Take Me Home

Chapter Five

She’d said too much. Way too much. Her old house? Her parents’ divorce? Pug Boy? What was wrong with her?

And what was up with all of Ash’s probing questions, that almost commanding way he’d insisted, Tell me, like her life story was some high-stakes thriller he couldn’t put down? She hadn’t even told Sylvia some of it, hadn’t wanted her to feel sorry about Hazel going to bars alone or feeling overwhelmed in her program. But two minutes of Ash’s undivided attention, and a river had rushed forth—one she’d dammed up for too long, apparently.

Hazel felt like a puzzle all mixed up in the box. She needed to regroup. She’d hoped to escape into a nice, long shower, but the power was out at the inn as well. The bird man at reception didn’t expect it to be restored any time soon. There was a reason Hazel’s father said ice was a bigger headache than snow. It made roads dangerous, but it also coated power lines, froze pipes, weighed down tree branches until they snapped, left vulnerable people stranded, sometimes for days. God, what if she and Ash got stuck here longer than one night? Already, cold seeped into the old Victorian.

They stood on opposite sides of the Lovebird Suite, both retreating into their phones in resolute avoidance. Sylvia had texted again, asking if Hazel had decided to go to her dad’s, or if she wanted to crash another Delgado family Christmas. It was said in jest—crash, an intrusion—and Hazel knew Sylvia’s gaggle of relatives would welcome her warmly, just as they had the last three Christmases, but the reminder that she wasn’t actually part of Sylvia’s family, that for two years Sylvia’s grandmother had thought Hazel was an orphan, made her close her messages without replying. She’d been doing that more and more lately.

She switched on her phone’s flashlight, intending to locate her bags, and the beam lit up the comforterless bed. Ash was planning to sleep on the floor, leaving her with that flimsy, lightweight blanket. That wouldn’t work now.

He followed the beam of light. She could already see his breath in the air when he said, “Yeah, I know.”

While Ash remade the bed, Hazel quietly panicked. They were going to sleep there. Together.

“The Office,” she blurted. “I downloaded all the Christmas episodes just in case.”

“Just in case…what?”

At the time, she’d anticipated being trapped in her father’s unfamiliar house with unfamiliar people, hiding out in a guest bedroom. What if their Wi-Fi was spotty? She needed something to pass the time. She was pleased with herself for such smart preparation until she remembered: no power, shitty laptop battery. “Never mind. My computer won’t make it through one episode.”

“I have a portable—” He cut off abruptly. She could hear the soles of his shoes slide across the low carpet, his knuckles pop.

“A portable what?”

“Um…charger.”

“Wait, you have—”

“I know,” he said defensively. “I have a portable charger, so I don’t need the outlet by your precious chair. But just think, because of me, we can watch those Christmas episodes, so really, you should thank—”

“Then why do you even need the chair?”

“I never said I needed it. I like it. I can see everyone when they come in. I can hear all the conversations from the counter to the back windows. It’s the perfect spot.”

Her flashlight was still on, lighting up a patch of the bird carpet, and she turned it on him. “So, it has nothing to do with the chair or the outlet? You just like to eavesdrop?”

He threw an arm up to block the light, and she lowered her phone. She couldn’t see him well in the dark, but the general shape of him looked sheepish. Good. He remained quiet as he rummaged through his bag for the charger.

They scooted up against the headboard with her laptop between their legs. Halfway into the first episode, Hazel began to shiver, compounding the ache in her lower back from sitting in the car all afternoon. She adjusted her pillow, but it didn’t help.

Ash raised his arm like he was going to put it around her. “You can—”

“What?”

“If you’re cold, you can come closer. Unless your spite for me won’t allow it.”

“Just trying to get comfortable.”

He lowered his arm back down. When he’d done the same on their walk home, wrapping his arm tightly around her shoulders to shield her from the wind, a crazy thought had latched on to her lizard brain: Why were they wearing so many damn layers of clothing that she couldn’t fully absorb the contact? She had felt the heft of his arm, though, its comforting press like a weighted blanket. Only better because he was a man. When she’d tucked in closer, playing it off like she was just cold, he’d tightened his hold, like she might float away. She could have floated away on the giddy uprush.

