Chapter 11
11
Jade
“ W hat can I do to help?” Declan asks quietly in the darkness, as if he’s trying not to startle me.
“For now, just stay there and try not to injure any other parts of you,” I quip, immediately regretting my word choice. My cheeks flame and I’m grateful for the cover of the darkness.
Because of course I’m thinking of his other parts. When I helped him change into his sweatpants, it took all of my restraint not to stare at his most impressive part. I genuinely had to conjure up memories of helping my abuela get changed just to keep myself from doing something stupid, like reaching out and touching it like it was some foreign artifact.
I cannot be having these thoughts about him. They’re difficult enough in the light of the day, but now that we’re stuck together in near pitch-black darkness thanks to the window shutters, and we only have the fire going, it all feels a little too cozy. Too intimate. Too romantic.
Of course, I’m getting ahead of myself. He hasn’t admitted any interest in me whatsoever. I’m losing my head over nothing at all. It’s not like I haven’t seen a dick before.
As for the power outage, at least I was semi-prepared for it. The fire is going strong, with a nice pile of wood ready to be used if it starts to die down. The gas-powered stove should still work, so we’ll have a warm meal. And if things get really bad, I’ve got the generator out in the shed. Not that I’m thrilled about the idea of trekking through this storm to get to it, but it’s there if I need it. For now, though, I think we’ll be okay.
We.
I glance over at Declan, who’s sitting in the chair near the fireplace, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. He hasn’t said much since the lights went out, and his calmness is almost unnerving. It’s been a hell of a day for him. A tree fell on his car and could have crushed him to death. He’s, at the very least, sprained his ankle, and now he’s stuck with me during the worst storm of the year. I’d be spiraling hard if I were in a similar situation.
Then again, I don’t know him well. Maybe his form of spiraling looks like shutting down and appearing eerily calm. Probably not, though. He doesn’t seem like the type to be rattled by much.
Still, it’s hitting me again that he’s potentially stuck here for the entire weekend. His ankle doesn’t look great, and even if it weren’t for that, the roads are probably a death trap by now. There’s no way he’s making it back to his cabin tonight. Or tomorrow, for that matter.
The thought should make me uneasy, but it doesn’t. Not really. If anything, I feel weirdly relieved that I won’t have to ride out this storm completely alone.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he says, his voice low and dry, as if reading my mind.
I glance at him, catching the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and roll my eyes.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” I joke. “As soon as the roads are clear, you’re out of here.”
“Noted,” he says, leaning back in the chair. The firelight flickers across his face, casting shadows along the sharp lines of his jaw. For someone as big and imposing as he is, he fits rather well in my small cabin.
And he seems so at ease. I, on the other hand, am not.
I find a couple of flashlights in one box, and a handful of candles in another. I hand Declan a flashlight and start setting the candles out around the room so it isn’t so dark. Of course, it only adds to the romantic feeling, but I think the situation calls for more light, not less.
With that handled, I feel like I need to keep my hands busy. If I have something to do, maybe I won’t make a fool of myself.
“I’m going to make some food,” I say over my shoulder, as I start rifling through the pantry for some of my emergency canned food. “Do you want anything?”
“Sure,” he says, but when I glance back at him, he’s already pulling himself out of the chair. “I’ll help.”
“You’ll sit,” I counter, pointing at him with a wooden spoon I’ve just grabbed. “Your ankle’s already bad enough. The last thing I need is for you to make it worse.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue, settling back into the chair with a slight wince. “Bossy.”
“Practical,” I correct, turning back to the stove.
I turn on the gas stove, warming the cabin even more as I pour some soup into a pot and wait for it to start boiling.
It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll do. I can feel Declan watching me as I move around the kitchen. It’s unsettling, the way he just observes without trying to start a conversation. I’m a nervous talker. Eventually, the silence becomes too much for me.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “Where did you come from? Where was home before middle of nowhere Colorado?”
There’s a pause, just long enough to make me glance back at him. His expression hasn’t changed, but his eyes seem more guarded than before.
“Chicago,” he answers simply.
“Oh, that’s nice,” I prattle on. “I’ve never been, but I hear it’s a cool city. What did you do there?”
“This and that,” he says finally, his tone casual but infuriatingly vague.
“This and that,” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “That’s specific.”
He shrugs, getting up carefully, gingerly, and moving closer toward the fire. He picks up the poker and moves the wood around, causing the flames to spring up even brighter.
“Nothing worth talking about,” he finally answers. “I left a long time ago, and I have no intention of going back.”
The words come out too easily, like he’s practiced them, and I don’t push. I’m not exactly eager to spill my own life story, so I can’t really blame him for keeping things close to the chest.
Still, it only adds to his mystery. There’s something about the way he carries himself, so calm, so controlled, that makes me wonder what’s underneath it all. What he’s hiding.
Not that it’s any of my business, of course. I, for one, really shouldn’t pry seeing how I wouldn’t have much to share either.
I pour the soup into a couple of bowls and bring them over to the table, setting one down in front of him where he’s finally hobbled back.
“Here you go. It’s not exactly gourmet, but it’s hot.”
“It’s perfect,” he says, his voice softer this time. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until just now.”
We eat in relative silence, the crackle of the fire filling the gaps between us. It’s nice, in a way. Comfortable. For someone so quiet, Declan has a way of making the silence feel less awkward.
“Do you always go around rescuing damsels in distress, or was this a special occasion?” I ask, a teasing lilt in my voice.
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t look up from his bowl. “I would argue that, of the two of us, I’m the one in distress.”
“Fair enough.” I can’t help but laugh.
He’s got such a dry wit and perfectly crafted sarcasm. I wonder what made him that way, or if he was always like that.
He finally meets my eyes, and there’s a glint of amusement in his gaze.
“So where was home for you?” he asks curiously as he slurps at the soup. “Before ‘middle of nowhere’ Colorado,” he teases with my own words.
“California,” I say, realizing I’m being even vaguer than him. Of course, in my situation, I can’t be too careful about what I reveal to strangers.
“Sunny. You could say we’re from polar opposite sides of the country,” he quips. “You’re probably missing it right about now.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “I’m not finding this so bad.”
I smile despite myself, taking another bite of soup to keep from saying something stupid.
After we eat, I clear the bowls and rummage through one of the boxes by the bookshelf, pulling out a stack of board games the previous owners left behind.
“Pick one,” I say, setting them on the table in front of him.
He raises an eyebrow, his gaze flicking over the titles. “Monopoly? Really?”
“Too much commitment?” I tease, plopping down across from him.
“Something like that,” he says, picking up a deck of cards instead. “How about this?”
We settle on a card game, something simple enough to play by firelight. The conversation comes easier now, the awkwardness fading as we trade stories and the occasional joke. He’s careful with his words, though, never giving away too much. Every time I try to steer the conversation toward his past, he redirects it effortlessly, like he’s got something to hide.
Which, of course, only makes me more curious.
At the same time, I know that I’m doing the exact same thing. I keep catching myself, stopping just short of saying too much about my own past. It’s harder than I thought, holding back, especially when he looks at me like he’s actually listening. Like he actually wants to know. It was like we were playing a separate game, one with our minds.
The storm rages outside, the wind howling against the windows, but inside, it’s almost easy to forget. The fire crackles, the cards shuffle, and for a little while, it feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
But when the game ends and the silence stretches between us again, I feel that familiar pull, that urge to keep my walls up, to keep him at arm’s length. I don’t know him. Not really. And I can’t let myself get too comfortable. He could be just as dangerous as the men I’m running from.
Or, even worse, he could make me forget why I keep my walls up in the first place. And that would be the most dangerous thing of all.