5. Aspen
Aspen
I hadn’t given a thought to what Landry’s cabin might be like on the drive up because my mind was a whirling tornado of thoughts and he was only inches from me across the bench seat. But now, standing just inside the door, I realize his place is exactly what I might have pictured. It’s rustic, with exposed wooden beams and a massive stone fireplace that dominates one wall. The cabin’s not the messy bachelor pad of a gruff, hot-as-hell mountain man. There’s an unexpected tidiness to the space that tells me how much he values order, which makes me wonder again why he insisted I come here with him.
I shiver as Landry closes the door behind us, shutting out the howling wind. The temperature has plummeted since I arrived to Wildwood and even more so, in the short time it took to unload the suitcase he grabbed from Simon’s apartment before practically throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me out the door.
“I’ll get a fire going,” Landry says, extracting an envelope from his jacket pocket. He sets it on the table by the door before stomping the snow off his boots on the doormat then heading toward the hearth. I follow close behind, my teeth chattering despite my best efforts to control them. He had the heat cranked up in the truck, but it wasn’t strong enough to combat the bone-deep chill that’s settled in my bones since arriving in town this afternoon. But the weather’s not the only thing to blame. Apparently, my mother is, too.
A dark blur suddenly leaps down from somewhere above, landing with a soft thud just inches from my feet. I shriek, jumping forward and barreling into Landry’s solid frame.
“Jesus Christ!” My heart pounds wildly as I stare down at a scrawny black cat regarding me with obvious disdain. One bright amber eye watches me. Where the other should be is only a sealed seam, permanently closed.
Landry’s gigantic hands grip my hips, holding them steady. We’re close enough he could bend down and kiss me, but after what happened in the car, after the rejection, I won’t make that mistake again.
“You could have told me you have a cat,” I snap, pushing my hair away from my face.
Landry lets me go abruptly. He spins and snatches up a thick log of wood from the stack next to the fireplace. “I don’t.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“He’s not mine,” Landry says as if that’s all there is to it.
“But he lives here?” I don’t know why I’m bothering to ask. It’s obvious by the way the cat saunters around as if he owns the place.
“He showed up in October and refused to leave.” Landry’s lips press together, but he shoots a fond glance at the scrawny guy, and adds, “Stubborn as hell.”
“What’s his name?” I ask as the cat circles my legs once before moseying toward Landry as if he’s determined I’m not a threat.
“No name,” Landry says, arranging the kindling. “Like I said, he’s not mine.”
“You have to call him something.” I bend over to run a hand down the smooth midnight-black fur as the cat rubs his face against Landry’s hip. “Everything needs a name.”
Landry doesn’t answer. I glance up to find his eyes on my ass. Maybe, he’s not as unaffected by me as I thought. When he realizes I’ve noticed what he’s staring at, he fumbles to strike a match, needing three attempts to light the frayed edges of the lowest log.
“What about Captain Jack?” I suggest. “Or, maybe, Blinky.”
Rather than praise my creative suggestions, Landry rises smoothly to his feet, towering over me once again. “You hungry?”
My stomach growls in response before I can answer. I’ve had nothing since that coffee at the Sugar Plum Cafe, hours ago now.
“I am,” I admit, then add with a wry smile, “but what I really need is a stiff drink, if I’m being honest.”
Landry’s eyes narrow, but he dips his chin. “Honesty is the best policy.” Then, as if he regrets the comment, he adds, “I’ve got a bottle of homemade apple brandy in the kitchen.”
“You make apple brandy?” I’m trying and failing to picture this mountain of a man carefully distilling spirits.
He shakes his head. “Rhys, my neighbor to the west, gave it to me after I helped rebuild part of his roof last fall.”
Oh. “I’ll take a glass, if you don’t mind.”
With a curt nod, he heads off through a doorway toward what must be the kitchen. I might imagine it, but I think he mutters something like I could use one myself .
Taking advantage of his absence, I explore the room, drawn to a collection of framed photographs on a side table. Most feature landscapes, mountains bathed in a golden sunset, a forest of trees blanketed in snow. But one catches my eye, two men standing beside a partially restored classic car, grins splitting their faces.
My breath catches. One is unmistakably a younger Landry, unscarred and in uniform. The other must be my father. The resemblance to the face I see in the mirror every day is undeniable. I’m still staring when Landry returns with two tumblers of amber liquid, one filled much more so than the other. I reach for the half-full one he extends toward me, my hand trembling. He stares at the shaking appendage while the fire crackles and pops.
“That was right before my second tour,” he says quietly, glancing at the framed picture and then taking a long drink.
If I’ve got the math right, I was likely a toddler at the time. But I don’t want to talk about that now. I notice a shadow box hanging on the wall nearby, containing a Purple Heart. “Is that yours?”
His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” I say quickly, sensing his discomfort.
“I don’t,” he confirms then surprises me by continuing anyway. “IED took out our vehicle. I was the lucky one.” His voice is flat, emotionless. “Came back different. Your father, he wouldn’t let me disappear into myself, though. Refused to give up on me, even when I’d given up on myself.”
The image of my father as someone who stood by his friends contradicts everything I’ve believed my entire life. I take a large sip of brandy, the tart apple notes warming my throat before giving way to a cinnamon heat that spreads through my chest.
“That doesn’t sound like the man my mother described,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.
“You said that earlier, too. But which version seems more likely, Aspen?” Landry asks, his dark eyes intense in the growing firelight. “A man who abandoned his daughter without a backward glance? Or the one who refused to let his best friend become another veteran suicide statistic?”
His bluntness makes me flinch.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” I admit. The cat chooses this moment to brush against my leg and let out a loud meow. “Is he hungry?”
“I fed him this morning.”
I reach down to pet the little guy. “He looks hungry.”