“I mean…are you sure?” she asked.

To her surprise, he got up, tugged the comforter from under her legs, and resettled beside her, pulling the covers over them and slipping his arm behind her back. His hand found her hip over her flimsy fleece jacket, and he tugged her closer into his side. Her belly swooped at the maneuver, not exactly manhandling her, but not exactly not.

“Good?” he asked, face directed at the screen like dragging her against his side was a totally normal thing for an acquaintance to do. In a bed. In the dark.

“Uh-huh.”

The episode was a blur to Hazel. At one point, the sound of her own breathing, the way it made her chest rise and fall against him in the little space she’d curled into, felt excessive and unnatural. Hell, he was going to think she had a breathing problem. Or that she was huffing him. She breathed shallowly, overcorrecting until her lungs demanded a full yawn. It did not help that she could smell the faint, crisp note of lemongrass from his shower earlier. It also did not help that the tip of her nose was freezing, and his neck would be the perfect warm place to press it.

Then, Ash laughed, giving her a new sensation to puzzle over—the gentle rumble vibrating from his chest into her body. It was doing things to her. Things that made her want to squirm closer. But that made her want to scoot away. So what if Ash Campbell smelled good and was like a portable heater? He was only here because he needed a ride. And not that kind of ride. If she made any move, she’d basically be taking advantage of him. She lifted her head from his shoulder, wondering if she’d already crossed the line.

But then, his hand was still anchored to her hip, like he might pull her into his lap at a moment’s notice, and she realized, with a confusing little thrill, she…might not hate that.

He murmured, “Need something?”

Yes.

She shook her head. Whatever she might be feeling had nothing to do with Ash. She was just touch-starved. That was all.

He looked down at her, distracted at first, then questioning. In the glow from the laptop, his lips parted, eyes flitting down to her mouth then back up. She could kiss him. They could blame the storm, the power outage. Whatever happened in—what was this tiny town called again?—could stay here.

Except Ash wasn’t the kind of guy who hooked up and moved on. The momentary satisfaction of finding out what his mouth felt like on hers, his hands on her skin, would not be free of consequences. They still had the rest of the drive tomorrow and another long drive back after Christmas.

Hazel scooted over, putting a good six inches between them. He pulled his arm from behind her without a word.

She closed the laptop on the final episode’s credits, casting them into almost total darkness. They’d drawn back the curtains, but with all the streetlights out and clouds blocking the moon, it didn’t do much to brighten the room.

Ash let her use the bathroom first. Hazel brushed her teeth, pulled flannel pajamas over her leggings, and swapped her dress for a hoodie. At least the cold made deciding what to wear to bed with Ash—God, there was a phrase she’d never get over—a lot simpler. When she tried to wash her face with the icy water from the tap, she couldn’t hold in an anguished shriek.

“Okay in there?” he called.

She toweled off quickly, opened the door, and there was the shadowy mass of him, one hand on the doorjamb. He was leaning above her, head cocked to the side, his other hand drawing up to scratch his bicep. She didn’t know why that particular movement snagged her attention—she couldn’t even make out much more than his silhouette—but it did, and now she wanted to put her own hands on his arms, feel the firm muscles there. No. Nope. She took the first distancing tactic that came to mind and pressed her freezing fingers to the side of his neck.

Ash jumped, hissing at the contact. But he caught both her wrists as she tried to dart by him. “You—” he said on a jagged exhale. “That was cold.”

She held her breath. What was he going to do to her? Throw her over his shoulder? Toss her into the icy shower?

He moved his large hands so that they encased hers entirely, just…holding them. She felt more than saw his eyes on her face, everything dark and shadowy. He seemed to sway closer, dip his chin just so, and sirens blared in her head. Her breath caught, and her blood sang with anticipation. He was going to kiss her.

After an eternity, his face dipped lower. A warm puff of air ghosted long and slow across her knuckles. With the next breath, his lips brushed over her skin—unintended contact, she was sure, but God. Something turned deep in her belly, a windup toy, ratcheting tighter and tighter. “Warmer?” he murmured.

She nodded, and he let her go. Then he passed by her into the bathroom and shut the door.

