Chapter 3 #2
I’ve heard from my parents how much has changed since I left. They’ve evolved businesses, the land, built new homes, and other properties. Grace Delaney also came back to town and, apparently, is with Beckett Hunter now. Talk about age gap. I say, good for them. You can’t help who you love.
I look out the window at the winding tree paths and mountain edges, wondering if I’ve ever been in love.
Did I love Brian? You’d think a year together meant I did, but no.
Sadly, I think I stayed that long because it felt nice to have someone.
Though as much as he tried, I never slept with him. That should’ve been a huge sign.
To be fair, I’ve never slept with anyone.
I never felt safe enough to be that intimate with someone.
I slept over a couple of times at Brian’s apartment, but felt uncomfortable every time.
I forced myself to try again, worried something was wrong with me.
Who doesn’t want to sleep with their boyfriend, seven months into their relationship?
I’m definitely a sexual being. I have no problem getting off on my own. Who knows. Maybe I’m like penguins or wolves. I only mate for life with one person. The idea makes me chuckle to myself.
“Care to share, Giggles?”
“Goodness, you and the nicknames,” I tease, smiling.
“Terms of endearment,” he corrects. “You should be honored. Not everyone is bestowed one.”
I scoff a laugh. “Why do I find that hard to believe. Ten bucks says you have one for every person in this town.”
“Hope you have that in cash. I don’t take card.”
I shake my head, leaning it back on the headrest when we pull up to a beautiful, one-story, black siding and trim A-frame cabin.
I gasp, leaning forward. “Holy shit, West. This is beautiful.”
The entire foundation rests on at least four layers of light gray stones. From this angle, I see a black wooden deck at the same elevation as the cabin, with a U-shaped outdoor couch, and floor-to-ceiling windows on every side. It’s stunning.
He parks, and before I can get out, he runs around the car to open my door and help me out.
“Still ever the gentlemen.” Even as a teenager, he was like this.
Seriously, who could blame my teenage heart from thumping?
Walking, it’s even more of a dream. The warm, low lights turn on, enveloping the entire space in soft, golden light. The furniture is all well-designed and inviting. Someone took great care putting this open-spaced room together.
“Who designed the interior?” I ask, my mind cataloging ways I could enhance some areas.
“Uh,” he rubs his neck. “I mean, mostly me. Internet helped.”
“You did this?” I pan my arm out at his living, dining, and kitchen area. “The wall art and accessories, too?”
There’s that boyish manner that West hid with humor, but I always caught it; the shy boy who wanted to be liked, wanted approval.
I understand that more than most. I was the later-in-life surprise baby, ten years my brother’s junior.
As the baby, I wasn’t typically spoiled.
I was loved, but at the same time, I felt out of step.
My mother desperately wanted me to love pink and frilly dresses. I wanted black Docks and Converse.
I experimented with designing a lot. My room was my canvas, to my parents’ dismay. Sometimes, I would give in just to see relief in their faces.
“Like I said,” West turns, observing his space, “the internet is a magical place for information.”
“You realize, this is what I do, right? For a living? I got my degree in Interior Design. Trust me. This is not an accident brought by Google. You have a natural eye, West.”
“Wait. You studied Design?” he asks.
“Geez. You never asked about me, huh?” I tease, but teenage Camille is a bit hurt by that, which is dumb, so I push away the sting.
“To be fair, would Styx know the difference between Interior Design and Painter?”
I scoff. “True.”
“And I did,” he says, walking over to the kitchen. “Ask about you. And to make my point, I believe Styx said you were studying Art. That’s it.”
Some of the sting from earlier dissipates. “Sounds like my brother. All he knows is motorcycles, guns, and women. Oh, and bourbon.”
“True,” he laughs, opening the fridge. “Did you eat before your road trip?”
My stomach answers for me, rumbling loud enough for West to hear.
“That answers that. Have a seat, Lane. I’ll whip you up West’s famous fried bologna.”
I slide into the ebony-stained wooden stool with plush, dark beige cushions. “Didn’t some celebrity make that a thing?”
“Pff,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand that holds a packet of bologna. “I perfect that shit. Just wait.”
I laugh, watching him take all the ingredients out and then prep a pan with butter.
Quietly, we comfortably sit in his kitchen, only the sizzle of ingredients heating up accompanying us.
I study his movements. His capable hands, so much bigger than my own, yet gracefully prepare a simple meal of sourdough bread, lightly toasted in the pan, a couple of freshly sliced cheeses, bacon in a separate pan, Dijon mustard, then he finishes them off with pickles.
“None of this contains or is made in factories with nuts,” he says quietly, putting the sandwiches together on the butcher block.
“You remembered?” I’m allergic to tree nuts. Made for a not-so-fun childhood, needing to be extra vigilant of what and where I ate.
“Of course. One doesn’t forget something that important, Nyx.”
He plates the sandwiches and slides mine across the counter. My eyes widen, looking at this massive protein punch.
“Well, damn,” I say, picking up one half he cut. “Bon apple-tit, as they say.” I hold up my half to cheers.
Chuckling deeply, he smiles and cheers his half to mine. “Bon apple-tit.”