Landry rolls his eyes but heads back to the kitchen. The cat follows, trotting ahead of him and letting out an eager sort of yippy meow, as if it knows what’s about to happen and is thrilled. I trail behind, too.
“Hungry little bastard,” Landry mutters, but there’s unmistakable affection in his voice.
As he feeds the cat, I take another sip of brandy and drink in the breadth of Landry’s shoulders beneath his flannel shirt, the way his jeans hug his thighs. There’s no denying my intense attraction to him, and not just because he’s the most masculine man I’ve ever encountered, though that doesn’t hurt. No, it’s the rugged strength in his forearms as he moves, the confident way he occupies space, the thick, but close-trimmed beard that makes me wonder how it would feel scraping against my skin.
But a man like him, living alone on a mountain with a history that’s…complicated, would never be interested in a girl like me, at least not long term. But I’m okay with that. Because if the way his eyes linger on me is any indication, the electric current sparking between us isn’t one sided. Not by a country mile.
But there’s something still bothering me about our departure from Simon’s place. “What’s in the envelope?” I ask when the cat is licking loudly at its dinner.
His expression turns wary. “Something you should see.”
My heart pounds as he retrieves the envelope, setting it on the coffee table as I settle on the couch. The handwriting on the front is a familiar script I’ve seen thousands of times before. My mother’s.
I pick it up and hold it for a moment, swallowing the wave of grief that washes over me. Then, with a deep breath, I lift the broken seal and extract the single folded page inside, my heartbeat thundering in my ears as a picture of me from last spring falls onto my lap. As I scan the page, the knot in my stomach from earlier reappears and my vision blurs. I glance up to find Landry’s kind eyes on me. “Have you read this?”
He nods. “Simon showed it to me before he left.”
My throat’s nearly closed, but I ask, “So he wanted to meet me?”
Landry’s lips press together as he slowly reaches toward the envelope, pointing a finger at the postmarked date. Two days before he died in a multivehicle collision on I-91. Or so I was told.
“He was on his way to the city.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears, constricted and small. I don’t need confirmation of the truth. I can feel it deep in my bones, but Landry murmurs just that.
I set down the letter, unable to process everything I’m feeling. Anger at my mother, grief for the relationship I never had, confusion about everything. I drain the last of my drink, my thoughts swirling. But they land on a question I should have asked already.
“Why don’t you just buy the garage?” I challenge, setting aside my empty glass. “If you love working there so much and feel the need to keep it running, why not purchase it yourself?”
Landry looks surprised by the question.
“I…I don’t work there,” he says, correcting me with a shake of his head. “Never have. I helped out Simon because it was something to do and I got to hang out with my friend.”
“But you care about what happens to it.”
“Of course, I do.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Everyone in town does. That garage is the only full-service shop for thirty miles. Besides, the developer your broker represents wants to tear it down and put up a chain store that’ll gut the local businesses.”
My head snaps up. “How do you know who my broker represents?”
“Small town,” he shrugs. “And Derek has been trying to get commercial property on Main Street for years. Simon always refused to sell, but when ownership passed to you…” He trails off, holding my gaze.
I fall silent, considering this new information. Derek is the broker from Burlington who reached out only days after I received word of the inheritance. I didn’t ask who he represented, and he didn’t offer any details. It didn’t matter at the time, but now? The thought sits uncomfortably in my chest.
“I don’t want to own the garage,” Landry continues after a moment. “But if push comes to shove, I’d buy it. To preserve what Simon built.”
The cat jumps onto the couch between us, settling in the small space as if claiming it. The absurdity of the situation—sitting in a remote cabin during a blizzard, forced to face lies that shaped my entire life, with a grumpy one-eyed cat wedging itself between me and my father’s best friend, a man I find increasingly confounding and irresistibly attractive—suddenly hits me, and I laugh softly.
“What?” Landry asks, the firelight casting shadows across his scarred face.
“He really needs a name.” I reach out to stroke the cat’s fur. “You can’t just call him ‘cat’ forever.”
“Watch me,” Landry says, but there’s warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
I shift to get more comfortable, accidentally brushing my knee against his. The contact sends a jolt of awareness through me, hot electricity racing up my thigh and pooling low in my belly. When I look up, Landry’s eyes have darkened, their steel blue now stormy with unmistakable desire. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there with such intensity my lips tingle in response.
The room suddenly feels too warm, and I’m relaxed despite the way the air between us is charged. Maybe, it’s the brandy, but I’m acutely aware of every place our bodies almost touch—my knee against his thigh, our shoulders inches apart, the way his hand rests dangerously close to mine on the couch cushion. His fingers twitch slightly, as if fighting the urge to reach for me.
“Landry,” I murmur, his name rolling off my lips. I lean forward, drawn to him like a magnet, as if he’s the stability I seek, what I need. To my surprise, he moves toward me, too, one large hand coming up to cup my face again. His thumb traces my cheekbone with unexpected tenderness, the calloused pad rough against my skin, just like in the truck.
But now, there’s no gust of wind to stop us.
“We shouldn’t,” Landry whispers, even as he tilts my chin upward.
“Why not?” I counter, arching closer as I ignore the hundred reasons I could name. I’d rather touch this man my body craves.
A low growl emerges from his chest as he seems to debate his next move. But I’m not that torn. We’re two consenting adults. His breath is warm and minty against my lips. His eyes, half-lidded and intense, hold mine for one heartbeat, then two. The tension coils tighter between us like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point. Another inch and I’ll discover if his mouth is as firm as it looks, if his beard is as soft as I’ve imagined. My fingers curl into the front of his flannel shirt, pulling him closer because I want him. More than I’ve ever wanted a man before him.
“Please,” I add, somehow sensing he won’t deny me.