“Nope,” she whispered into the darkness, panic-pacing in the tight space. “Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.” She could not—could not—sleep next to Ash after that. Not with the soft, barely wet brush of his lips a permanent brand on her skin.

That’s just a natural physiological response to stimuli, she reasoned. Helpfully, her brain flipped through a deep catalog of relevant research. Skin-to-skin benefits for NICU babies. Blind-barrier studies where subjects communicated emotions solely by touch. Humans couldn’t directly sense wetness by touch, only discern changes in temperature and texture that the brain interpreted as wetness. The fingers were the most sensitive area of the body. People could discern two close but distinct points of contact there that, on less sensitive parts of the body, felt like one point. She had felt both of Ash’s lips, the humidity of his warm breath…

When Ash emerged from the bathroom, she was already cramming the spare pillows under the comforter. “What’s this?” he asked, voice laced with a smile.

“Pillow barrier,” she said coolly, not at all spiraling at the thought of his mouth on her skin. “Just to be safe.”

“Safe from what?” When she didn’t answer, he slid into the bed and said, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to spoon you.”

Hazel eased into her side and pulled the comforter up under her chin. “Okay, good night, Asher.”

His soft chuckle danced around her in the dark, warm and a little raspy. He had a really nice laugh, nicer somehow in the disembodying dark.

The bed jostled as he rolled one way, then back, every move rustling the blankets, making a spring creak. Hazel tugged the comforter back at every little pull as he shifted. Once he finally settled, she closed her eyes and willed herself to fall into the most sudden sleep of her life—a non-drunk blackout, and she wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow. The silence grew like a dense fog, hanging there. No hum of a heater to mask their soft breaths. The whisper of the sheets. The hollow wind stirring nothing outside, everything frozen. She could hear her own heart thrumming in her ears. She was pretty sure she could hear the tiniest taps of snow hitting the window.

“I can hear you thinking,” Ash murmured, already sounding half asleep.

“I can hear everything,” she blurted, pulling the blankets over her face. “How can quiet be so loud?”

“It’s nice.”

“I thought you loved noise,” she said, throwing the blanket off and rounding to the foot of the bed. Her teeth chattered at the sudden rush of cold air, but she pushed through, yanking the end of the sheet from under the mattress.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t stand my feet feeling stuck.”

He gasped. “You just expose them freely to the monsters under the bed?”

“What are you, five?” she asked, climbing back in and covering her nose with the covers.

“I’d sleep in a straitjacket if I could,” he confessed.

“A bean in a burrito,” she said before she could stop herself.

He laughed. “That’s cute. Is that a saying?”

She rolled onto her side, hugging her knees tightly to hold in more warmth. Her back was so stiff and achy from stress, the drive, the cold. She felt a decade older than twenty-three. “How does this not bother you?”

“I need noise to focus, not to sleep.”

“I didn’t think I needed noise to sleep,” she grumbled.

The bed moved subtly, and that spring whined. It wasn’t until the third whine, the rhythmic jostle of the mattress, that she realized Ash was doing it on purpose. Her voice went high and tight from the intrusive sexual images that followed: Ash hovering over her, sliding her hands above her head…“That’s not helping.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment despite the veil of darkness. This was too much. Her chances of ever falling asleep next to Ash Campbell tonight were on par with getting struck by a meteorite—which, actually, she’d welcome at this moment.

That soft, sleepy chuckle washed over her again. “Want me to talk to you?” he asked. “Bore you to sleep?”

“No.” Several long seconds dragged by. Hazel sighed. “Fine.”

Ash shifted, and when he spoke, even though she was turned away from him, she could tell he’d rolled onto his side facing her. His voice was sleepy and close. The hairs on the back of her neck rose to attention. He said, “Did you know the size of an architectural space can affect how you think?”

“I’m sure it can, but explain,” she said.

“Higher ceilings make people feel freer and think more abstractly. Lower ceilings make people feel grounded and focus more on fine details.”

Hazel’s mind pounced on the idea, imagining her cramped apartment compared to the spacious one she and Sylvia had shared, the airy five-star hotels her mother lived in compared to this intimate, busy room that, coupled with the darkness, mired Hazel in every tiny sound and movement.

