30. Aspen
ASPEN
“Happy birthday!”
I made it down to breakfast before Blake got up, for once, so I could present him with his cake. I even found a candle at the back of one of the kitchen drawers which I’ve stuck in the top. When I heard Blake’s footsteps approach, I lit it using the burner.
He raises his eyebrows at the sight. “Oh, wow. I didn’t expect you to do anything special for me.”
I roll my eyes, but secretly, I’m pleased. “It’s only cake. Everyone needs to have cake on their birthday.”
“Not when they get to my age, but thank you. This is really sweet of you, Pen.”
I glow under his response. I’m not getting the sense of any awkwardness between us, so I’m hoping my paranoia about him avoiding me was exactly that, just paranoia.
Now some time has passed, that moment in my bed, with me using his hand without him knowing, feels like a fever dream.
Like I can convince myself it never really happened.
“Blow out the candle, then,” I insist.
He leans in and puffs out the candle with one breath.
I grin. “Did you make a wish?”
He locks his gaze on me. “I already have everything I could possibly need right here and now.”
A moment hangs between us, and my breath catches, my pulse racing, sending fire rushing through my veins.
Does he mean me? I’d somehow convinced myself that everything was normal between us, but all it takes is one look from him and I’m right back in that bed again, needy and desperate.
Does he have any idea the effect he has on me?
He plucks the candle out of the icing. “I’m glad you didn’t find forty-odd of those suckers to light up. The hotel might have burned down.”
I force a smile. “Forty is not that many.”
“Easy for you to say when you’re only eighteen. Wait till you get to my age, and then you can have an opinion on how old forty is.”
“Well, you definitely don’t look old.”
I think about how he looked in only a towel.
How thick and defined his muscles were. How much of his skin is covered in ink.
His long hair damp and curling down his spine.
The way the towel had hugged his ass, and I’d been so sure I’d been able to see the defined shape of his cock beneath the material.
My face burns, and I suddenly can’t look at him. I need to change the subject.
“Levi helped me bake it,” I say.
His jaw drops. “Levi baked a cake?”
“He read out the instructions for me, anyway, and took it out of the oven because I burned my fingers.”
His forehead furrows. “You burned your fingers?”
“Yes, but they’re fine now.”
“Let me see.”
“They’re fine,” I repeat.
But he grabs my right hand and holds it up. He presses his lips together in disapproval, his nostrils flaring. “You should have told me if you got hurt. You need a doctor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I try to tug my hand away, but just like his son had done yesterday, he holds it tight. What is it with these men and not letting me go? “They’re fine, just a bit red. They didn’t even blister.”
“You tell me next time you get hurt. I don’t care how small or insignificant you think it is. If you get a fucking papercut, I want to know about it. Got it?”
He’s being intense. A part of me kind of likes it, while the other part wants to tell him to stop being so overbearing.
“Okay, okay. It’s not a big deal, though.”
“If you’re in pain, it is a big deal. It’s a big deal to me.”
He’s still got hold of my hand, but now he’s stroking the back of it with his thumb.
It’s almost absentminded, and I wonder if he even realizes he continues to hold it.
I tighten my fingers around his, suddenly never wanting him to let go.
His skin is warm and dry, and a little calloused from all the manual labor he does.
If he cares about me getting hurt, it means he cares about me.
It’s all I wanted—someone else in my life who gives a shit about me.
I never imagined it would end up being my father’s ex-best friend, but it is.
I just wish I wasn’t so confused about my feelings toward him.
He clearly sees me as a young girl—his ex-best friend’s daughter—and the idea of it being anything more than that probably disgusts him.
Yet for some reason, I can’t help feeling this undeniable pull toward him, and both my heart and my body see him as far more than a father figure.
I close my eyes briefly. Daddy issues. My dad just died, and it’s clear his death has left a gaping hole in my heart, which I’m trying to fill with Blake. Trouble is, I keep wanting him to fill other holes, too, and that won’t do at all.
I clear my throat and pull my hand out of his grip.
I’m worried I’ll end up doing or saying something I’ll regret if I keep allowing him to touch me.
I wasn’t exactly self-restrained the other night when he’d been in bed with me, and I don’t completely trust myself not to throw the cake on the floor, crawl across the table, and straddle his lap.
I’d grind my pussy against his erection and kiss him hard.
I’ll give him a birthday gift that’s far more memorable than a stupid cake.
My skin tingles with arousal and my nipples tighten. I get to my feet and turn away before he has the chance to read the thoughts on my face. I go to the cupboards and find plates, then get a knife and a couple of forks.
“Chocolate cake for breakfast?” He arches his brow questioningly.
“Absolutely.”
“Oh,” he says, as though he’s only just remembered something, “I have something for you, too.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of pencils, exactly the same as the ones I lost. “I found them, just outside of the maze. You must have dropped them there.”
“Thank you so much.”
I take the pencils from him, confused. I’d been sure I hadn’t dropped them outside of the maze.
