5. Chloe
5
CHLOE
I don’t know why I opened up to Trace about my past. Usually, I keep it to myself. It’s not a comfortable thing to talk about, and I’m always conscious of how it could change people’s perceptions of me. But something about Trace feels so trustworthy. He said all the right things and seemed genuinely upset by what I told him. The way he reached out and held my hand sent butterflies fluttering through me, despite the tears, and my hand is still burning from his touch hours later.
The day is creeping onward, and Trace suggests we eat dinner outside by the fire pit.
“It’s one of the last warm days of the year,” he says, stoking the flames. “Fall starts early when you live this high up in the mountains.”
“I’d love to see what fall is like out here. We don’t get much of a fall in the desert.”
Trace nods, catching my eye over the fire. “I think you’d like it. Lots of colors—the aspens turn gold, and the air gets crisp and fresh. You see a lot of elk roaming the forests, too.” He considers me with a smile. “It would make a great painting.”
I grin at him. “Sounds beautiful.”
The sun is starting to set, streaking the sky pink and purple overhead. Embers from the fire spark like fireflies, and everything is quiet except for the crackling of the flames and the leaves swaying in the breeze. It feels like I’m a million miles away from the city. When I first found out I was going to be staying in the middle of a forest in Colorado, I was expecting to hate it. But it’s incredible. Being out here in the wilderness is like a balm for my soul, and I lie back in the grass, breathing in the scent of pine and woodsmoke. Rocky is racing around somewhere behind my head, chasing a butterfly with so much enthusiasm that it makes me giggle.
“Ready for some hot dogs?” Trace asks, handing me a skewer.
“You bet.”
I sit up, scooching closer to the fire pit, and Trace circles it to join me. He hands me a skewered hot dog and I roast it over the flames until it starts to brown, then slide it into a bun and slather it with mustard. Trace bought us plenty of food from the grocery store: hot dogs, beef and pepper skewers, corn on the cob, potato salad, and more delicious cherry pie for dessert. It’s easy to forget that I’m here to escape a death threat when I’m sitting outside in the breezy evening air, roasting hot dogs beside a gorgeous lumberjack as we laugh together at Rocky’s antics. I want to freeze this moment and live in it for as long as possible.
“It’s so peaceful out here,” I say, taking a bite of smoky meat.
“That’s the way I like it.”
Trace is sitting so close that our thighs are almost touching, and I’m hyper-aware of the inch of space between our legs as I ask, “Does it ever get lonely?”
Trace is quiet for a moment. “I’m used to it,” he says evasively. “It’s the life I chose—the life of a lumberjack.”
“What made you become a lumberjack?” I ask, trying to hide my insatiable curiosity. There’s so much I don’t know about Trace, and as I look into his rugged, weather-beaten face, I’m full of so many questions that it feels like I might burst.
“I wasn’t always a lumberjack,” Trace says. “For a long time, I was in the Army. Served alongside your dad before he left to join the police force. That’s how we met—same squad. We became best friends, the two of us, and another guy…Nolan.” A shadow passes over Trace’s face, but before I can question it, he continues. “I served for twenty years. By then, I was ready for a quieter life. Something simple.”
“So you became a lumberjack instead?” I ask. “Just like that?”
Trace nods. “Six years ago, when I left the military, I bought a rundown old cabin in the woods and fixed it up. Got a dog.” He smiles at Rocky. “Luckily, lumber’s a big industry in Crave County. There’s plenty of demand. So I got all my permits, and I’ve been chopping wood and selling lumber ever since.”
“Do you like it?” I ask. “Being a lumberjack?”
“Sure. It’s a great distraction—” He cuts off with a frown, like he’s said too much, and busies himself with skewering another hotdog.
I shouldn’t push the subject, but I can’t help myself. “A distraction from what?”
He sighs, and the orange glow of the fire illuminates the furrow in his brow. There’s a haunted look in his eyes, and it makes my heart sink. It’s the look of a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“Something happened,” he breathes, his voice barely a murmur above the sizzling fire. “Something I try not to think about?”
I swallow hard. “You mean when you were in the military?”
“Not exactly.” Trace’s jaw is clenched. He’s holding his skewer so tightly that his fist is trembling, and I immediately regret pushing him to talk.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “You don’t need to talk about it, I shouldn’t have?—”
“Don’t apologize, Chloe.” Trace’s eyes soften as he looks at me. “You can ask me anything you want.” He sets down his skewer, abandoning his hotdog for Rocky to eat. “Remember how I mentioned Nolan? Well, like I said, the three of us were best friends: your dad, Nolan, and me. Even after Roman left the military, we all stayed in touch, and Nolan and I kept on serving together. He was like a brother to me.”
My stomach sinks. I have a feeling I know where this is going, but I don’t interrupt.
“He died five years ago,” Trace says finally, absent-mindedly throwing a tuft of grass into the flames.
