“I need another blanket.”
“Honey.”
“Please.”
The cool cloth stayed at my forehead but I felt strong fingers curl around my neck then they drifted down to my shoulder.
Then I heard the word “Fuck,” said softly and the covers were drawn away.
“No!” I cried, it was weak but it was a cry.
“Hang tight, baby.”
The bed moved and I fell back as substantial weight came in behind me.
Then his body was the length of my back, fitting itself into the curve of mine. I nestled backwards, deeper into his solid warmth as the tremors kept quaking my frame. His arm came around me, his hand found mine and the fingers of both my hands curled around his, hard, tight, holding on.
“So cold, Max.”
“Beat it back, Duchess.”
I nodded against the pillow and said, “I’ll try.”
It took awhile, the trembling keeping me awake, him holding me tight, his body pressed to mine.
What felt like hours later, when the tremors started to slide away, I called softly, “Max?”
“Right here,” came a gravelly yet drowsy reply.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
Then I slid into sleep, so exhausted, it felt like I’d fought an epic battle.
* * * * *
The cool cloth was again against my brow, sweeping back across my hair.
“Max?”
“Fever’s broke.”
“Mm,” I mumbled, falling back to sleep.
The words, “Work with me, Nina,” stopped my descent.
“Okay,” I whispered and I was moved to my back and then my upper body was pulled up.
“Lift your arms.”
I did as I was told and the t-shirt came off.
“You sweated it out, Duchess, you’re in the home stretch.”
“Okay.”
“Keep your arms up.”
“Okay.”
I felt another t-shirt come down over my arms, over my head. I felt it yanked down at my belly, my sides. I fell forward and felt my forehead resting against something soft and hard. The material was soft and it covered what I figured was a hard shoulder.
“You can drop your arms.”
“Okay.”
I dropped my arms and then I slid them around what felt like a man’s waist. Then I cuddled closer. It felt like arms came around my waist too and it also felt like a hand was trailing gently up and down my back.
“You’re sweet when you’re sick.”
“I am?”
“Hellion when you’re riled.”
“Yes?”
“Yeah.”
“Mm.”
Then he muttered, “Not sure which I like more.”
I had no reply, mainly because I’d fallen back to sleep.
Chapter Two
Human Again
I woke up to crazy brightness and after a couple of seconds remembered where I was.
The A-Frame.
And Max.
“Oh my God,” I muttered to the pillow as I opened my eyes and rolled to my back, memories flooding my foggy brain.
I couldn’t be certain I remembered every second but I remembered enough to be mortified. Mortified more than I’d ever been mortified in my whole, entire life.
I had to get out of there. Immediately.
I threw the covers back, tossed my legs over the side of the bed and stood. I had to give myself a moment to adjust so I did. I was lightheaded and my nose was a bit stuffed up but other than that I felt human again.
Human enough to escape.
I walked to the railing and looked downstairs, left then right. Max wasn’t in the kitchen or living room.
I looked out the windows and saw the snow and pine trees, white and green jagged mountaintops breaking the blue sky, breathtaking landscape, a fabulous view as far as the eye could see.
I also saw that the drive had been cleared of snow including a large, level area at the front of the house. The one track lane that led to the road was also cleared as was the road leading away. My rental car was sitting in front of the house shining in the sun, so bright, it was eye watering. It looked like it’d never been touched by snow.
There was no Cherokee.
“Max?” I called, my voice sounded untried, weak. I cleared my throat and called louder, “Max?”
Nothing.
Thank God. He was gone.
Then knowing I should get a move on, I just stood there, all I needed to do crashing in and pressing down on me. I didn’t know what to do first.
I’d always had the terrible habit of looking at any problem, no matter how big, as a whole problem. Charlie was always telling me to break it down, make the big problem into smaller problems, take it one step at a time.
I looked at the bed and my suitcase.
Shower. Shower first, get dressed, get some food in me, a quick snack, energy. Water, I needed to rehydrate. And coffee. I needed caffeine. Then write a note of thanks to Max, pack up my car and get out of there, drive down the mountain and spend two weeks in Denver.
