Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Izzy
In theory, a good night’s sleep would have suppressed an emotional hangover from yesterday’s roller coaster. I didn’t toss and turn much, but a full eight hours of shut-eye didn’t exactly do the trick like I’d hoped it would.
I’d barely opened my eyes when I woke up to the sound of Ledger stoking the fire.
He was fully dressed, from his thick coat and heavy boots to his stark black hat.
From my view behind him, I could see his long hair peeking out over the nape of his neck.
I don’t know what made me sit up and turn to watch him walk away when he trudged out the door.
But I stayed that way for several minutes, strangely attached to the idea of watching him walk back in again once he returned.
At the kitchen counter, I lift the blue and white speckled mug of coffee to my lips, blowing on the steaming liquid before taking a sip. Over the rim, my eyes land on the stainless-steel refrigerator. The doors are littered with candid pictures.
Taking the coffee with me, I pad softly to the fridge.
Several of the photos are clearly at the same place—a cattle ranch, I think.
I recognize Ledger’s facial features in the older couple standing in front of a barn.
There’s one of a young girl in the saddle, with Ledger standing next to the horse.
One hand is in his pocket and the other is around the back of the girl’s saddle.
There are Christmas cards that are a few months old, a wedding invitation, and a scribbled hand-written grocery list. A gift receipt from a jewelry store hangs beneath a magnet. The same handwriting from the grocery list wrote “Mom—birthday” at the bottom of the receipt.
An incomplete puzzle of pieces of his life and personality start fitting together in my head, only making my curiosity about him more intense than it was before. The corner of my thumb finds its way between my teeth, and I continue staring at the clues to the answers that I want.
Jolting me from my thoughts, the front door swings open, letting in a rush of frigid air and bursts of swirling flakes of snow. Ledger slams the door shut behind him, and I jump on the spot, scurrying back to the counter and sitting on one of the bar stools.
I expect him to tell me that he’s fixed my car somehow and checked the roads to make sure I was safe to leave. But his brows are drawn together, and he lets out a heavy breath.
“You want the good news or the bad?”
“Bad,” I reply confidently. Always the bad first.
He kicks off his boots and places them neatly by the door, just like he did the day before. “You’re not getting out of here today.”
“Oh.” My back straightens, and I think on it for a minute. Is that such bad news? He might think so. He wants me gone, I’m sure.
“But I think we can whip up something good for breakfast. Read some more. If you want, I mean. I know it’s a little boring, but—”
“I don’t think it’s boring at all.”
His tongue rolls over the side of his teeth while he studies me. I raise my eyebrows and lift the corner of my mouth in reassurance while he shucks off his coat, never breaking eye contact in the process.
“Alright. Well, I got a guy coming first thing in the morning to get your car as long as there isn’t more snow overnight.”
My fingers curl tighter around my warm mug. “I’m very grateful that you’re letting me stay here. Thank you.”
He looks down, but nods.
“Oh, I raided your pantry a little bit and made some coffee. Hope that’s okay. There’s plenty left.” I point to the pot next to the sink. “If you need a little warming up.”
He drags a hand over the side of his slightly reddened face. His palm easily blocks out his entire cheek and jaw. Who has hands that big?
I silently kick myself for mentally running through a list of other ways I could help him warm up.
He’s forced to be here with me, and probably can’t wait for me to leave. And yet all I can do is picture him with nothing but that fucking hat on.
My delusional thoughts continue to reign supreme as soon as he loosens the top button of his thermal shirt and then lightly tugs at the collar.
Despite his size, his movements are deft. He’d know exactly how to touch a woman. I just know it.
I clear my throat and shakily stand to walk toward my pile of suitcases. “I’m just going to brush my teeth and change my clothes.”
It’s oddly erotic getting naked and changing in his room. He can’t see me, but I can feel him in this space. For a moment, I lay flat on my stomach, stretched over his bed with my face in the comforter.
If only he were rude, stupid, or repulsively ugly. That I could handle. I’d have no trouble sharing space if that were the case.
But he’s none of those things, and as soon as I start picturing him again, I let out a groan that is thankfully muffled by the comforter.
He’s not that hot, I try to convince myself.
It doesn’t work. He is that hot, and there’s no sense in denying it.
The sigh that leaves my body is a combination of frustration and rage.
After another minute of pouting on his bed, I finally admit to myself that I can’t shake the idea of learning everything I can about this man. If I could stop the urge in order to feel less deranged, I would. But it’s inescapable.
God. Dramatic, much?
