7 ALICE
I’m warm and comfy, enjoying the best sleep ever when it sounds like a growling bear is ripping its way through the side of the cabin.
It’s so loud and comes out of nowhere. It scares the shit out of me, and on impulse, I jump awake, trying to get away from the sound, and end up falling onto the floor.
My eyes are blurry and fuzzy with sleep, and I quickly wipe them as I look around me for the threat.
My ass is killing me from throwing myself onto the floor, and pain radiates from my elbow to my fingertips from knocking my elbow off the table, but I see no danger.
That’s when I realize the sound isn’t a bear.
It’s the sound of a stupid soon-to-be ex-husband.
Pushing myself up off the floor, I fly across the room to the door. I throw it open and stick my head out the screen door since I’m only in my tank top and thong. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I yell, but he only revs the chainsaw more.
“Stop being a fucking asshole!”
He smiles and points at his ear, telling me he can’t hear me, but he doesn’t stop the revving sound.
“Grr, I hate you,” I growl, slamming the door closed.
My chest is rising and falling quickly as I stand in the middle of the floor, trying to get a handle on my body.
I force my breathing to slow, and I grab my jeans and head for the bathroom to shower.
Unfortunately, the bathroom is located in the bedroom, which means I have to walk through the bedroom we used to share in order to use it.
I walk in and keep my head down, not wanting to see the room or relive those memories.
In the bathroom, I pull the door closed, and I lock it.
Then I reach into the shower and turn the water on to warm.
I quickly undress and climb into the shower, practically dumbfounded when I see all of my old products.
All of my shampoo, conditioner, body wash, it’s all still here.
I shake my head to myself as I turn my back and dip my head back to wet my hair.
I’m so confused by all of this. Why did he keep all of my stuff?
Why didn’t he get rid of it? Why hasn’t he moved on?
I’ve been gone for ten years, and all this time, I thought he would have moved on by now.
I thought, if nothing else, he would have a steady girlfriend, maybe even someone who lived with him.
But being back here now, it’s easy to see that he hasn’t moved on.
I know the man isn’t big on change, but damn, this is a whole new level of stubbornness.
Seeing all of my things here would lead me to believe that maybe he hasn’t given up on us, that maybe he still has feelings for me, but the way he’s been acting toward me leads me to believe that I’m wrong.
He acts like he can’t stand me, like he’s trying to do anything and everything to get under my skin and make me pay for leaving him.
How can it be both ways at the same time?
Tired of thinking in circles, I force all thoughts from my mind as I finish my shower.
When I get out, I towel dry my hair and wrap my towel around myself.
I gather my clothes and walk out of the bathroom and into the living room, where I put my clothes with my purse.
Then I head into the kitchen to make some coffee.
Just as I’m reaching for the coffee filters, the front door opens and slams shut.
He peeks around the corner, finding me standing in his kitchen wearing only a towel. His eyes nearly bug out of his skull.
“Why are you naked in my kitchen?”
“My things are in the car. Would you mind going out and getting it for me?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at him and offering a sweet smile.
He snorts. “You got two legs that work just fine.”
I shrug. “I do, but I also only have heels. If I walk out there in that snow in those shoes, my toes will freeze off.”
“Don’t be dramatic. Frostbite takes longer than that,” he tells me, shrugging out of his coat.
“Well, I’m not going to risk it, and I’m not wearing dirty clothes. So if you don’t get my bag, I’ll just wear this towel until I can leave. How long do you think the snow will stick around? A week? Longer?”
He grinds his teeth together and pushes back out the door. I smile to myself as I grab the fob and pop the trunk for him. I watch out the window as he pushes the trunk up, pulls the bag out, and slams it shut. He’s back in the house within seconds.
He drops the bag onto the kitchen floor. “There.”
“Thank you,” I tell him in my overly sweet voice. “Coffee?”
I stuff the filter into the pot and then fill the carafe with water, accidentally spilling it as I try to pour it into the back of the machine.
