6. The Lake House
6
The Lake House
“No way. This is your place?” I shamelessly gawk at the wood-built house that overlooks the most breathtaking lake I’ve ever seen.
“Kind of. It belongs to my parents, but they haven’t used it in years,” Haze says, taking a slow turn and pulling up to the long asphalt driveway.
I admire the tall trees circling the impressive property and the sunrays peeking through the waving leaves. Haze parks the car and the engine dies down in a rumble.
“Don’t worry, it’s prettier inside.”
I fight the urge to punch him on behalf of all middle-class people everywhere. If he thinks this is ugly, he needs to see the one-bedroom dumpster I used to live in with my mom.
I can tell from the way he bites back a grin that he doesn’t mean it and he’s just trying to get a reaction out of me. I know Haze is rich. Allow me to revise: I know his parents are rich. But this is on a whole other level.
“Hold on,” he says, getting out of the car.
I watch him walk around the vehicle and open the trunk. He gets our luggage and my crutches out, drops them onto the porch, and comes back to open my door.
In a week, I’ll be able to walk on my own again. Until then, this guy who’s just a “friend” is going to have to give me a hand. He’s the one who showed up and claimed he wanted to protect me. Well, now he’s going to have to play nurse whether he likes it or not.
When he helps me out of the car, tightly wraps one arm around my waist so that I can find my balance, and pulls me closer, I swear the eighteen years I spent breathing properly vanish and I have to learn all over again.
Standing on one foot, I have no choice but to press my body to his. I instinctively look up and regret it when our eyes connect. Again, I think I see his gaze drop to my lips for one fleeting second, but I’m way too focused on trying not to kiss him myself to be sure. I’m brought back to reality when he clears his throat and looks away.
Note to self: Haze Adams and close proximity means dysfunctional brain.
“Is that all you brought?” I say, eager to break the silence and tension between us, and point to the tiny black bag he left on the porch.
“Yes. I used to come here all the time. I’m sure I left some clothes in my old bedroom.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“Like two years.” He shrugs, helping me to the front door where my crutches are waiting. “Let’s hope they still fit.”
“And if they don’t?”
He grins. “Well, I guess you’ll have to tolerate me walking around naked.”
Cue the scarlet cheeks.
I’m thankful that he doesn’t notice the flushed expression on my face when he unlocks the door with a number combination and pushes it open.
A loud creak indicates how long it’s been since the last time someone was here. I step inside and a cold breeze scampers down my spine, every hair on my body standing up.
The inside is just as beautiful as I expected, although the ceiling-high windows covered by thick curtains dim the sun and soak us in darkness. Two large gray couches are symmetrically placed in the center of the living room, and a large TV hangs above a marble fireplace. I glimpse to the kitchen on my right. The wooden decor is a recurring theme all throughout the first floor. This house would probably feel cozy if it wasn’t freezing and gloomy.
Shivering, I run a hand up and down my arm.
“Yeah, sorry, it’s cold. No one’s been here in a while,” he says, noticing my slow but very real transformation into a Popsicle.
He proceeds to draw all the curtains and let the sun invade the main areas of the house. The direct view of the calm water through the uncovered windows knocks the breath out of me. Many luxurious houses surround the lake. The sign I saw earlier read “Colton Gate. Population: 9,564.” This is basically a small town for rich people.
I didn’t ask Haze about it, but I’m pretty sure this place means something to him. Could it be his hometown?
“I have to go turn the heater on. I’ll give you a tour when I get back. Make yourself comfortable,” he says and disappears down the hall.
With the help of my crutches, aka my new best friends, I begin making my way to the couch but stop in my tracks when I notice three framed pictures above the fireplace.
I hop toward them. The first one is empty, and I’m immediately under the impression that someone took out whatever picture was in there in a hurry without bothering to replace it or put the frame away. I wouldn’t expect such carelessness in a house like this.
Maybe Haze’s parents did it the last time they were here. I wonder if they knew they wouldn’t be coming back when they walked through the door that day.
The second picture is a family portrait. I know something’s off the second I capture it in my hands to get a closer look.
On the picture is Haze, Tanner, a man with hard features, and a brown-haired woman showing off what looks like expensive jewelry. That would be Mrs. And Mr. Adams. Sad to think this is probably the closest thing I’ll ever have to meeting Haze’s parents.
At first sight, everything about this picture screams “typical family.” But when you look carefully, the photograph looks like it’s been cut off on the side. It’s barely visible, but the slightly uneven paper gives it away.
Something tells me whoever was in the empty frame is the same person who was removed from this portrait.
Haze looks so young, innocent… carefree. I’d put him at twelve years old tops. Obviously, he looked just as adorable then as he does now. Not that I’m surprised. Of course he would be the “you’re going to be hot when you grow up” kid.
As for me, I was some other type of kid. I was the “don’t worry, there’s hope for everybody” kid.
What rubs me the wrong way is the third and last picture. It’s a portrait of Haze. Alone. He looks older. I’d say around fourteen or fifteen years old.
He’s still so young, but something in his eyes is different, darker. No sign of that boyish smile from the first picture. As sad as it is, the only word that comes to my mind when I analyze his perfect features is “broken.”
He’s broken.
Now that I think about it, I still see this exact same look in his eyes to this day. Something happened between these two pictures, no doubt. But what?
I hear distant footsteps and jump. My instinct tells me to get away from the pictures, which I do as best as I can, before he turns the corner.
