Chapter 6
Poppy
Istretch my legs against the soft cotton sheets before the sharp twinge in my ankle reminds me of what happened and where I am.
In Gibson Hart’s guest room. I can hardly believe this turn of events.
Yesterday, after I agreed to stay, Gibb brought me his satellite phone as the storm had knocked out cell service for both of us.
I called Neveah so she wouldn’t send out the National Guard, but I didn’t tell her everything, only that a local farmer found me and offered me a safe place to stay until the storm is done.
She was too angry at Matt to think much about anything else, although she did insist on referring to my situation as rescued by a mountain man. She made me promise to send pictures as soon as I’m able, but there’s no way I would ever breach Gibb’s privacy.
He’s obviously here alone for a reason. Even with the beard, Neveah would probably recognize him. I just hope that Matt didn’t learn anything other than he probably shouldn’t invite me to go hiking ever again.
Neveah googled the alerts for the area while I was on the phone with her, and Gibb was right because the roads into the mountains were closed pretty quickly.
Grudgingly, Gibb called the Sheriff’s Office, just in case Matt was still out there or tried to come back to get me and apparently someone had called to say there was a woman up in the mountain with an injury.
So Matt wasn’t a complete monster, and I’m glad Gibb was able to stop them from mounting a search.
Not that I’m forgiving Matt. That ship sailed the second I realized he would have been perfectly fine not bringing the baby goat back to the farm like I suggested.
I carefully roll over and open my eyes. It’s oddly silent. Not the silence of my apartment in the city where I can always hear the ventilation system and the hum of the refrigerator and the couple upstairs doing whatever they do at two in the morning.
This is real silence. I wonder if it’s just like this here in the mountains. Outside the window I can see trees muffled under ice and snow and the sky is still muted silver. Here, beneath the timber beams and pale plaster it seems like the world has forgotten to be loud.
My ankle hurts. It’s not excruciating, the ibuprofen Gibb gave me before bed has taken the edge off, but it's there, a steady throb that kicks up when I move. I push myself carefully to sit and look at it. It’s bandaged neatly, which I keep not quite being able to reconcile with the large, quiet man who did it.
I didn’t follow Velvet Riot, not in the same way as Neveah, but I remember seeing pictures of him on magazine covers and on tv. That guy, with the sexy grin and disheveled hair didn’t look like the kind of guy who knew how to do anything other than melt panties with a single glance.
Hmm. Maybe he still has that power.
God, I can’t think like that. This very nice man rescued me and has given me a place to stay in the storm and the last thing he probably wants is some frumpy woman lusting over him. This guy dated supermodels, not mud streaked nobodies.
I sniff. Is that coffee?
I locate my clothes, which have been washed and are draped dry over the chair in the corner by the heating vent. I blink. He washed them. While I was sleeping. I stare at them for a moment and then notice the rubber-tipped crutches leaning against the nightstand beside my bed.
That wasn’t there last night either.
I tuck them under my arm and hobble to the chair, sinking down to put on my leggings.
I debate leaving his sweatshirt on, which I slept in last night, but decide to replace it with my clean one because I need to have at least one boundary this morning.
Wearing his clothes downstairs might seem desperate.
Once dressed, I open the door of my room and follow the scent of coffee to the top of the stairs.
I don’t know how I’m going to maneuver the crutches and my own natural clumsiness to get down the stairs but before I can figure out a plan, Gibb’s there, taking the stairs two at time to reach me, scowling as he looks between my face and my hand on the staircase banister.
“I know you weren’t thinking of trying to get down these stairs on your own,” he says.
“You left me the crutches—”
“Poppy,” he cuts me off before I can finish. “I left the crutches so you could get around in your room with some privacy. But the stairs are absolutely off limits.”
“I can just scootch down on my butt.”
Gibb runs a hand through his hair. “Scootch down…” he sighs. “Poppy. I can carry you down the stairs.”
“I’m too—”
He lifts me into his arms, the crutches falling to the floor.
My body settles into his and my arms go around his neck like we’ve done this a thousand times before.
The silk of his hair brushes the skin on the back of my hands, and I swallow whatever it was I was going to say as he frowns at me.
“If you tell me one more time that you’re too heavy, I’m going to get offended. ”
“Offended?”
