7. Aspen
Aspen
S unlight, much too bright for this early in the morning, filters through the curtains, casting glaring golden rays across unfamiliar sheets. I blink slowly, my brow furrowing at the sight of rough-hewn log walls and the heavy patchwork quilt I’m tucked under. Then it hits me. The pine and musk lingering on the pillow, the pleasant ache between my thighs, and the delicious memories of Landry’s huge hands, his sensual mouth, and his generous cock on me and in me last night in the best possible way.
I stretch languidly and yawn. My body is sated but also somehow, still aroused. The bed is empty beside me, though, the sheets cool. How long has Landry been up? I pull over his pillow and wrap my arms around it, snuggling as I remember how perfectly we fit together, how gently he’d held me afterward, his heartbeat strong and steady against my back until I’d drifted off to sleep.
Outside, the storm has subsided. Through the glass panes, it’s a pristine world of glistening white. No car horns interrupt the peaceful quiet. There are no chattering neighbors through paper-thin apartment walls to be frustrated with, only the occasional creak of timber and distant birdsong. A steady drip-drip-drip from the eaves means the sun is already melting yesterday’s snowfall.
How quickly will the roads clear? Surely not fast enough to go anywhere today. The thought of returning to town, to reality, sends an unexpected pang through me. I push aside the thought and slide from the warmth of the bed, shivering as my bare feet meet the wooden floor.
My clothes are scattered across the room, but instead of gathering them, I tug on Landry’s flannel shirt draped over a chair. His scent clings to the soft fabric, and I pull the collar to my nose and drag in a deep breath, filling my lungs. My shoulders drop as I blow it out, long and slow like the grief counselor at hospice taught me. The shirt hangs to mid-thigh, the sleeves extending well past my fingertips. I roll them up and button the front, leaving a few at the top undone.
The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I pad down the hallway, toward the beckoning smell of freshly brewed coffee. I pause at the doorway to the kitchen, drinking in the sight of Landry. He stands with his back to me, a solid wall of muscle beneath a thin white T-shirt. Worn, faded jeans hang low on his hips, and his feet are bare. He’s a sight to behold, especially now that I’ve experienced, up close and personal, the goods hidden underneath the clothes. Landry’s all man and as fit as guys half his age. And boy, does he know how to use his body to please a woman.
The one-eyed cat sits on a bench at the kitchen table, watching as Landry pours steaming coffee into two mismatched earthenware mugs.
“Morning,” I say softly, not wanting to startle him.
He turns, and a series of raw emotions appear in his eyes. Surprise, then desire, and finally, something that’s dangerously close to regret, the last one sending an unwelcome quiver through me. His eyes travel down the length of my body, lingering on my bare legs before snapping back up to my face. His hands tighten on the coffeepot handle, lips pressed together, as he returns it to the machine.
“Morning,” he replies, clearing his throat. “Coffee?”
“Please.” I move into the kitchen, intensely aware of his gaze following me. Light streams through the small window above the sink, bathing the small space in warm rays.
The cat jumps down from the bench with a soft thud, weaving between our legs. When I step around the little guy, I accidentally bump against Landry’s chest. Heat radiates from him like a furnace, and the clean, masculine scent is stronger than the smell of coffee. For a heartbeat, I hold his gaze, his steel-blue eyes locked on mine. His hand lifts, the rough pad of his thumb brushing my hair back behind my ears. I can barely breathe.
“Cream’s in the fridge,” he tells me, dipping his chin toward the ancient appliance.
It’s not what I thought he would say, but then again, I’m unsure what I expected this morning. After all, we barely know each other.
Ignoring the twinge of disappointment, I retrieve the cream, and when I turn, Landry hands me a steaming mug, our fingers brushing in the exchange. That simple touch sends an electric current racing up my arm. His breath catches, and I know he felt it, too. His eyes, darker now, meet mine for a heated moment before he steps back, creating a void that somehow feels like miles but in reality, is only inches.
“About last night,” he begins, his tone firm as his eyes drop to the floor.
