4. Landry
Landry
T he wipers struggle to disperse the thickening snow as my truck crawls along the winding Forest Service road. Beside me, Aspen sits frozen stiff. The girl’s barely moved an inch since I pulled out of the garage lot while I, on the other hand, have been struggling to sit still. The cab of this four-by-four has never felt as small as it does right now. And I’m acutely aware of every breath she takes in the thick silence.
I hadn’t planned on insisting she come with me. Hell, bringing this tempting girl to my cabin is the last thing on earth I want to do. But when I climbed those metal stairs with her suitcase in hand, expecting to drop it outside the door and be done with it, something stopped me. Her. Standing stock still in the open doorway of Simon’s apartment, shoulders tight, looking lost. The sight cut through my defenses like a hot knife through butter.
“You okay?” I’d asked, and when she turned, the raw vulnerability in those wide green eyes, the same damn shade as her father’s, made the decision for me.
I shift gears as we climb in elevation.
“Storm’s coming in faster than they predicted,” I say, for no other reason than to break the suffocating silence.
Aspen nods, her gaze fixed on the swirling snow beyond the windshield. “Thank you.” The words are barely a whisper. “For…not leaving me.”
“Simon would’ve—” I stop, noticing how she twitches at the mention of his name.
“Would’ve what?” she presses, turning those piercing eyes on me.
I return my focus to the road.
“He would’ve done the same for my daughter. If I had one.” I clear my throat. The truck cab falls silent again, save for the rhythmic swish of wipers and the rumble of chains on packed snow.
Minutes later, out of nowhere, comes, “Do you? Have children?”
The question catches me off guard. “No.” My grip tightens on the wheel. At least, none that I know of. “Never married. Military life and what happened made that…complicated.”
“The scars,” she breathes, and I feel her eyes tracing the thick cords of twisted tissue running down my neck.
I nod once, sharply. “Two tours. The second one ended early.”
I don’t elaborate. Don’t tell her about the IED that sent our vehicle flying, the fire that followed, the months of surgeries and rehabilitation. The nightmares that still wake me some nights.
“I’m sorry.” Fortunately, there’s not a hint of pity in her tone.
I shrug. “A medical discharge and I came back here.” I pause, debating whether to say more, then add, “It took a long time, but Simon helped me put the pieces back together.”
She shifts in her seat, hitching up a knee. The movement sends a waft of her scent in my direction. My mouth goes dry.
“What was he like? My…father.”
It's the first time she's referred to Simon that way. I choose my words carefully, conscious of the emotional minefield I’m navigating. “Your father was…” I search for a way to describe the man that will do him justice. “Solid. The kind of man who never gave up on anything or anyone he cared about.”
I glance over to find Aspen picking absently at a loose thread in the seat seam. I watch as her expression transforms from troubled to confused and back. She opens her mouth as if to speak then closes it again, swallowing hard. I wait.
“That doesn’t sound like the man my mother described,” she says finally, the steel back in her tone for a second before it softens. “Not that she spoke of him much. Just said he wasn’t ready to be a father.” A muscle works in her jaw as she continues to fiddle with the thread. “If what you’re saying is true…” She hesitates. “Was she lying?”
I didn’t know Jodie, the woman Simon cursed to hell and back when he got the letter three months ago, but I want to confirm her hunch. To drag out the envelope I grabbed from Simon’s desk moments ago and tucked into my jacket pocket, to thrust it toward her, but the vulnerability in her voice stops me. Now’s not the time. Not when she’s grappling with the crumbling of a foundation she believed was true about her life. About her parents. She shakes her head, as if clearing unwanted thoughts.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter now,” she insists, as if the matter is resolved, though it’s clearly far from finished.
I glance at Aspen’s left hand. She’s wearing two rings, but neither are diamonds, although she doesn’t strike me as a diamond kind of girl. And neither is on her ring finger. “Anyone you need to call? You know, to let them know you’re okay?”
She snorts softly. “No.” Her eyes meet mine briefly before darting away. “There’s no one back home I need to call.”
The truck lurches suddenly as we hit a patch of black ice. Within a millisecond, I correct the wheel before we spin out of control. At the same time, Aspen’s hand shoots out, grabbing my thigh as if it’s her only hope of survival. I flinch at the unexpected touch, only inches from my cock. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, and I wish it was from the loss of vehicle control and not the searing heat of her palm through my jeans. But in my world, wishes are a waste of time. They never come true. Especially now, when I’d kill for her hand to inch higher, to trail those fingers over my rock-hard length, now impossible to go unnoticed through my jeans. But she withdraws quickly, a flush crawling up her neck.
“Sor-sorry,” she stammers, her breath coming fast as her hand clutches the grab door handle.
“It’s fine,” I manage, my voice husky as I lie through my teeth. I shift in my seat. Nothing about the way my body responds to this woman is fine . She’s Simon’s daughter and young enough to be mine, if I’d had one as young as he did. Plus, she’s planning to sell the garage out from under the town. These facts circle in my mind like a warning, yet they do nothing to extinguish the heat that spreads through me, the desire to pull this woman into my lap and prove how fine her touch is.
