Ten - Slower, Colder
TEN
SLOWER, COLDER
“SHUT UP,” I tell my stomach, the little bitch.
It’s been rumbling since I left Ruin at his stall, so I came to shower, and now I’m getting dressed, and then I’ll go have dinner—can’t move any faster. Or I could, except my muscles aren’t cooperating. We had another great day today, so I’m not complaining, but yeah, I’m beat.
We spent the afternoon working through some simple gymnastic lines, and he’s finally learning to wait for me, to actually listen instead of just powering through.
He’s collecting that massive stride, learning to rock back and use his hind instead of just launching himself into orbit over a simple cross-rail.
The power’s still there—even more in my face now that it’s controlled, now that it’s concentrated and aiming at one goal, not all over the place.
Like this grenade has a launcher now, specially designed to unleash hell, but only in one singular direction. And being the one holding that trigger? Not gonna lie, feels damn amazing.
Now I just need to turn this grenade launcher into a sniper rifle, and we’re golden.
In the next two months.
Too hungry to give a shit. Definitely later.
I button up my cuffed jeans and slip on a simple white tee. I’m halfway through tying my sneakers when there’s a knock at my door. “Just a minute,” I call. Probably Lena. She’s been extra clingy now that Kellan is gone.
I get it. It’s not the same without him.
A hand runs through my hair as I get up, then a split-second check in the bathroom mirror to make sure I didn’t end up with an accidental Mohawk or something. I twist the knob and swing the door open.
And then nearly faint. Fully Victorian-style, back of hand over forehead.
Holy shit, why does he look so gorgeous? Is that even Eli?
Four months I’ve been in Riverlight, and not once has he worn a button-down—I would notice, the gay panic would’ve told me.
He looks so soft in flannel, black and white checkered, with the sleeves folded neatly up, spotlighting his juicy forearm veins, which fight his biceps every day for my attention.
Even his jeans look newer, darker. And his hair…
beautiful dark waves like always, but combed back, and not just with his fingers to get it out of the way.
He smells like the green apples of his shampoo, the scent of every make-out session in hidden corners of the last few months, mixed with fresh mountain air that somehow reminds me of the meadow where we first kissed.
Like he went back there and bottled up the air, dabbed it behind his ears to keep that magic near, reminding him.
I want a bottle too. Lifetime supply.
“Hi,” he says. Shit, I’ve been staring.
“Hi,” I echo. My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “Hi.” Nope, even worse.
Eli shifts his weight, looking even taller by how unnaturally straight he is. His hands are fisted next to his hips, eyes darting everywhere—sideways down the deck, then his boots, then the door jamb. Then my face, briefly, before skittering off right away.
“Was just wondering…” His voice is so low I barely hear him. He takes a deeper, slower breath, and it’s normal again. “Was wondering if you’d wanna have dinner. Together.”
I smile. Fuck yeah, I would—does he even need to ask? It’s so much more enjoyable when he’s there during mealtime. “Nice timing. Was just about to leave,” I say, managing to keep my voice steadier than my pulse. “What’s on the menu tonight, you know? That fish yesterday was amazing.”
His eyes keep on mine, not blinking for a long moment. Then he says, “I meant…somewhere else. Not the cafeteria.”
Not the… Oh.
Oh.
Oh my heart. Fucking boom.
“Yes,” I blurt. Way too fast. Incredibly not smooth. “Yes, I’d like that. Very much.” I swallow, my mind gearing up and revving and suddenly aware of how underdressed I am. I glance back at my room, then down at myself, then back up. Jeans and a t-shirt aren’t exactly what I’d choose for a...
A…
Date? Is this a date? Sounds like a date. Feels like a date.
Shit, how long since I’ve been…
Have I ever been…
Doesn’t matter. None of the others—or the fact that there are no others—will ruin this for me.
“I should…change?” I mean to say, but it comes out as a question.
Eli shakes his head, a small smile curving his beautiful lips. “ No need. You look...” He pauses, eyes dragging over my body, up and down. His cheeks turn pink. “I mean, it’s just up the hill. Not far.”
Not far? So not the town, then. Somewhere more private?
He knows I shouldn’t show my face around, so I appreciate not having that to worry about.
My stomach flutters, a horrifying mix of excitement and nerves that shoots acid up my throat, and what the fuck am I supposed to do with my hands?
I just showered—how are my palms this sweaty?