Smiling, we both bite into our sandwiches, the crunch echoing.
“Oh, shit,” I say around a mouthful.
Creamy, gooey cheese, salty crunch from the bacon, and the fried edges of the bologna, then the crisp bite of the mustard and pickles. “Are you for real with this?” I exclaim after swallowing.
“I told you. Better than, I forget what’s-his-name’s version.”
“I’m gonna have to agree with you on that. And I’ve had what’s-his-name’s at a restaurant before.”
“No shit?”
I smile around another bite. “No shit. And this one’s better.”
“Fuck yeah,” he says softly before taking a big bite.
We finish in companionable silence, lightly moaning after different bites. When we finish, West hands me a water bottle, and I help clean up, even though he protests.
“Okay. I think I can venture into a wonderful food coma after that,” I pat my stomach, rubbing his soft sweatshirt. I still plan to kidnap it somehow.
“Same,” he grins. “Come on,” his head tips toward the backyard, which I can see clearly through the four large window panels. “Room’s this way.”
I follow him to the hallway by the terrace doors, where two bedrooms are adjacent to one another.
He points to the one straight ahead. “My room. The master.” Then, the second door, revealing a guest room slash office.
“Bathroom’s down the hall. Connects to a door to the master as well.
The light engages a fan, so I’ll know if someone’s in there. I won’t stumble in to pee or anything.”
I laugh. “Good to know.”
A queen-sized bed sits in the center of the room, draped in dark emerald sheets that almost look black.
Seriously, so cool. This is almost my style to a tee.
Even the accent wall where his desk is has been painted a deep peacock green.
The bed’s headboard is intricately designed with panels in dark brass with light gold etchings.
“Okay. Tomorrow, when my brain is functioning, we’re going to talk about your aesthetic in here because I’m losing my shit with all this.”
“What are you talking about?” he smiles. Not a grin, not a teasing smirk, but an honest-to-goodness smile.
“I think we’re style besties. I honestly would’ve picked this very mood palette and approved so many elements in here.”
He watches me intently. “You love this, don’t you? Design.”
Now, it’s my turn to smile. I sit on the edge of the bed.
“When I learned all that fiddling with changing my room a hundred times could actually be a job, it’s like everything clicked.
It wasn’t easy at first. They try to put you in this design box.
Mainstream bullshit. But I fought it. I loved when dark academia became popular.
Suddenly, my ideas weren’t so far-fetched or dark.
Personally, I love soft-goth aesthetics. ”
“So why work at a tattoo studio?” he asks, leaning against his desk.
“Out of college, the job market sucks. They want experience but you need experience out of college. It’s a catch-22.
I just needed money for living expenses.
Stumbled on the front desk job when I saw they were hiring.
Didn’t expect to stay so long but eventually, they saw my designs and offered me a side job. To redesign a corner of their studio.”
“No shit,” he grins.
I laugh, nodding. “Yeah. It was wild. And incredible. The studio was the perfect fit for what I could offer design-wise. They loved it so much, they budgeted for a bigger reno the following year. Then I went into freelance and got additional work since the guys there constantly pimped me out when clients complimented the space.”
“That’s amazing, Nyx. I love that for you,” he genuinely says, his eyes soft and admiring.
The nickname, already growing on me, I feel my body blush. It’s a reminder that West sees the woman I am today and not the eighteen-year-old of the past.
“I need to give you a nickname,” I say out of nowhere.
“Oh, really?” he tries not to smile.
“Do you have one already?”
“You know, Nyx. No one has ever given me one.”
I mock gasp. “That can’t be. The king of nicknames and no one’s knighted you with one?”
“Afraid so. Up for the challenge?”
“Oh. Absolutely.”
“Better make it a good one,” he challenges.
“Just you wait, West Hunter.”
Chuckling, he straightens up. “Alright then. I’m gonna leave you to rest.”
“Hey, wait,” I stop him, remembering. “What happened to the bar?”
His expression darkens. “Fire.”
“Oh God. Was anyone hurt?”
“Nah. Thankfully, no one. Had to close the bar down so we can clean up and renovate the east wall. Hoping to reopen for the Fall Festival.”
“Well, if you need any help, let me know,” I offer. It’s the least I can do.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He hesitates at the door, then turns and stands in front of me.
Cupping my cheek, West leans down and kisses the top of my head. My eyes close of their own accord, and I breathe him in deeply. That combination scent that triggers so many memories grounds me.
He whispers, “Goodnight, Little Pixie.”
The nickname awakens my body with the immediate memory of him standing between my legs, the air he exhaled filling my mouth as our bodies brushed against each other.
“Night, West,” I barely whisper.
I watch his tall, rugged body walk out of the room, turn slightly to close the door, and leave me with the image of his gray-green stare watching me till the final sliver disappears and a wall separates us.
I exhale, feeling an array of emotions tumble through me. I let my body fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.
This entire night feels like two separate lifetimes. Both, equally concerning. One, thrilling in its possibilities.
Coming back home to Eden Ridge wasn’t supposed to find me more trouble than I left back in Silver Lakes.