Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Ledger
My hair is still slightly damp from my shower, and I run a hand through it while staring at my temporary roommate’s open suitcases strewn around the living room.
Most of the contents seem to be clothing, although one bag in particular is nothing but cameras, each neatly protected in their own section of the suitcase by a plush divider.
Another one looks to be filled with an array of different lenses.
So . . . photographer? That, or just an obsession with camera collecting.
On the corner of one open suitcase, a white bikini top hangs over. The strings are tiny, and the triangle of fabric attached isn’t much bigger. As if on cue to smack me back to reality before my next thought, I hear the shower turn off in the bathroom.
She’s been in there for about twenty minutes. I did my best to stay busy while she freshened up, tidying the space and stocking the log holder for a cold night ahead. As a warm-blooded adult man, it still wasn’t enough to keep me from wondering what the hell she was doing in there for so long.
The handle to my bedroom door turns, and I move instantly, pretending to pick a book off the shelf. Soft footsteps patter across the hardwood floor behind me.
“I feel so much better,” she sighs.
I look over my shoulder, assuming she’s decent since she’s striking up a conversation.
She’s got another sweater on, a different one this time.
It’s way too big for her, but looks soft and comfortable.
Her black leggings cling to her like a second skin, and I wish I would have stayed staring at the bookshelf instead of at her.
She plops down on the couch and reaches for the nearest knit blanket as if she’s lived here for years and this is her nightly ritual.
“Wanna watch a movie?” She’s being more relaxed and friendly with me now, which I definitely prefer compared to the scared version of her when I was trying to convince her to get out of the snow and into my truck.
I clear my throat. “I—don’t have a TV.”
“Oh,” she says with a wrinkled brow. “We could use my computer. What’s your WiFi password?”
Before I can answer, she leans forward and unzips the front pocket of one of her bags, pulling out a silver laptop covered in stickers.
“No WiFi either,” I chuckle.
My body stills, waiting for her reaction.
I expect her to throw a fit and wave her hands around, whining over what the hell she’s going to do until the storm passes if there’s no TV or internet. But she doesn’t. In fact, her eyes light up and she snuggles deeper into the couch cushions.
My brows draw together and I tilt my head, studying her. The bored sighs and annoyed huffs should begin any minute now.
“Okay.” She smiles. “So our choices are pajama party or turning in to get some sleep. Your pick.”
Huh?
I’m not tired, so my vote is pajama party. Whatever the fuck that is.
At that moment, I catch her scanning over my black shorts and hoodie. She holds her gaze a little longer on my legs.
I look down and hold my arms out to my side. “Do I need to find some old flannel plaid pants to qualify for the pajama party or what?”
“No!” She sits up abruptly, sending the blanket that was across her legs to the side in protest. “I mean—the shorts . . . could be considered adequate attire. I’ll let it slide.”
“Good because I get hot when I sleep.”
“Right,” she says softly. “Of course.”
Rather than pulling the blanket to cover her again, she stands and walks toward me. I don’t know why I tense up, but my fists clench as she steps up to the bookshelf and runs her fingers along the spines.
“I love the look of old books. And the smell. Why is it so calming?”
I barely hear her speaking because the only thing I can focus on is the fact that she very clearly used my bar of soap.
I can’t help but inhale, just to double check.
There’s no mistaking it, and I take a step to the left to put a few feet of distance between us before I lean in and start teasing her about it.
“Are they here for the aesthetic or do you actually read them? Be honest.” She points her finger to my chest with one raised brow.
I huff and lift my hand to straighten a few of the books that were sticking out too far. “I read them. No TV or internet, remember?”
Based on her satisfied nod, I think she likes that answer.
She bends her knees, eyeing the lower shelf, and finally slides one out of its place to inspect it.
“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Please say this is a joke. You do not dog ear.”
I take the book from her hands and have a look for myself.
It’s one of the oldest ones on the shelf.
The familiar yellowed pages, frayed edges, and a thin line of dust on the top might not mean much to most. To me, it means a whole lot.
On the inside cover, the initials BC are written in black pen.
Just like in most of the other books on this shelf.