“It was incredible,” I interrupt, refusing to let him diminish what happened. “And before you say anything about it being a mistake, I want you to know I don’t regret it.” I take a step toward him, an attempt to eliminate the space he tried to create. “Do you?”
His gaze lifts to meet mine, his bushy brows pulled together. “I can’t help it. You’re Simon’s daughter and—”
“A grown woman who knows what she wants,” I finish for him.
“You don’t want me,” he insists, shaking his head.
“You don't know that.” The confession hangs between us, honest and raw. “I might be young, Landry, but I’m not innocent.”
A muscle works in his jaw, and his gaze lifts to my mouth. For a moment, I think he’ll kiss me. He wants to, I can tell, and I sway toward him. His hand grips my arm, and he leans in, his breath warm against my lips until the dang cat meows loudly. Landry blinks and releases me, stepping back and running a hand through his hair as he lets out a long sigh.
Damn.
“You’ll be pleased to know I fed the cat this morning.”
Changing the subject, eh? I let him retreat, even as disappointment coils in my gut.
“Did you pick a name yet?” I ask, scratching under the cat’s chin.
“Still just ‘cat.’”
The little guy leans into my touch, purring loudly, then shoots Landry what seems like a judgmental look with his single amber eye. “What about Patch?”
“He’s not a pirate.”
“Cyclops?”
Landry snorts. “That’s worse than Blinky.”
The levity of the moment, the domestic normality of standing in a sun-drenched kitchen, teasing about cat names while sharing morning coffee after a passionate night together, sends an unexpected pang through me. It feels right in a way that startles me, especially given the upheaval of my life over the past few years and especially months. But, being here, with this complicated man who sets my body on fire, also makes me feel completely at ease. In the chaos of everything, it’s a feeling I want more of. Not that he wants me.
“The storm’s let up.” Landry nods toward the window. Beyond the glass, tree branches are heavy with snow, drifts piled high against the side of the cabin. Water droplets slide down the pane, leaving clear trails in their wake. “But we’re still snowed in. I can plow today, but the roads won’t be cleared until tomorrow at the earliest. Not up here.”
His words remind me of why I’m in Wildwood. The garage, the sale, the broker waiting to close the deal. Reality crashes back, and I twist the pendant at my neck. If I sell the garage, I’ll finally have the capital to launch my jewelry business fulltime. I could move and start fresh, create a real studio space instead of bending low over my cramped kitchen table until late into the night. It’s what I’ve been working toward for years.
But now, standing in this cozy cabin with Landry, in the town where my father lived and worked, I’m struck by an unexpected thought. Could I stay here? Would my father’s ghost haunt me after all I’ve learned and still have to learn about him? Yesterday, I said no way without a moment’s hesitation. Now? I’m not so sure.
“Landry,” I start then pause, taking a sip of coffee to steel myself for whatever will come from my question. “The letter from my mother to Simon. It mentioned an envelope he was to give to me…”
Something shifts in Landry’s expression. “I saw it. A sealed envelope with your name on it.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. “Simon took it with him when he left for the city.”
My heart thuds painfully. A message from my mother that I never received. “Where is it now?”
His eyes meet mine, filled with genuine regret. “It wasn’t recovered. I was the one who picked up what was salvaged of Simon’s personal effects after the accident. It wasn’t there.”
I thought I had closure with my mother. We had months together as the end drew close last fall. I thought we’d said everything that needed to be said. But hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say. I can’t begin to understand the fact she kept the truth from me, even knowing she would pass, leaving me alone in this world.
Maybe that's why she reached out to Simon after all these years. So I wouldn't be alone. Or maybe she didn't say anything because those months were hard enough as it was. I don’t know. And I guess I never will. But now, discovering her last words to me, a letter that held precious details, and maybe even an explanation, is lost forever brings hot, sharp tears to my eyes.
I blink rapidly, drawing a deep breath. “What did Simon say when he got my mother’s letter? How did he…react?”
Landry sets down his mug and leans against the counter, his expression solemn. “He was angry at first. Furious that Jodie had kept you from him all those years.” He pauses, watching my face carefully. “Then heartbroken. He couldn’t believe he had a grown daughter he’d never even met, who he’d been denied the chance to help raise.”
