poorly I’d treated people over the years.
Turns out, I was a fucking asshole, and no one liked me.
I didn’t even like me. But instead of getting help or letting my family in, I fortified my walls and denied anything had changed at all.
Maybe Isabelle and I are more similar than I think either of us imagined.
The girl intrigues me. The more time I spend with her, the more I want to know about her, and the faster I want to run away from those feelings. I don’t think I know a real thing about her, other than that she's a brilliant artist.
The library altercation consumed me for hours during my night chores.
Anxiety over not seeing her until Monday muddled my judgment, and I made a halfcocked, harebrained plan.
It involved a last minute, extremely expensive reservation at the Dreamhouse under a fake name, followed by some serious regret-drinking.
I nearly talked myself out of it this morning, but then I remembered the fire in her eyes when I taunted her, and I knew. I knew I needed to know Isabelle.
My heart races watching her exit the trailer.
It’s more rundown than I expected, and I’m fucking uncomfortable knowing she lives here.
It might be snobby, but I don’t like that Isabelle—and I think her little sister—live in a poorly lit corner of an ungated trailer park.
The units around theirs have broken windows, chained up dogs, and fucking melted spoons.
She shuts the door behind her, and I'm initially confused and think it’s her sister who’s come out of the house, because I've never seen Isabelle wear anything this soft and feminine.
I don’t have much time to admire her—much to my idiot brain’s chagrin—because something seems off. I’m already instinctually reaching for the door handle when I see Isabelle sway on her feet. I’m across the space in a few long strides. Just as I reach the stoop, she falls backwards into my arms.
“Woah there, sugar.”
Sugar? Where the fuck did that come from?
“Let’s get you sittin’ down.” I take her bags from her and keep one arm around her waist to steady her. She feels good in my arms, her soft body molding to my side. I know I’m holding her too tight, but I’m afraid if I let go, I’ll lose her.
My anxiety is ratcheted all the way up. Sam’s unexpected death poisoned me with paranoia. Anytime someone I care about is ill, I can’t cope. The thought of losing anyone else destroys me and I retreat even farther into my shell.
I help Isabelle up into the truck—a perfect gentleman I might add. I didn’t even give her round ass an extra boost. Thank fuck it’s warm in the truck because I’m worried that she’s so pale.
She looks different. But I can’t put my finger on what's different. She recoils from my inquisitive perusal.
“Are you not feeling well? We can skip the trip.” I don’t want to do that, but I also don’t want her to be ill.
“No, I feel fine. I just had a little bit of a moment back there but I’m fine.”
Her piercing blue eyes are unobstructed by the heavy black eye makeup she always wears.
They’re mesmerizing and haunting. It’s then that I notice her fair complexion is her natural skin, not camouflaged by that shit women put all over their faces.
Those raspberry lips look the same, not glossy, but just as tempting.
She's shrinking under my examination as I openly admire her natural beauty. Tamping down the urge to vomit, I tell her, “You look”—I grip the back of my neck, wishing I was better at this—“really nice this morning.”
Stunned, she runs her delicate hands down the skirt of her dress and fidgets in her seat. A blush paints her cheeks.
“Did you do something different? Like, cut your hair or somethin’?” Dumbass. I’ve completely forgotten how to speak to a pretty girl. I need to repeat the eighth grade.
Her teeth worry her bottom lip and she won’t look at me. “I wasn’t expecting you this morning, so I hadn’t gotten ready yet. I didn’t have time to put on my makeup.”
“You don’t need it,” I blurt out. “You always look good. I mean, you look good both ways. You know, with the face stuff, and without the face stuff.”
Smooth, Reid. Real smooth.
She smiles at me. Fucking smiles at me. Those mystical eyes are twinkling now. An arrow straight to the heart, I swear.
She buckles her seatbelt, and I feel reassured enough to get on the road. I navigate out of the trailer park and through town.
“Every single day my sister tells me I don’t need all the makeup, but I don’t feel comfortable with a bare face.”
I want to keep her talking so I ask, “Do you like it? The makeup and shit?”
She huffs a laugh, and her mood noticeably dims. “No. I haven’t changed my look in years.
The makeup takes an annoying amount of time, and it’s not cheap.
” She runs her hands across the soft blue fabric of her dress.
“This is my sister, Delilah’s. She has the most beautiful clothes, so feminine and understated. ” She looks upset and lost in thought.
“Then why do you do it?”
“Same reason you keep your beard grown out and your hair long, hiding behind a hat.”
Damn, she doesn’t hold back, does she? Calls it just like she sees it. Now it’s my turn to squirm in my seat.
“It’s the best way I’ve found to hide in plain sight. People expect me to be a certain way, and I decided a long time ago that it was easier to be what they expected than try to change their minds.”
“I guess I don’t completely understand what you’re gettin’ at,” I push her.
“It’s nothing I want to talk about, Reid.” She's polite but her tone is clipped and leaves no room for argument.
I frown at that. What the fuck is she talking about? She’s gorgeous, why does she want to hide what she looks like?
Me? I’m a fucking horror movie extra. People are probably thankful I hide my face. But I get it. I do use my hair and my hat to hide. I feel like a coward when I think of it that way.
But she’s a stunner. I knew she was gorgeous when she was in a rumpled, wet dress shirt, flaming mad at the banquet. The little outfits she’s been parading around in these past weeks have provided ample material for my…alone time. The soft, demure dress she’s wearing has the same effect on me.
She’d be beautiful in anything, most of all with nothing on—no. Nope, not going there. I can’t get a fucking boner right now. Christ.
As we pass Bean & Brew, I’m reminded and change the subject. “Got you one of those dirt drinks you like. As a bribe to convince you to go today.” That gets me a laugh.
“Dirt drink? Dirty chai, Reid.” She takes the to-go cup and takes a sip of the steaming liquid, her moan zapping the tip of my dick.
“It’s just chai tea with a shot of espresso. The coffee muddles the color, so they call it dirty.” She shrugs. “But thank you, this helps your case. I guess you didn’t need the bribe though since I already agreed to come.”
We sit in companionable silence, drinking our morning caffeine until we're a few miles out of town. Her presence is so all-consuming I almost miss our turn. Focus, idiot.
“Like I said, we're going to the Dreamhouse. It’s about a four-hour drive Southwest of town. Should get there around lunch. I’ll have time to do a quick inspection, and we can make a game plan.”
I'm sweating through my goddamn boxer briefs.
My ass is sweating.