I crack my window, sucking in a biting lungful of frigid air, determined to clear my head as the road narrows. Thank god, we’re nearly there. Although, on second thought, maybe, I shouldn’t be so relieved considering the size of my place.
“Will we be able to get back to town? After the storm?” There’s a hint of nervousness in her voice.
“Depends how bad it hits. Might be a day or two.”
Her eyes widen. “A day or two? But I have a meeting with the broker tomorrow.”
“Nobody’s going anywhere in this.” I nod toward the thickening white curtain outside. “Not even your big city broker.”
A flash of irritation crosses her face. “He’s from Burlington, for heaven’s sake. Which, I regret to inform you, is nowhere close to a big city. And I need to sell the garage, Landry. Nothing you’ve told me changes that.”
My teeth grind, but I keep silent. Aspen’s on a roll and keeps going, whether from nerves or what, I’m unsure. “Plus, I have a life in New York. I mean, sure, I’m thinking of moving, but it certainly wouldn’t be here to run a garage. I have plans.”
I grunt, focusing on navigating the last curve, a particularly sharp one, just before the pull-off to my place. “That so?”
“Yes,” she insists, twirling the ring on her thumb. “I make jewelry, mostly silver.”
“Jewelry?” I can’t help the surprised lift in my voice.
Her eyes narrow defensively. “What, you think a city girl can’t work with her hands?”
The corner of my mouth twitches against my will. “Just trying to picture those manicured nails wielding a blowtorch.”
For a moment, I think I’ve offended her, though the image of her doing just that is, without a doubt, the sexiest thing I’ve ever conjured up.
A reluctant smile tugs at her lips. “Shows what you know, mountain man. I keep my nails short precisely because of the torch work.” She wiggles her fingers at me, and sure enough, her nails are practical, if still polished bright red.
I push aside the image of them wrapping around my cock, tucking it away for later when I’ll have to take care of things alone, and blow out a long breath as we round the final bend. But the second we turn, the truck’s rear tires slide. The engine whines as they lose traction.
“Shit,” I mutter, easing off the gas.
My cabin’s only about fifty yards ahead. A sturdy structure of weathered logs nestled among towering pines. It’s barely visible at the moment, standing silent and dark against the whipping sleet, but we might need to hike the rest of the way.
“Can I help?” Aspen asks, surprising me.
“I’m going to try backing down and coming at it from a different angle.” I shift into Reverse and then Drive and let up on the clutch. The truck lurches forward a few feet, then slides sideways.
“Whoa!” Aspen grips the dashboard, eyes wide.
“Don’t worry. We won’t end up in a ditch.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “Forgive me if I don’t find that reassuring coming from a man who willingly lives at the top of a mountain in snowstorm country.”
“Keep it in neutral if I need to get out and push,” I say, trying again and praying the tires find something to cling to. On the third attempt, they finally catch on a patch of gravel, and we lurch up the last stretch of driveway. The tension in my shoulders eases as we pull within a few feet of the porch steps. I’ve been meaning to reinforce that area, and now, it’s at the top of my priority list.
Aspen leans forward, her expression softening as she takes in the sight of my cabin.
“Wow,” she breathes, genuine appreciation in her voice. “When I tell my friends I stayed at an honest-to-goodness log cabin, I’m sure this is exactly what they’ll picture.”
Something in my chest tightens at the casual mention of her “friends” and the implicit understanding that this—us, Wildwood, the garage—is all just a temporary detour before she returns to her real life.
I kill the engine.
“It’s not much,” I say gruffly, though I’m damn proud of this place I built with my own two hands.
“It’s beautiful,” she counters, and when our eyes meet, something electric passes between us. For a moment, her gaze drops to my mouth, and the air in the truck seems to evaporate. The world narrows to just us, our breath fogging the windows. I lean toward her, drawn by an invisible force I can’t resist. Her lips part slightly, and I catch the faint scent of coffee on her breath. My heart hammers against my ribs as her eyes flutter closed. I’m close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
My hand moves of its own accord, lifting to rest gently against her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft beneath my calloused palm. She leans into my touch, a small sigh escaping her lips as she tilts her face up toward mine. Our lips are only a whisper apart when a sudden gust of wind rocks the truck, the violent shake breaking the spell between us. I pull back, reality crashing down like an icicle smashing onto the deck.
And then she’s scrambling to unbuckle her seatbelt with fumbling fingers. Fuck. I must have imagined the flash of desire in her eyes, the way she seemed to beg for my kiss. A beautiful curvy young thing like her wouldn’t be attracted to a scarred, broken man like me. Especially not when I’m her father’s best friend.
“Let’s get inside before we freeze,” I say roughly, swallowing my disappointment. “Storm’s only going to get worse.”