5. Elsie
Elsie
Ididn’t sleep well, I kept tossing and turning for most of the night, and that’s why I’m sitting at this table at seven in the morning, staring at a blank document, replaying how Hugo acted yesterday.
He lifted his hand as though he was reaching out to touch me, but he pulled back just at the last minute.
Because wanting something doesn't make it right.
I’m annoyed, not disappointed that he stopped, because why would I be disappointed about that?
That would imply I wanted him to keep going, which I absolutely did not, except apparently my body didn't get that memo.
Because I lay awake until close to one in the morning thinking about his hand near my jaw and what his mouth would have felt like if he had not had the good sense to step back like a functioning adult.
I open the manuscript and sigh. I’m at chapter twelve and Callum is mid-conversation with the heroine about her feelings. He’s being charming, patient and perfect.
I delete the line, it’s too cutesy, too polished.
Instead, I write: He doesn’t say much. He listens, taking everything in, those serious brown eyes watching.
I stare at the screen.
Wait.
Callum doesn’t have brown eyes, but Hugo does.
Crap.
I delete the line and close my laptop. Now isn’t the right time to write when I’m thinking of Hugo.
Two Weeks Later
I go to Whitfield and Sons Hardware before work, because Hugo was right about the boots, which I hate. After all, I don't enjoy a man being right about anything to do with me within the first week of knowing him.
"You're the writer," the lady I assume is Doris says, before I have said a single word, she’s looking at me over her glasses. "Staying up on Ridge Line."
"Word travels fast,” I say with a smile.
"It’s a small town, everyone knows everyone and if we don’t, we get to know them." She comes around the counter. "I’m Doris, what do you need?"
"Hi Doris, I’m Elsie. I need boots. Work boots, to be more specific, ones with grips."
Doris looks at me for a long moment, her brows narrowed. "Hugo told you to come in, didn't he?"
I jut my chin out. "I'm choosing to believe this was my idea."
"Of course it was, honey." She’s already walking toward a wall of boxes.
"He sent the Caldwell boy in here for the same reason last spring.
Told him he was going to break his neck on the south ridge in sneakers.
The boy listened, most people around here listen to Hugo about roads.
It's the one subject nobody argues with him on. "
She finds my size, hands me a pair that looks practical, and watches me try them, her gaze focused on my feet.
"Good," she says. "Tell him Doris approved."
I gape at her. The hell? "I'm not reporting back to him."
"Sure you're not, honey,” she says with a laugh.
I pay her for the boots and leave, glad to escape from her craziness. The woman looked gleeful at me, reporting her approval to Hugo.
Kincaid's is busy when I stop in for coffee. A waitress with silver-streaked hair and reading glasses on a chain takes one look at me and says, "You're the one staying up on the Ridge Line cabin, am I right?"
"How does everyone know that? Can I have a black coffee with a splash of cream, please?"
"Small town, sweetheart. We know who's renting what and how long they're planning on staying." She’s already pouring my coffee. "You're working with Hugo's crew now, too, I hear."
"Word really does travel fast," I say.
She laughs. "Small towns, everyone knows everything."
Two men in work jackets are at the counter a few stools down, talking about the upper ridge culvert and whether the new grading will hold through the next storm.
"If Hugo says it'll hold, it'll hold," one of them says matter-of-factly. The complete faith they have in him is amazing and a sight to behold.
I have a feeling that Hugo has no idea how respected and valued he truly is.
I thank the waitress for my coffee as I pay her and head back to the office. Hugo looks at my boots the second I walk in.
"Good," he says. “Glad you got them.”
"Careful," I say. "That almost sounded like gloating."
He raises a brow as he watches me move through the office. I sit down at the desk and pull up the upper ridge culvert file, which is in nearly as bad a state as the south bridge was. I get to work and ignore the stupid smirk on his face.
Hugo is in and out, on calls, checking the weather, signing off on something Darnell brings him.
Every time he comes back into the room, I’m aware of him; I can sense exactly where he is without looking up.
At one point there’s a coffee at my elbow that wasn't there before; I didn’t see him bring it in, and he didn’t tell me.
It’s sweet that he thought of me and made the coffee exactly the way that I like it. I ignore the way my heart races at the gesture.
"Folder whisperer," Corey says, sticking his head around the door and sheepishly grinning at me. "Can you do my apartment next? I've got a closet that I can no longer see into."
"I charge in baked goods," I say with a smile, knowing that cleaning out his closet will be relaxing, not to mention that I’ll get an even better insight into who Corey is.
"Done. Marlene's pie okay?"
I nod. "Marlene's pie is always okay."
I notice Hugo’s ears get red and his shoulders tighten, but he doesn’t raise his head and look over at Corey and I. He’s focused on his work at his desk. He’s been quiet today and I have a feeling that it’s due to what happened yesterday.
By early afternoon I’m smiling like a crazy person because I finally managed to create a master index, one page, every site cross-referenced: site code, repair type, damage date, photo count, crew hours, receipts, final inspection note, supplementary documentation if needed.
I’m so pleased with myself that when I show it to Hugo, I can barely contain my glee.
He looks at it for a long moment, scrolling, checking entries against ones he clearly has memorized. "This helps," he says. "A lot."
"That'll make the inspection easier," I say, still grinning. I don’t think I’ve ever been so damn proud of myself, at least not in a while.