Surely I would have noticed? But I guess I’d been in a bit of a flap, so it’s understandable that I hadn’t.
I was sure I’d lost them somewhere deeper, but the only way Blake would have found them was if he’d gone in looking, or if he’d already been behind me when I’d dropped them and he’d picked them up then.
No, that’s crazy thinking. I’d run into him when I’d exited the maze, so he couldn’t have been behind me.
And why would he have been? Blake isn’t going to scare me on purpose, even if I had briefly thought he might the other night.
I know now that was just my paranoia talking. That’s more Levi’s territory.
I’ve already made coffee, so I pour us both a cup. I wonder if Levi is going to join us. Perhaps I should have saved the candle blowing and cutting of the cake for when he was here, but I didn’t even think about it, and now I feel guilty. Like he said, Blake is his father, not mine.
“Should we wait for Levi?” I ask.
“Nah, he took off fishing at about five this morning. He won’t be back for hours.”
That makes me feel a little better. I finish dishing up the cake and pouring the coffee and set them both on the table.
“So, what are your plans for the day?” I ask, taking a sip of my coffee.
“Eat cake.” He grins. “Then work on the hotel. Much the same as always. What about you?”
“You need an extra pair of hands? I can pick up that paintbrush.”
At first, I think he’s going to say no, but then he shrugs. “Sure. We’re painting the outside today, and the glare off the white walls can get a bit much, so you’re going to want to wear a hat.”
“I can manage that. I have a baseball cap I can throw on.” The thought of working at Blake’s side all day fills me with pleasure.
As long as he doesn’t ask me to read the instructions off a can of paint or try to decipher what ridiculous name it might have—Ethereal Toothpaste or Whisper of Beige—we’ll be good.
We finish eating our chocolate cake breakfast, and Blake gets to his feet. “See you outside in fifteen?”
“Sure.”
“And thanks for the cake, Pen. That was really sweet of you.”
He rounds to my side of the table and leans down to kiss my cheek.
His hand slides through my hair at my nape as he holds me in place.
I can barely breathe as his beard grazes my skin and his lips press firmly against the spot just beneath my cheekbone.
All I’m aware of is his physical proximity, and I’d swear he lingers a moment too long.
His hand in my hair, his lips against my skin, his nose brushing my temple.
I think I’m about to ignite.
But he releases me and steps away.
“See you soon,” he throws over his shoulder, then he’s gone.
I place both my palms on the table and slowly lower my forehead to the wood.
It’s all I can do to stop myself lifting back up and slamming my head back down.
I swear I’m going to erupt in sexual frustration any day now.
Who needs a home, anyway, right? It’ll almost be worth blowing up my already precarious life just to wrap my thighs around his hips and feel his tongue in my mouth.
Still, I’m in a good mood. Levi is nowhere around, and I get to spend the day at Blake’s side, so I can’t complain.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m outside in clothes I don’t mind getting paint on, with the baseball cap dangling from my hand. Blake has already gotten started, and he hands me a paintbrush and a can of paint.
“You need to put on the cap,” he tells me. “It doesn’t feel that warm, but you can still burn, especially with your complexion.”
“Sure.”
I pull my hair into the back of the ballcap, so the hole in the back creates a kind of ponytail.
My fingers pause, feeling something not quite right.
Is that a shorter piece of hair? A tufty part barely an inch long sticking out from my scalp?
I’m confused. How on earth did that happen?
I try to think of a moment where I might have caught my hair on something sharp, but I can’t.
Surely I would have noticed if I’d caught it on something badly enough that it would have sliced a big chunk off?
I hate the uneasiness now swirling around my stomach.
I know I definitely didn’t cut off a chunk of my hair, which means someone else did.
But who and when? How did they manage it without me noticing?
Had it happened when I’d been sleeping? The only time I’d been asleep with someone else in my room had been the other night with Blake, but surely he wouldn’t do something like that?
I shift my gaze over to him. I think of everything that’s happened since I’ve been here—the strange stick dolls, the sense of someone following me—but it’s hard to picture Blake being involved.
No, it’s far more likely to be Levi.
The discovery has ruined my good mood, but it’s Blake’s birthday and I don’t want to spoil it for him.
“Everything okay, Pen?” he asks, twin divots appearing between his eyebrows.
I force a smile. “Absolutely.”
Should I confront Levi? What would be the point? He’d just deny it, or even worse, laugh and ask me what I’m planning to do about it.
All the softening I’d felt toward him since he helped me with the cake vanishes in an instant.
What the hell is he doing with a chunk of my hair?
I almost don’t want to know. I think of the stick dolls.
Is he adding hair to them now? Creating some kind of voodoo doll out of them so he can torture me?
He was only being nice to me because it gave him the opportunity to get close enough to me to cut my hair. When had he done it—when we were standing at the sink? I’m sure it was the only time he had the chance.
One thing I’m sure of, Levi cannot be trusted an inch.