Chapter 18
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
EMMETT
Sleep doesn’t come easily. For as long as I can remember, it’s come in fragments.
The reasons have changed over the years. I no longer fall asleep hungry or spend winter nights shivering after the power is shut off.
That ended when my parents were found with needles in their arms.
Then everything changed.
And for a while after my dad’s parents had gotten custody of me, sleep came easier. I learned how to rest with only occasional nightmares under their roof.
Until the fire.
Then I lost everything for a second time, and I never recovered.
Now, I’m lucky to drift off for all of an hour or two before a nightmare yanks me under.
It’s always the same smoke and heat. I’m trapped in the same place, feeling the same suffocating panic.
Only this time, it isn’t Rory crying out from behind the flames.
It’s Aspen.
She’s standing in the kitchen of her house, arms reaching for me as the roof groans and splinters. My boots hold me in place as beams fall, and there’s nothing I can do as I hear the crack of it breaking loose.
Just like with Rory, I’m helpless.
Aspen’s scream cuts straight through me, raw and terrified.
Not for Rory and not for Aspen.
I jolt upright in bed, chest slick with sweat, breath sawing in and out of my lungs.
For a long minute, I sit there, palms pressed hard against my knees as I try to blink away the look in Aspen’s eyes when she sees the branch falling. But her face lingers—wide-eyed and screaming for me to save her.
No chance in hell I’ll sleep after that. I don’t even try.
I pull on a sweatshirt and head downstairs. The garage smells like grease and old leather, and the Jeep sitting in the middle, uncovered from the last time I worked on it, dulls the pounding in my ears.
Something to do.
Familiar metal and parts I can get my hands on and make sense of when everything else is so jumbled.
A few turns of the socket and the dream starts to loosen its grip on me. I lose myself in the monotony, going over every possibility, looking for a problem until I find one I can fix.
When I straighten, stretching out my aching muscles, the stars are giving way to the rising sun. But I keep tinkering until I see the glow of her bathroom light spilling from her window.
She’s awake.
She’s okay.
I lean back against Myrtle, exhaustion finally catching up as I stare at the window.
Waiting for a shadow that proves she’s whole and breathing and exactly where she’s supposed to be.
The thought of not seeing her before she goes into work is more than I can handle, and my pulse stumbles at the implications of that.
Before I can think better of it, I head inside.
In the kitchen, my hands are restless without an engine under my finger, so I fiddle with the complicated coffee machine on her counter.
“Is this a fucking spaceship or a coffee machine,” I mumble.
“Hotshot, what are you doing?”
The rough tenor of sleep in her voice knocks the wind out of me.
I turn toward the sound.
Aspen’s in the doorway, draped in another loose T-shirt that hits mid-thigh, and her dark hair is rumpled, falling over one shoulder. My throat goes dry.
Soft.
Sleepy.
Safe.
My eyes drag over her once . . . then again—slower this time.
Just to be sure.
How the hell do I always manage to find her without pants?
Not that I’m complaining. It just makes things harder . . . so to speak.
“You’ll break it before you figure it out.”
She brushes past me, wrapping me in mint and lavender.
I inhale deeply, completely unashamed.
“I’ve never met someone who smells so good first thing in the morning.”
“Oils before bed.” She lifts her wrist, giving me her pulse point. “They relax me after a long shift.”
Calm fills me. It’s so her—so sweet and soothing, like a sedative for my soul. It’s making me crazy, which is the only explanation for why my lips brush her wrist.
The kitchen seems to close in on all sides until Aspen drops her wrist, snapping me out of it.
She points to the coffee machine. “Want me to show you how to use it?” She glances up at me through her lashes as she guides my hand to the right button. Her fingers are cool against mine, steady where mine shake. “See? Not that complicated.”
“Doesn’t anyone just have a Mr. Coffee anymore?” My voice holds the rough edge of a long night and worrying about her.
Her attention lingers on me a moment too long, like she can see through my mask, but she doesn’t shy away.
My gaze drops to her mouth.
One move and I could close the gap. One move and I’d ruin everything—ruin her. Just like in my dream.
Stepping back a foot, I watch as she makes a concoction that rivals the fancy drinks drive-thrus serve, complete with caramel drizzle. As I do, I memorize the way she looks in this early light, in this kitchen—safe and happy.
Being here, with her, already feels more like home than any place I’ve been in years.
If I’m not careful, I’m going to make it harder on both of us when I leave. But knowing that and stopping it from happening are two different things.