Then Eli offers me his arm, bent at the elbow, and everything cools instantly, like soothing gel over a thigh rash.
I bite the inside of my lip not to squeal, not to picture myself in a gown, he in a tailcoat, escorting me to the ball.
He’d look dashing, of course. And I’d rock a corset, for sure. My boobs would look amazing.
I smile, step out, close the door behind me. My hand slips into the crook of his elbow, palm resting on the solid warmth of his bicep beneath the soft flannel. We walk like that, down the deck and through the courtyard, my heart screaming, lungs shaking. All my cells, hyping me up.
It’s still light out, the sun honey-gold and hanging low but not yet setting. And we’re just...out. Together. In the open, arm in arm. Where anyone could see.
For a second, I worry. In the next, I hope they take pictures and send me copies.
Eli leads us toward one of Riverlight’s electric four-wheelers, parked just outside the courtyard fence.
He walks me to the passenger side first, hovering as I take my seat, and I just know he would have opened the door for me if the buggy actually had them.
Only after I’m settled does he jog around to the driver’s side, climbing in with grace and an easy smile.
He presses the engine button, and we’re off, but not down the main path toward the working side of the ranch like I expected. The opposite direction, up a gravel trail I’ve never explored, since I always assumed it led to the property line, the south edge of Riverlight.
As we approach the high wooden fence and gate, set into the treeline, Eli slows down next to a boulder almost as big as our buggy.
Then he leans slightly out to press his thumb against an electronic reader I never would’ve caught, perfectly hidden in the rock.
There’s a soft beep, and the gate slides silently open.
It feels weirdly ceremonial. Not sure if we’re leaving the ranch so much as entering some sacred, hidden domain, or a millionaire’s secret mansion—it’s the winding gravel path between the trees, always uphill, strategically-placed path lights not yet on.
About ten minutes in, I spot it, a glimpse of cornflower blue between the branches, a roof that looks like it stole a piece of the sky and anchored it to earth, bright and luminous against the evening’s fading orange light.
Soon the trees part, revealing a two-story cottage with weathered white paneling, perched on the hillside with a perfect view of the wide valley below. I can just make out the sprawl of Riverlight down in the distance, a 3D miniature from up here, built to scale.
Eli pulls the buggy to a stop near a small set of porch steps, alongside flower beds so lush and non-manicured it’s like the house is pulling them close, bringing nature itself into a hug.
There’s another buggy identical to ours, parked under a simple carport, plugged into a charging station.
Beside it, a hitching rail, wood smooth from years of use.
We both hop out, though I move slower, taking it all in. This place feels unreal, like something from a storybook, the kind where there’s always soup on the stove and someone waiting to welcome you home.
Eli stands patiently beside me, watching my face as I absorb every detail .
“What is this place?” I finally ask, so slowly, so in awe.
“Momma’s.” His voice is so soft, like there’s actual magic in this place.
Wait… Whose?
My eyes snap to his. Wait. Wait, this is his… “You brought me to meet your mother?”
I didn’t mean to sound so snappy, so panicky, but… Eli shifts, hands slipping deep into his pockets, shoulders hiking up. “Brought you for dinner,” he says, eyes off to the side.
“With your mother,” I press. My heart’s pounding. His mother. His Momma, who he always mentions with such warmth, such soft reverence.
“Just dinner.” He shrugs, eyes now down on his boots. Then, quietly, he adds, “We can…go back if—”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” He nods. So uncomfortable, so unlike himself.
“No, you don’t.” I reach for his hands, pulling them out of his pockets, interlacing our fingers together between us.
“I want to meet your mom.” I really do. She sounds incredible, from his accounts.
“But meeting parents means shirt and slacks, and at least some flowers, right? As a gift?” I’m honestly not sure.
Never met anyone’s parents, I don’t think.
I don’t have relationships. Professional, yeah, but not friendly, definitely not romantic.
Didn’t.
His smile blooms slow and sweet, eyes crinkling at the corners. “ You’re the gift.”
I groan at the corniness, my hands flying to cover my face to pretend I’m slightly annoyed, not actively swooning.
“I had your mom’s food before,” I tell him.
“Trust me—the gift isn’t me.” Then I freeze, eyes wide, peeking between my fingers.
“You didn’t tell her about the sandwich. Please tell me you didn’t. ”
He chuckles, warm and rich. “I didn’t. That day’s our secret.”