Chapter 33
Ella
My heart is beating a mile a damn minute. I can still feel Gable’s fingers in my hair, still feel the way he looked at me, and I can’t shake it. It’s after midnight and I’m trying to write, but every time my fingers hover over the keyboard, I remember his face.
I should have pulled back. At first, I’d been half-asleep and sat up out of confusion, but then, I hadn’t wanted to move.
And when he’d brushed my hair back, I’d lost breath. He’s never touched me like that before, barely touched me at all, and it sent shivers down the back of my neck. His palm felt warm, and my heart did something it shouldn’t for a man I barely like.
A man who is Asher’s best friend and brother.
I slam the laptop closed and cover my mouth, glaring into the still-burning fire.
Nothing happened. We didn’t kiss, didn’t even really come close, but it feels like a door has been flung open, one I hadn’t even known existed until those few seconds.
Guilt coils in my belly like writhing snakes.
I feel like I’m betraying Asher, and maybe I am.
If I feel like this, what is Gable going through?
Or maybe he feels nothing, because he doesn’t deal in emotions. He deals in facts. And the fact is, nothing happened. He’ll probably go about his day tomorrow like normal.
Because nothing did happen. Just a few butterflies for the killer.
Asher was a killer, too.
Yeah, but a romantic one, at least.
Does that cancel out murder?
It did for you, apparently. You’ve mourned him for months. Regardless, Gable is an ass.
I know that.
Then why are you still thinking about nothing?
“I can’t write if you’re gonna pester me,” I snap.
“I’m getting a drink.”
I jump. Gable is standing at the bottom of the stairs in gray sweats and a T-shirt. He folds his arms and taps his fingers against his biceps.
Why are you suddenly noticing his arms, Ella?
“Is that okay, your majesty?” he asks.
I blink. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Uh-oh.
He frowns and looks around. “Who are you talking to, then?”
“… Motor?”
“The dog that’s in my room? Asleep?”
You suck at lying.
I tap my temple furiously and he walks over to the couch, leaning his hands on the back of it. “Is that what the tapping is for? A voice in your head?”
Oh my God, he can read your mind. Quick, think about sex.
“No …” I say. “Maybe.”
“Seriously? You tap your temple because you’re having a conversation in your head?”
I place the laptop down. “I tap my temple to shut the voice up.”
This is weird. I’ve only ever told my mom about my writer’s brain and now Gable has guessed. Sure, I came close to telling Asher, but we never got there. Someone else knowing feels … strange.
“Explain.”
“It’s a voice that writes for me.”
He pauses, as if absorbing the information, then shrugs. “Okay.”
I shoot to my feet and follow him. “Okay? That’s all?”
“What did you want me to say?”
I don’t know. I expected teasing, I guess. There’s a reason I’ve kept this a secret for so long. “I thought you’d make fun of me.”
He grabs a water bottle from the fridge. “Why? We all have our little coping mechanisms. Mine is cleaning. Yours is your … what do you call it?”
“My writer’s brain.”
He leans his forearms against the island. I’m suddenly aware of how close we are when I haven’t noticed it for the last three weeks. “That’s a boring name. I’m calling it Todd.”
“You’re not calling it Todd!”
“Good night, Gibson! Good night, Todd!”
He heads for the stairs, and I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly more worried about being in a house with him than ever before.
Who don’t you trust, Ella? You or him?
Maybe both of us.
I curl up in my chair again and pick up my phone to text Matilda.
ME: Am I a terrible person if I have feelings for someone so soon after Asher?
As always, Matilda reads it immediately.
MATILDA: of course not. It’s been six months, and you can’t help your feelings, babe. Who is it?
More lies, but I can’t exactly tell her the truth. It puts her in danger.
ME: I’m at an Airbnb trying to write. It’s the host.
MATILDA: that’s hot. Send me a pic of him!
ME: No! Weirdo.
Me: maybe it’s just a crush.
MATILDA: Exactly. Don’t be so hard on yourself.
ME: how’s France?
MATILDA: Le terrifique! I miss you. Are you at the Airbnb for Christmas? Where should I send your gift?
I snap a quick picture of the snow-filled yard and send it to her.
ME: I don’t think I even get mail up here. Maybe send it to Dad’s.
MATILDA: where the fuck are you????
ME: Somewhere near Seattle. Long story. Can we FaceTime soon?
MATILDA: only if I get to see the hot host
ME: Deal.
Just as I suspected, in the morning, Gable acts like his usual moody self. As he makes his morning coffee and I prepare to take Motor for a walk, there’s no acknowledgment of the nothing we shared the night before. Maybe I was overthinking the whole thing. I tend to do that.
After showering and dressing warmly, I pull on my coat, sit on the bed, and lace my boots.
Then I make the mistake of lying down and closing my eyes.
I wrote close to ten thousand words after Gable went to bed, my mind alight with ideas and excitement, but now that light is officially out and I’m ready for sleep.
But the bedroom door flies open.
“Drill!” Gable bellows, and I sit up.
He’s wearing a mask this time. A knitted black one so I can only see his eyes—and it isn’t fear that has my heart racing.
It’s something else.
My cheeks heat, and I crawl under the duvet, hoping to hide how flushed I am. “Oh my God, Gable, what are you doing? Go away!”