“Give me this,” he says, walking over and taking it out of my hands. “You’ve lived in the city so long you can’t even make coffee right anymore.”
My little trick worked. It’s always worked. Whenever I didn’t want to do something, I’d start it and pretend I was struggling. He couldn’t stand to sit and watch me struggle, and every time, he ended up taking whatever it was from me and doing it himself.
I shrug. “I don’t have to make my own coffee back home. There’s a coffee stand or store on every corner.”
He scoffs. “That shit isn’t coffee. Cold coffee? No way. Venti cups of pure sugar? All you’re doing is making the rich richer by drinking that shit.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Wow, Cole. Tell me what you really think.”
A long breath leaves his lips. “You don’t want to know.” He grabs two coffee cups out of the cabinet and sets them on the counter. When the coffee finishes, he pours two cups and pushes one over. I pick it up and take a sip.
My nose wrinkles. “This is not a venti white chocolate mocha.”
He rolls his eyes but takes a sip of his coffee. When he puts his cup down, I see his eyes roam over me. “I brought your clothes in. Now go put them on.”
I set my coffee down. “Fine, grouchy. It’s not like it’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” I tell him, turning and grabbing the bag he dropped on the floor.
Hooking it over my shoulder, I head back to the bedroom.
I close the door behind me and put the bag on the bed.
I unzip it and dig through until I’ve found a pair of leggings.
I put on a clean bra and a tank top, then pull on some long-knit socks.
When I walk back into the kitchen for my coffee, he’s sitting at the table, sipping his coffee and watching the news on the living room TV that can be seen from the kitchen table.
I pick up my cup and sit across from him just like we did for dinner last night.
I take a sip and try not to make a face at the bitter-tasting mixture.
I turn my attention to the TV screen, but this small-town news doesn’t do it for me.
I keep finding myself glancing in his direction.
He’s sitting with his forearms on the table and a cup of coffee between his hands.
His nails are worn short with a little dirt and grit beneath them.
His palms that I can’t see are covered in rough calluses, and thinking about how they feel scraping against the soft skin of my back causes chills to take over my body.
His forearms are strong and toned, and they lead up to his biceps that are bulging even though he’s relaxed and at ease.
And even though it’s wintertime, his skin is still sun-kissed from spending so much time outside.
His dark hair is pulled back into a bun, and his crystal-blue eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes are locked on the screen.
His nose is perfectly straight, his sharp jawline is covered by his dark beard, and it surrounds his thick lips.
Staring at those lips makes my blood boil because I know how good they are at what they do.
He takes a long breath and lets it out slowly, causing his chest to rise and fall, and my eyes descend to his light gray T-shirt stretching across his broad chest.
I remember how strong it is too. I remember the way my hand would move over it, rising up over toned muscles and dipping down in the low valleys.
I remember how warm and strong it felt pressed against my chest.
Even though Cole and I have different outlooks on life, I can’t deny how good-looking he is.
I can’t lie and say that I’m not still in love with him.
He was always kind, generous, and passionate when it came to me.
I knew he didn’t want to lose me, but I didn’t want to lose myself either, and I had to pick. Him or me?
Cole and I have a connection that few ever will.
When we touched in the past, I could feel it deep in my soul, deep in my heart.
He could enter a room, and I could feel his presence without even having to see him with my own two eyes.
We were young, but we were in love, and we were passionate.
There were very few times when we kept our hands to ourselves, and we often ended up doing it anywhere and everywhere—the back seat, middle of the woods, on the ATV, the church bathroom right after we got married. We were insatiable for one another.
I get lost in my daydream, and I let out a long sigh.
“What?” he asks, causing me to jump.
“What? Nothing. What?” I shake my head and then lift my cup back to my lips.
“What’s with that sound?”
“What sound?” I act like I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“That sound you made?”
I shrug and take another drink.
He shakes his head, annoyed that I won’t answer his question.
When he gives up and looks back at the TV, I smile to myself, happy that I managed to get out of not admitting what I was thinking about.