A tear trails slowly down my cheek and drips off my chin. I don’t wipe it away. “My mother always told me he didn’t want us. That he wasn’t ready to be a father.”
“Simon was young when he met your mother,” Landry confirms quietly. “Barely nineteen when he was down in the city for a concert.”
“Were you there?”
He shakes his head. “I was at basic training at Fort Jackson. Jodie was older—”
“Eight years older,” I supply, quickly doing the mental math.
Landry nods. “It was brief, just a weekend fling according to Simon. When they parted ways, he figured that was it. He never knew she was pregnant.” His voice softens. “In some ways, he understood why she did what she did. She was twenty-seven, established in her career. He was just a kid from Vermont with nothing to offer.”
He falls silent for a moment, staring into his half-empty mug. “You never know how life can change in an instant. How a single event can change everything.”
He absently traces the cord of scars running down his neck. My fingers itch to do the same.
The raw honesty in his voice, this glimpse into his pain, makes my heart ache. I step closer, placing my hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
His gaze meets mine, intense and unguarded. “Point is, I know about regrets. About wishing you could go back and change things. Simon felt that way about you, about not knowing you existed. He would have been there if he’d known.”
The revelation slides into place like the last piece of a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve. All this time, I believed my father had rejected us. But he’d never known I existed until it was too late. The unfairness of it all, of growing up without him, of losing him before I even got a chance to meet him, is too much to come to terms with right now.
“He was coming to meet me,” I whisper, more to myself than to Landry. “And he died trying.” A sob escapes before I can stop it, and suddenly, a fresh wave of tears erupts. For the father I never knew. For the relationship we’ll never have. For my childhood that was built on a lie.
Strong arms wrap around me, pulling me against a solid chest. I don’t resist, burying my face in Landry’s shirt as tears soak the fabric. He holds me, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other rubbing soothing circles on my back. He doesn’t offer empty words of comfort, just his steady presence, his strength.
“I spent my whole life angry at him,” I confess with a sniffle. “Even though my mother told me not to hold it against him. Now, I know why she said that. But I’ll never have the chance to tell him I’m sorry.”
“He knew you had nothing to do with what happened,” Landry says softly, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. “He knew you were innocent. Simon didn’t blame you, Aspen. Not for a second.”
His words are a balm, but they can’t entirely erase the grief, the sense of loss for something I never had. I pull back, wiping my eyes.
“Thank you,” I murmur, “for telling me the truth. For being there for him.”
And for being here for me now , I add silently.
His phone chimes loudly, startling us both. Landry reluctantly releases me and pulls it from his pocket, frowning at the screen.
“Everything okay?” I ask, missing his warmth immediately.
“Tom from the garage,” he explains, typing a quick response. “Mrs. Peterson’s transmission is making noises again, and she needs her car for a doctor’s appointment on Friday.” He glances up at me. “And he says Derek has been calling the garage number, looking for you. Apparently, he’s heading to town tomorrow and wants to meet in the afternoon.”
The reminder of the broker, of the impending sale, sends an unwelcome shiver through me. Just yesterday, selling the garage was the simplest, clearest path forward. Now, with everything I’ve learned about my father, about the town that loved him, about this man who was his best friend…the decision feels infinitely more complicated.
If I sell the garage to this developer, what happens to the customers who depended on my father? What happens to Tom? To the community? To Landry, who clearly values the place as his last connection to my father? And what about my growing feelings for this complicated, honorable man—feelings that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore?
“I should take a shower,” I say, needing space to think, although now I’ve got at least twenty-four hours here, alone with Landry.
He nods, something like disappointment flickering in his eyes. The cat jumps onto the bench again, tail swishing. He meows once, loudly, as if reminding us of his presence.
Landry reaches over to pet him, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “You can’t go out now, cat. It’s freezing out there.”
I laugh softly, despite the turmoil inside me. “It might be freezing, but it’s beautiful, peaceful. I can see why you built your life here.”
Warmth fills his gaze. “Vermont grows on you.”
That it does, I think, but don’t say aloud.