He starts pinching me through the covers. “I’m dead. The house is compromised. What do you do?”
“Rejoice in the fucking silence!” I screech, just as he snatches the covers off me. His eyes are piercing, even against the dark material of the mask, and I hold my breath.
“You’re all alone, Gibson, and you’re about to die!”
“Then take me, Jesus!”
I squeal as he seizes my hips and throws me over his shoulder. Motor dances around us, barking excitedly. “I’m taking you downstairs to kill you. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I hate you.” He smacks my ass and I jolt. “Gable!”
“Fight me off, Gibson, otherwise you die.”
He pinches the back of my thigh, and I growl. I’m tired. I want to nap and think about my book and impending doom, not run fucking drills.
Fuck. This.
I bite him.
“What the fuck!”
I sink my teeth into his back and he spins in place. Once he’s relaxed his hold on me, I release his skin from between my teeth and wriggle free—my feet hit the ground, and I run.
Motor barks excitedly as I thunder down the stairs, running through drills in my mind. There are so many of them, so many different scenarios and escape routes, but I know one thing for sure.
I need to get to the car.
Throwing the front door open, I bolt out into the snow. My cheeks immediately feel numb, but I ignore the sensation and go for the vehicle, knowing the spare key is hidden in the sun visor.
But I don’t hear Gable behind me.
I skid to a stop and face the house, my breath billowing around me as I spin in circles to try and spot him. Did he go out a different way to ambush me? Did he fall down the stairs?
It’s a trick.
He’s trying to get me to go back into the house.
Not happening.
I open the driver’s side door and slide in, yanking down the visor.
But the keys aren’t there.
“No, no, no—” I search the glove compartment, under the seats, and scream when I spot Gable standing at the window, grinning—the keys dangling from his fingers.
Without missing a beat, I scramble over to the passenger door and bolt from the car.
I might not be strong, but I am fast. And I know Gable hates cardio, which means I already have an advantage.
Snow kicks up behind me as I make it to the tree line, weaving between thick trunks and leaping over logs. Leaves crunch beneath my boots, and the cold bites into my skin, but I don’t stop. Even when my lungs burn and my muscles want to cramp, I keep going.
“I can smell your fear, Gibson!”
This is a drill. It isn’t real. Gable won’t hurt me when he catches me, and I’ll make it out of this alive.
Still, a zing of fear goes through me.
And that feeling, the heat, the thrill I felt when I saw his mask … it doubles in intensity.
I hardly have time to register my feelings when I’m tackled to the ground. Gable flips me onto my back and pins his hips between mine, holding my hands above my head.
“Gotcha.”
“Unfair advantage,” I pant. “I didn’t stretch first.”
“Danger can happen at any time, Gibson,” he says, keeping my hands pinned between one of his. “The question is, did you complete the most important part of the drill?”
Fuck. What was that?
His other hand slides down my waist, and I pull in a sharp breath as he reaches between my back and the hard ground. Finding nothing, he runs his palm down my other hip, my legs, between my thighs, coming dangerously close to the warm throbbing that’s increasing with every second he touches me.
His eyes dart to mine, and for a horrifying second, I wonder if he can feel the heat from between my legs.
“You didn’t take a weapon,” he says quietly, his dark eyes drifting across my face.
I swallow hard. “I forgot.”
“You forget, you die,” he whispers. His hips are still pinned to mine, and I feel so weak beneath him, but my excitement only grows. My nipples harden beneath my clothes, and I’m glad my sweatshirt is thick enough to hide them. “How am I supposed to keep you alive if you don’t listen to me?”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough.”
He stares down at me, and every point of contact is like fire. My mind is a jumble of guilt and desire, my body aching to grind against him to find some relief. I want to tear down the walls between us, to leave my conscience behind in this wooded place, to allow myself to take what I want.
Him.
His face is close to mine, the fog of our breath penetrating the mask and curling between us, and when I shift beneath him, I feel it.
He’s hard.
Big, and solid, and pressed against my thigh.
His phone ringing slices through the silence, and he’s off me and answering within seconds.
“Yep?”
I cover my face with my hands, my underwear soaked, my cheeks burning red, because what the fuck was that? Not hours ago, I was agonizing over an almost kiss, and now I’m close to dry-humping him in the fucking snow.
Ella. Girl. What are you doing?
I tap my temple so hard it hurts.
“Seriously?” Gable says into the phone. “Nothing?” He holds his hand out to me, and I reluctantly take it so he can pull me to my feet.
Then, with one arm and without a second of warning, he sweeps me up, carrying me bridal style back to the house.
He remains on the phone, tone dripping with annoyance, and I squeeze my thighs together to fight of the urge to come from the sheer act of strength and chivalry.
Since when was Gable Flynn like this?
He’s rude. Obnoxious. Talks regularly about how he’d like to kill me.
Now he’s carrying me through the snow. Making me wet. Almost kissing me.
Once we’re back in the house and he places me on my feet, he ends the call and pulls the mask off, running his hand through his hair to fix it.
“Looks like we’re going to be here into the new year.”
My shoulders slump. “Really?”
He nods. “It was another dead end. We found someone who had spoken to Barnaby about an important delivery, but he never mentioned what the delivery was or anything about a drive.”
Fuck. Every time we seem to get close, we get shoved back to square one.
I guess I’m spending Christmas with Gable, then.