By the time he walks back into the room, I’m sitting on the couch and pretending that my crappy phone is somewhat interesting. He starts to say something but quickly cuts himself off when his gaze lands on the pictures I was looking at barely ten seconds ago. His face twitches in irritation. He just noticed them. If he’d known about them sooner, they wouldn’t have been there for me to see, I’m sure of it. He’ll probably just snatch them and put them away when I’m not looking.
“Ready for that tour?” He turns to me.
“Seventy-five rooms later,” I say in a ridiculous narrator voice that draws a small laugh from him.
“You think this is big? You should see the one we have in Arizona.”
“Brag much?”
He smiles and holds out his hand to get me up from the couch. “Always, Kingston. Always.”
The tour goes by a lot quicker than I anticipated. When we reach the second floor, I’m astonished by the numerous closed doors surrounding me. Haze said that the house has nine bathrooms. Nine.
What the hell did the Adamses do with nine bathrooms?
“Where’s my room?” I ask.
He opens the door on his right. A bedroom. My eyes scan over the large room that’s obviously a boy’s. Probably his.
“You mean our room.”
My lips part.
“Oh, come on. You didn’t really think I’d let you sleep alone, did you? I mean… my house, my rules.”
The look on my face must be priceless because he starts laughing seconds later.
“Relax, I’m kidding. It gets cold around here. That’s the warmest room in the house, so it’s either that or pneumonia. But, hey, it’s your choice.” He puts his hands up.
Dang it.
“Look, I promise to stay on my side of the bed. Plus, it’s only for a few weeks. What are you afraid of?”
I bite my tongue so as not to talk back.
“So this is where you used to sleep, huh?” I change the topic.
“Yep.” He sits on the edge of a bed he knows all too well.
“Where are these clothes of yours?”
He gets up, walks to his dresser, and opens a drawer.
I can’t help myself. “Five bucks says it doesn’t fit.”
He arches an eyebrow, accepting the challenge, and reaches for a blue T-shirt in the bottom drawer.
“Oh my God.” I gasp.
“What?” He jumps a little.
“Colors!”
I catch his grin. “You’re an idiot.”
“What? It’s true. You never wear any. Do you actually own something other than black T-shirts?”
“Colors aren’t my thing,” he says.
“Could you be more of a Casanova cliché?” I roll my eyes.
“I mean, if you insist.”
He casually removes his shirt and throws it on the floor. I can’t help but pry my eyes away.
“Haze!” I yelp.
“What? You asked.”
Right. Because this is totally helping me in the “let’s be friends” department.
“Did you put it on yet?”
“Yeah.”
I turn around, only to find him still very much half-naked. “But you said…”
“I know what I said.” He smiles.
Oh freaking hell.
I miserably lose the fight and let myself stare at his toned body. It’s almost like he’s doing it on purpose. Like he wants to see me drool over him.
“Enjoying the show?” he asks after a few seconds of me gawking.
I come back to the land of the non-drooling living and shake my head in the hope that it will shake the embarrassment off my cheeks, too.
“Just put the damn shirt on.”
Finally, he does. No, wait—he tries , but it doesn’t go quite as planned. Uncontrollable laughter crawls up my throat at the unexpected sight offering itself to me.
Haze. Stuck in an undersized T-shirt that stops in the middle of his stomach.
His broad shoulders stretch the fabric that holds on for dear life to his sculpted body. It might not sound like much, but it’s hands down the most hilarious thing I’ve seen in a while.
“It’s not funny,” he hisses.
This only makes me laugh harder. This is definitely Karma punishing him for all the teasing he’s been doing. Needed to kick the sexual tension down a notch.
He tries to remove it but struggles to free himself.
“Winter… I can’t take it off.”
I’m suffocating at this point.
I try to speak between chuckles. “Are… are you serious?”
“Do you think I’d still be wearing this ridiculous thing if I wasn’t?”
“You said you used to come here two years ago.”
“Maybe it was two. Maybe it was five. Same thing.” He growls in annoyance.
This strangely reminds me of the motorcycle helmet incident. He had to get the helmet off of my head, and now I need to free him from a T-shirt.
Oh, how the tables have turned.
“Don’t just stand there. Help me.”
I barely swallow my laughter when he motions to come closer. Swiftly, he grabs my wrists and places both my hands on his chest.
“There,” he says.
I wait for him to tell me what to do next. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stares. All I can do is feel his torso through the light fabric of the nightmare he calls a T-shirt. The fact that I’m still attracted to him when he’s stuck in a kid’s T-shirt just shows me how far gone I am.
Like he can hear every forbidden thought clouding my judgment, he fixes on my lips and nibbles on his lightly. He starts to lean in.
He wouldn’t…
He wouldn’t kiss me again, would he?
As though he’s come back to his senses, he stops.
“Never mind, I got it.”
He pulls away and takes the shirt off like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Wait… You clearly didn’t need me,” I stutter.
“I know. I wanted to feel your hands on my chest.” He grins and heads back for the drawer.
This guy.
Haze Adams masters playing with my emotions like there’s an instruction manual.
Amused by the shock I’m drowning in, he picks up his old shirt from the ground and throws it back on.
“Come on. We have to go.”
“Go where?”
“Shopping. I need new clothes, and we’re eventually going to need to eat to, you know, survive,” he teases.
I hold back a sigh. I haven’t even been here with him for a day yet and I already feel like the tension’s going to end me. His careless words sneak their way back inside my head.
It’s only for a few weeks. What are you afraid of?
And all I have to say to that is…
Oh, Haze. Do you have any idea how many things can happen in a few weeks?