He starts down the stairs as if I weigh no more than Stevie. “Yes, you’re calling me weak.”
“You’re hardly weak.”
“Then trust that I can carry you wherever you need to go.”
“I don’t want to hurt your back.”
We reach the bottom of the stairs, but he keeps going into the living room and sets me down on the leather couch, positioning a pillow under my ankle to elevate it. “Hurt my back?” He gives a low chuckle. “Sweetheart, my performances lasted hours.”
I know he’s talking about being on stage, but my mind immediately goes there and suddenly the room is too hot.
“Coffee,” I croak.
He springs up, heading for the kitchen and I watch as he pours a steaming cup of coffee before looking over at me. “How do you want it?”
Ohmygoodness. I have never had this feeling before of wanting to crawl out of my skin, a tingling awareness of attraction so intense, my whole body is buzzing. I can’t take my eyes off his muscular forearms, chiseled and tanned, the kind of arms that look capable of anything
“Poppy?” He’s looking at me like he’s waiting for me to say something and shit, he asked me a question, didn’t he?
“Your coffee,” he says slowly. “How do you take it?”
“Oh, uh. Cream and sugar.”
“Lots of both?”
I hesitate. Matt used to say I didn’t drink coffee, I drank flavored milk. I just met Gibson, but I feel like he won’t care, he’ll just make it, and it will be perfect.
I nod. “How did you guess?”
“That’s how I take mine too. I might live on a mountain, but I like my small, indulgent pleasures.”
Gah. I’m just about to melt into a puddle over here watching the flex of tendons in his forearms stir my coffee with unhurried efficiency.
He passes me my coffee, pulling a little table over to the edge for the plate before sitting at the end of the couch.
My toes tingle at the proximity to his thigh and I take a sip to cover up my nervousness.
It’s very good. Strong and smooth with a deep rich flavor, the way coffee tastes when it's made by someone who takes it seriously.
I take another sip to try to figure out what he uses and come up empty, which means it's probably something expensive and single-origin and all the buzzwords my local café talks about.
"The storm broke," he says.
"I noticed." I look toward the large bank of windows that still have a haze of frost. The world outside is white and still. "It's beautiful here."
He looks right at me. “It really is.”
I nearly choke on my third sip. Does he have any idea how potent he is? Then I remember. Of course he does. “So,” I chirp. “With the storm being over, does that mean I can leave today?”
Gibson frowns. “Reports have a lot of trees down and electricity is spotty on the mountain the best of times. Crews will be in clearing debris and restoring the infrastructure. The road will likely be closed until tomorrow afternoon.”
“You didn’t lose power,” I say.
“I have a wired generator. It switches over automatically.”
“Oh.”
"How's the ankle?" he asks.
"Better. The crutch helps." I lean back against the cushions and wrap both hands around my mug. "Thank you, for all of that. The clothes, and the crutch, and the whole saving my life part."
"It wasn't anything."
"It was and I should repay you," I say. "Please just let me say thank you."
He looks at me over the rim of his mug. Something in his face shifts slightly and settles into a serious expression. "You're welcome," he says. “Poppy—"
There's a sound from the back of the house, a strange banging followed by a series of rapid, reproachful bleats. I smile. “Someone has been waiting for breakfast for far too long.”
The corner of his mouth moves. “Oh, they’ve already had breakfast. They just want attention and probably a few treats.” He stands. “Would you like to come?”
I really, really would. “Is it a problem? I don’t want you to have to carry me and handle them at the same time.”
“I’ll grab your crutches, I cleared the path earlier, so it won’t be too bad.”
Just like the cabin, I’m surprised by Gibb’s concept of a barn.
Granted, I’ve not been around many, but the barn looks more like a luxury condo for very spoiled goats than a true barn.
It’s also located not very far from the main house, a short gravel path lined with fencing, which explains how the goats were able to find the back door.
I carefully navigate on the crutches while Gibson walks beside me with a loose, easy stride.
He doesn't offer to carry me. He just stays at my left shoulder, at exactly the right distance. He’s close enough that if I started to fall, I know he'd have me before I hit the ground, but far enough that it doesn’t feel like he thinks I’m incapable of managing.