“That was probably my grandpa,” I say with a knowing nod. “These were his before he passed them down to me. He used to read them to me when I was younger. I’ve collected some and added to the shelf myself over the years too.”
I turn the book toward her, holding it up so that she can see the initials on the inside.
“What do the initials stand for?”
“Bryce Cole. We all called him Papa.”
Izzy places one hand on my forearm and the other over her heart while she listens to me intently. I almost shrug her touch off at first. There was a zap of electricity when she laid her hand on me, even through the sleeve of my hoodie.
“And now you display them on this beautiful shelf. And still read them? That’s—incredibly sweet. I bet he would be so happy about that.”
“When I was young and he read them out loud to me, he’d use different voices for each character.” I pause for a light laugh, remembering. “It’s a good memory.”
I don’t know what came over me, sharing that. I’m typically a private person, even with people I know well. Izzy is easy to talk to, especially for someone I know little to nothing about, but it still comes as a surprise to me that I felt like she’d want to hear what I had to say in that moment.
“He was a fan of westerns, I see,” she says with a smile.
“That’s an understatement.”
Among the small mass-market paperbacks are all the heavy hitters, of course—Lonesome Dove, Hondo, and True Grit, to name a few.
But some of the most loved and worn-in ones are more rare.
There’s a first edition of Fighting Caravans on the top left that I haven’t touched out of fear I’d damage it.
He was real proud of owning that one. Never cared about keeping it in good condition, though.
He’d read it once a month, it seemed like.
“Which one should I read?”
I place the book I took from her back in its rightful spot, then lean an arm on the shelf, turning to face her.
“You want to read one?”
“I don’t know you well enough to have a pillow fight, so a reading marathon is the next best pajama party activity, don’t you think?”
I laugh. It makes my chest feel light, which isn’t common when I talk to people. I hate talking to people. And I most certainly don’t laugh while doing it.
“What about this one?” She pulls out a particularly thin one with forest green edges. Stranger With A Gun.
“It’s a good one,” I admit, but tilt my head the more I remember about it. “The cattle drive to Montana is cool. Love triangle, not so much.”
“It’s romance?” she nearly shrieks, now thumbing through the pages like she’ll find something there that will instantly convince her to pick this one.
“Not a romance.” I chuckle. “Not really. But a lot of them have a little love story mixed in, I guess.”
“What do you have against love triangles?” she questions while putting the book back and scanning the shelf once again.
I lean toward her a few inches. “Not a fan of sharing.”
Her eyes widen and her lips purse ever so slightly, but she doesn’t turn her head to look at me.
“Alright, then. Which one is your favorite?”
“Top right.” I point without hesitation. “Conagher.”
The fireplace casts a shadow of her silhouette across the books as she rises to her tiptoes and extends her arm as far as it’ll go. It’s clear she won’t be able to reach it without help. I step closer to her side and reach for it myself.
Purposely avoiding her hand so I don’t make her uncomfortable, I hook my index finger over the top of the spine and slide the book out. Not touching hands turned out to be pointless, though. Because the moment she realizes what I’m doing, she drops her weight on the heels of her feet and backs up.
Her back meets my front, she gasps, and I do what I can to shuffle out of the way quickly.
“Sorry,” I mumble while holding out the book in front of me for her to take.
She looks down and pulls at the right sleeve of her sweater. “Thanks.”
A beat passes where neither of us move a muscle, making the air between us feel tense. I concentrate with my brows drawn together, trying to make sense of it.
There’s no denying that there’s an instant attraction here. I’ve never felt that way about anyone I’ve met just because I thought they were beautiful, though, so it’s hard to fathom the intensity.
My mind starts spinning, and I mindlessly grab a random book off the shelf for myself to stop the overthinking.
It doesn’t work.
Book in hand, Izzy spins on her heel and walks to her spot on the end of the couch. Putting as much distance between us as possible, I settle on the opposite corner of the sectional.
The moment she leans back, pulls the blanket over her body, and opens to page one, I wish I would have let her pick one out herself instead of recommending that one.
If she hates my favorite book, this is going to be a long weekend.