“I’m so sorry.” My throat clogs with sympathy at the pain on his face. “Did he die in combat?”
Trace closes his eyes for a moment and shakes his head. “It’s a terrible thing to say, but in some ways, it would have been better if he had died in combat. Might have been easier to accept. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so damn guilty.” He lets out a deep breath. “Nolan killed himself. He was discharged from the army with PTSD. Left a year after I did. Three months later, he was dead.”
“Oh, Trace…” My hand goes to my mouth, my chest tightening.
He must hear the pain in my voice because he reaches out to grab my other hand, like I’m the one who needs comforting. “Yeah. It sucks. Keeps me up at night sometimes, thinking about what I should have done differently.” He swallows hard, blinking at the fire with pain-filled eyes.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him firmly. “Believe me, I know all about guilt. For the longest time, I blamed myself for my parents’ addiction. But the truth is, we can’t control what happens to other people, even if we wish we could.” In my mind’s eye, I see the blurry photo from my mom’s obituary, swallowing down a wave of grief as I say, “We can’t control what they do, and we can’t always save them. But Nolan was lucky to have you as a friend. He was lucky to have somebody who cared so much about him, and I’m sure he knew how much he meant to you.”
Trace is quiet for several moments, his eyes still fixed on the fire. Then he moves. He lets go of my hand and reaches his arm around my shoulders instead, pulling me against him.
“Thanks, Chloe,” he says, rubbing my arm gently. “I mean it. It’s been a long time since I talked about Nolan.”
“I wonder why my dad never mentioned him to me.”
Trace makes a noise in his throat, something between a laugh and a grunt. “He didn’t mention it because he’s just like me. Your dad’s a brave man, but he’s not big on sharing his problems.”
I hum in agreement, but thinking about my dad brings another torrent of complicated feelings. Trace is right—my dad is brave. The bravest man I know. That’s why he’s in Phoenix, bringing down Will Mercer, instead of hiding away in Colorado like me. Yet, despite the guilt, it feels so good to have Trace’s strong arm wrapped around me. His body is hard and powerful, and it’s all too easy to melt against him, breathing in his masculine, pine-fresh scent. The atmosphere between us is raw with emotion, the air thick from tension and woodsmoke.
I lift my head from Trace’s shoulder, and my heart jolts when I see he’s looking straight at me, his chocolate-brown eyes glowing golden in the firelight. He’s so handsome. My gaze flickers to his beard…his lips. My skin is burning, but it has nothing to do with the blaze in front of us. Blood is rushing to my head, my veins bubbling with anticipation. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol, but I feel drunk and heady as Trace looks at me hungrily, making my breath come out in shallow gasps.
All at once, he’s leaning in until I can see the gold flecks in his irises, the silver hairs in his beard, the deep grooves on his forehead. His beard brushes my chin, his hand resting against the back of my head as he closes the space between us. My heart somersaults as our lips meet. It’s like an electric shock, making my nerves buzz with energy as he pulls me close, groaning deeply. He tastes wild and musky, and heat shoots between my thighs, making me shudder as Trace deepens our kiss. His desperate tongue slips between my lips, dominating my mouth, overwhelming me. Teeth clash, hands grab wildly, and I can see dancing flames behind my closed eyes, feel desire burning in my core…
Bzzz. Bzzz.
The chirp of my cell phone brings me back to reality and I pull away from Trace with a gasp. My head is spinning. It takes me a moment to come back to myself, and my heart sinks as I reach down to touch my vibrating phone. I’m sure it’s my dad texting me, and guilt hits me like a punch to the gut, leaving me cold. I can’t bring myself to look at Trace.
“Chloe—” he says, as I push myself off the ground, looking anywhere but him.
“I should go to bed.” My voice comes out in a whisper. “Thanks for dinner. Goodnight, Trace.”
Before I can change my mind, I turn my back on him and scurry into the cabin, heading straight for the guestroom. Once I’m shut inside, I check my phone, wincing as I read my dad’s words.
Investigation is going well. Nearly have enough evidence to nail Mercer. You’ll be home in no time. Hope you and Trace are getting along okay. See you soon. Love you, Coco.
Shame sits heavily in my throat as I tap out a quick reply.
That’s great news, Dad. Love you too. Can’t wait to see you.
It’s not a lie. I miss my dad, and I hope I get to see him soon. But knowing that I’ll be able to go back to Phoenix doesn’t make me as happy as it should. The thought of leaving Trace behind fills me with far more dread than Will Mercer or his death threats, and I bury my face in my pillow, letting out a muffled groan. I can still taste Trace on my tongue. My whole body is wracked with frustration, and I pull the covers up over my head, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. It’s what I used to do when I was a kid. When things got too much, I’d hide away and block out the world, pretending it didn’t exist. But this time, it doesn’t work. Even when I eventually drift off into a restless sleep, my dreams are full of Trace’s handsome face.