"It will," he agrees.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at it without thinking, then I see it and my whole body goes cold in under a second.
It is not a message this time, no, it’s a tag.
Someone I don’t know, a complete stranger, has tagged me in a clip from Daniel's podcast that is apparently making the rounds again, it’s the part where he talks about needing someone "less emotional, less intense. "
Underneath it, someone has commented: is this about u??? with three crying laughing emojis, like my humiliation is content, like it is funny, like fourteen thousand people didn’t already hear this the first time.
My stomach drops, my hands go cold, and I can feel my face getting hotter. I know I’m about to either cry or laugh, and usually I’ve managed to laugh when this happens, but it takes effort. I lock the phone and set it face down, trying to ignore it.
"Daniel again?" Hugo asks.
How did he know it was Daniel? Oh, he saw my text earlier.
Damn. "Technically it's the internet," I say.
"Daniel just provides the source material.
" I sigh, and play with the hem of my top.
"I hate that he can still do this," I say, before I can stop myself.
"I hate that strangers have opinions about how I loved someone.
I write happy endings for a living, Hugo.
I write people falling in love and choosing each other and getting it right, and I missed every single red flag in my own life.
Every single one. I should have seen it coming and I didn't, and now apparently that's funny to people I've never met. "
He is quiet for a second. "Do you want him blocked?" he asks. "That account, or whoever tagged you."
"I can do it myself."
"I know." He does not move to take the phone; he just waits, like he has all the time in the world, like there is nowhere else he needs to be.
I pick the phone back up, my hands not quite steady. I block the account that tagged me and I mute the thread. I sit there for a second with my thumb over Daniel's contact, and then I block that too, something that I should have done a long time ago.
"Being hurt by someone doesn't make you stupid," Hugo says.
"You don't know that."
"Elsie,” he says, almost like a growl. "He used what you felt against you," he says. "On a podcast, to strangers, that says more about him and nothing about you."
I don’t say anything because if I open my mouth right now, something is going to crack inside of me, and I’m not ready to crack in the middle of a workday. I didn’t realize he looked into me, that he found out everything online. Crap.
He doesn’t push further, just goes back to looking at whatever he was doing on desk, but within ten minutes there’s a fresh coffee at my elbow, the cold one quietly swapped out, and somehow he’s managed to make me feel steadier than I have felt in a long time.
Daniel talked beautifully and made me feel small, whereas Hugo barely talks at all and somehow makes me feel like the ground is solid again.
I don’t know what to do with that and I have no idea what to do about the way my heart skips when I catch Hugo watching me.
By the time I’m getting ready to leave, it’s sleeting. I can hear it hitting against the window, it’s heavy, judging by the way it slams against the glass. Hugo has checked the weather report twice in the past twenty minutes.
"I'm driving you back," he says as I get to my feet and pack my bag up.
"I have a car," I remind him. I have a very reliable vehicle that I trust.
"Leave it here. The shoulder near your road is icy on top of soft. I'm not putting you on it in this."
"I drove through worse to get here."
He crosses his arms over his chest. "Not at night, in sleet, on a road I already told you was unstable."
I glare at the man. "Hugo, I am a grown woman who has been driving since I was sixteen."
"The road doesn't care how independent you are and neither does the snow or ice."
God, I hate that he’s right, ugh, why does he always have to be right?
I get in his truck and sit in silence in the cab; it’s dark and quiet. Hugo has the radio on low, his jaw is tight and his hands are clasped on the steering wheel. Sleet ticks against the windscreen.
The journey to my cabin is silent, but it’s a comfortable silence that allows me to just relax, knowing that I’m safe with Hugo.
He pulls up at the cabin, and the porch is on, lighting the way, it’s set on a timer, Hugo gets out before I can, comes around, checks the steps, which have a thin glaze of ice forming already.
"Careful," he says, offering a hand as I step down.
I take it, I don’t need to, but I take it anyway. We get to the door, where he checks it’s locked properly, checks the porch rail, glances back toward the road like he is already thinking about the drive back.
"You don't have to keep doing this," I say.
"I know."
"Then why do you?"
He does not answer right away. The sleet keeps hitting against the porch roof.
"You can't keep acting like I'm your responsibility," I say. "I'm not. I'm just a temporary admin help. I'm not your problem to manage."
"I know," he says again.
"Then stop."
"I'm trying."
Ugh, this man is infuriating. "Trying doesn't seem to be working," I say.
I don’t know which one of us moves first, but his hand comes up to my jaw the way it almost did last night, except this time he doesn’t stop, and his mouth is on mine.
It’s rough and not as restrained as I think Hugo would want, but God, the man can kiss, he takes my breath away as his lips press harder against my own.
My back finds the cold wood of the door, and his other hand settles at my waist.
I feel wanted, not managed, not pitied, and not a problem someone is fixing. I feel wanted.
He kisses me like he's been starving himself of it, and I kiss him back because I have spent three weeks telling myself this would be ridiculous and I’m done holding back.
Then he pulls back, his breathing hard, his jaw tight, and his hand is still at my waist. "This can't happen again," he says, roughly.
I look at him and see the want and need blazing in his eyes. "You're a terrible liar, Hugo," I say.
He doesn’t argue, which is good, because I can still feel his mouth on my skin and his hands every place he touched me.
I’m already in enough trouble without pretending either of us believes him.