Fully aware of the fact that my horny pity party has gone on far too long, I pull myself to a respectable standing position again and roll my shoulders back.
I know I should come up with something more level-headed to think about. But throwing caution to the wind and begging him to defile me while I’m here and he has the chance is really all I can come up with.
I’m getting antsy after eating my weight in roast and potatoes, taking two restless naps, and periodically reading the day away.
My cognitive ability to not flirt with Ledger is threatening to disappear as a result, and I’m about to just come out with it—explaining that we have nothing better to do than makeout. So, like, why aren’t we kissing?
Thankfully, he breaks the silence for me, and I can tamp down my stupid notions. I perk up as soon as I register his question.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Everywhere. Nowhere. Why?”
“I don’t know, I was just thinking about it,” he admits. “I’m going to need more context than that, though.”
I twist my expression, trying to come up with an answer.
“My mom is a pilot, and my dad is a journalist. They homeschooled me, and we never stayed in one place too long. I don’t really come from anywhere in particular, honestly.
My grandparents on my mom’s side live in Colorado, not far from here.
I was born there, so I guess that counts as home.
We spent most of our downtime there between longer trips too. ”
“That must have been hard.”
“Oh, no! It was incredible. My childhood was very adventurous, and I feel lucky.”
His eyebrows raise at first, but then he nods in understanding. We’re both on the couch again, the same spots we were the night before. As if he’s still reflecting on my answer, he turns his face fully toward me with a quizzical look. “Wait, your mom flies planes?”
“If you’re playing the questions game again, no follow-ups allowed. Have you never played or what?”
He smiles and rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll use up one of my allotted questions for it, then.”
“Yes, she flies planes.”
“I’m taking one of yours away for asking if I’ve played before. But the answer is no. Not without a few drinks anyway.”
“I could use a drink.”
The silence between us is thick as my mouth starts to salivate at the mention of something to sip on.
Ledger grunts as he stands from the couch, and his arms reach above his head in a long stretch.
I can’t help the widening of my eyes as I watch him.
His hands nearly touch the fucking ceiling when he does that.
The exposed skin below the hem of his shorts is scattered in ink.
I wish I could stop staring. I really do. But it feels like someone hypnotized me, and it would take a force of nature to look away.
As soon as I stand and follow him into the kitchen, I miss the warmth from the fireplace and my blanket in the living room.
It’s like an entirely different climate just twenty feet away.
My feet patter lightly across the cold floor, stopping in front of a cabinet with glass doors.
There are several bottles inside that sound a whole lot more soothing than the cold water from the fridge that we’ve been drinking.
“Bad idea,” he warns.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be a stick in the mud.”
“I’m not, but if you get drunk and then go home and tell your parents some guy you don’t know anything about brought you to his house and got you hammered, they’re going to hate me.”
I pause my movements with a hand wrapped around a tall glass bottle full of clear liquid. “I know plenty about you. Ledger Cole. Lives on his own, likes old books, filthy boots, nice truck, has a sweet and funny mom. We’re practically friends already.”
He shakes his head with a huff.
“And why would you care what my parents think of you anyway?”
“I don’t,” he mumbles. I drop my chin and narrow my eyes at him. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a heavy breath. “Alright, fine. But this was your idea.”
I set the bottle on the counter and clap a few times. He acts like it annoys him by rolling his eyes as he moves to stand next to me, but I think there’s hidden amusement somewhere in his expression.
“Flavored vodka? No,” he says firmly, picking the bottle up and placing it back in the cabinet while twisting his face in disgust. “I didn’t even know I had that. My sister probably left it here. She doesn’t keep drinks at the ranch with my niece around.”
“I’m hitting the jackpot, I didn’t even ask the sibling question yet.”
He pauses for a moment, biting down on his molars. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. I don’t push for more information, choosing to remain silent and let him decide for himself what he wants to elaborate on and what he doesn’t.
Maybe I’m misreading it, but based on his slowly relaxing expression, I swear there’s a new understanding between us in that moment.
After a beat, he finally leans forward to reach the top shelf, pulling down a bottle of amber liquid. Its heavy glass bottom taps on the counter. It has a black label with white antlers and Stagg Jr in bold lettering.
Ledger looks behind him toward the windows on either side of the front door. Their corners are smothered with a slow creeping frost, and if you squint and look closely, you can spot the growing snow drifts right outside.
He clears his throat, and I try not to stare at the way his shirt stretches over his broad back while he grabs two short tumblers from the cabinet. With ease, he pulls the top off the bottle.
“It’s more whiskey weather, don’t you think?”