Ash shifted again, and the pillow barrier pushed into her back as if he’d scooted up against it. She was grateful for the darkness hiding them from each other, though the darkness itself also sharpened everything. Her other senses were so heightened, they were distorting reality, the opposite of the warning on a car’s side mirror—Objects may seem closer than they are. She felt his low voice murmuring right into her.

“There was this study,” he went on, “where they made small-scale models of existing spaces and had people mentally tour the model space. They were supposed to do it for thirty minutes, but there wasn’t a clock. They had to guess when the time was up. And they found that people’s perception of time is directly proportional to the scale size of a space. Smaller scales make people think time is passing faster than it actually is.”

If only she could climb into the model of his sister’s house, then. Cut the endless night ahead of them in half. “The psychology of architecture?” she said on a yawn. “Far too interesting. Be duller.”

Ash laughed. “Okay. Want to hear the starting lineup of every Major League Baseball team from the 2017 season?”

“Perfect.”

Hazel blinked awake to dim morning light and an enveloping warmth. All was well. Better, in fact—soft and cozy and still.

Until she spotted the unfamiliar flamingo lamp on the bedside table and remembered. The icy roads. The power outage. The bed.

Her dream flashed back—a car drifting across a center line, her reaching from the back seat to correct the steering wheel. Every last inch of her skin prickled with panic. The pillow beneath her face was too solid, too warm. In her clenched fist was smooth flannel—Ash’s shirt, his warm stomach rising and falling with even breaths beneath it. His shallow exhale stirred the fine hairs around her face, chin pressed firmly to the crown of her head. She hadn’t just breached the pillow barrier. She was on him, her cheek resting on his chest, her thigh over his knee.

She had to move. Unfisting his shirt, she initiated a controlled roll. The blankets rustled, and she froze partway, her knee hovering above his still form. When nothing happened, she resumed her stealthy escape, successfully unpeeling her body from his. All she had to do was scoot back over the pillows, and it would be like this had never happened.

“Morning.” His voice was scratchy and low from sleep. “Let the record show that I wasn’t the one who needed the wall of pillows.”

Hazel flopped onto her back. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was asleep.”

Grinning, Ash rolled onto his side, propping his head up in his hand. His eyes were still half closed, his features sleepy and soft. His hair fell across his forehead in unkempt waves. Reflexively, Hazel finger-combed her own mess of curls back from her face.

“I’m not complaining.”

Hazel rolled her eyes. “Survivor’s instinct. I was cold.”

“If you say so.” He dropped back against his pillow. “Power’s back.”

She registered the low hum of the heater and the bedside clock blinking the wrong time. Desperate for an escape from this moment, Hazel lifted her phone from the nightstand, but a text from her father wondering when he could expect her was another trap. She hadn’t told him she was leaving yesterday, nor that she had gotten stuck halfway home. She swiped his message away. “We should check the roads. I assume you want to get going as soon as possible.”

Ash grunted softly in agreement before rolling out of the bed. He shuffled toward the bathroom, yawning and stretching his arms over his head—like a little boy, she thought. Until he scratched at his stomach and subtly adjusted his sweatpants.

“Gonna shower unless you need to pee,” he said over his shoulder.

She’d started the morning draped on top of Ash. Now, she couldn’t block the thought of what needed adjusting in his sweatpants. Could this morning get any weirder?

“Hazel?” He turned in the doorway to face her.

“Huh?” Her eyes dropped straight to his crotch. “Sorry. What? Sorry.”

Instead of bolting into the bathroom like she’d have done if she were a guy sporting morning wood in front of a girl he wasn’t dating, Ash propped both hands on his hips. “I said,” he began slowly, lips quirking, fighting back a smile, “do you need to pee?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.” He turned, stopped, and faced her again. “This isn’t because of you.”

“I didn’t think—” Hazel closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Asher.”

“Ash.”

She chucked her pillow at him, but he ducked inside the bathroom, and it hit the door.

“I’ll be quick,” he called.

“Take your time,” she shot back way too brightly.

Yep, this morning had gotten weirder. She flopped back and yanked the comforter over her face.