I’d never really been to Denver just the airport and a grocery store but it seemed like a lovely place. And people lived in Denver, there had to be things to do. Cinemas. Shopping. Museums. I could find stuff to do in Denver. Maybe I could find me in Denver. Maybe I could figure out my life in Denver.
Denver it was.
I went to my bag and pulled out things I needed, went to the bathroom, dumped them there then back to the suitcase for clothes.
Then I caught sight of the bed and got side-tracked when I decided that I should probably change the sheets on the bed. No one wanted to sleep in a bed after a sick person had been there. Max might have been a jerk when I first met him but he’d been not a jerk when I’d been sick. He deserved clean sheets.
So I pulled off the big, fluffy, chocolate brown covered down duvet and yanked the sheets off the bed, throwing them into a pile at the foot. The internet advertisement of the A-Frame said it had a washer and drier. I’d put the sheets in the wash after my shower and tell Max in the note where to find his sheets so he wouldn’t think I made off with them. Not that he’d think I’d steal his sheets but who knew. People did all sorts of weird stuff at a rental.
I went to the bathroom and halted in front of the mirror when I caught a look at myself.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
My face was pale, there were purple-blue shadows under my eyes but it was my hair that caught my attention. My hair was a disaster.
I hadn’t lucked out much in life but one thing I had lucked out with was my hair. I had a lot of it, it was thick and it looked good practically anytime day or night, even just waking up or when I hadn’t washed it a couple of days. I’d had a few unfortunate perms when I was younger but usually it looked great no matter what length or what cut or, being honest, what color. Currently it was highlighted a light blonde, the streaks of blonde liberal through my naturally somewhat mousy brown hair and I’d let it grow kind of long.
Now, it was dank, partially matted and frightening.
I pushed aside the frightening vision of me, brushed my teeth, washed my face and jumped into the shower. This was taking a lot out of me. I’d just battled a serious fever and I hadn’t had food in who knew how long. I should probably rest, definitely take a second out to eat a banana or something but I had no idea where Max was. I was hoping he was at work. That would give me plenty of time to do what I had to do and escape.
I got out of the shower, lotioned my body, perfumed, pulled a comb through my hair glorying in the feeling of being clean. I decided that showers worked wonders. They were mini-miracles. Especially Max’s shower which was separate from the bath, tiled in beautiful taupe and brown veined marble and big enough for two.
I pulled on my underwear and the pair of jeans I bought that Niles shook his head at when I showed them to him. Niles didn’t understand the jeans or the other stuff I bought for my rustic,
timeout adventure to Colorado, thinking my purchases would help me fit in with the natives. Niles wore suits to work and large whale corduroys and cashmere sweaters when he was relaxed and at home. I’d never seen him in jeans and definitely not faded, secondhand jeans.
I’d bought them specifically for my Colorado adventure in a secondhand clothing store on Park Street in Bristol that specialized in vintage American clothes. They were faded and there was a tear in the back pocket, the threads bleached white, and I thought they looked hip. They also fit like they were made for me and they made my somewhat generous behind look good. Therefore, I loved them.
I paired them with a wide, tan belt and my lilac, long-sleeved t-shirt that had fitted sleeves so long they came over my wrists and had a boat neck that was so wide sometimes it fell off my shoulder.
Then I gathered all my stuff and walked out of the bathroom and smelled bacon cooking and saw that the dirty sheets had been taken away.
I closed my eyes slowly.
I should probably not have taken time to strip the bed though that would have been rude.
And maybe I should have left out lotioning and, probably, standing under the strong, hot spray of the shower for a full five minutes, just letting the water wash over me and bring me back to life.
Well Max was home and I had no choice, I’d have to thank him in person. No, I’d have to face him, tall, amazing-looking, gravelly-voiced Max Whatever-His-Last-Name-Was who had seen me mostly naked and took care of me while I was sick then I’d have to thank him in person.
Get it over with, Charlie would say to me. Always good to do the shit stuff fast, get it out of the way.
Charlie, as ever (if he’d been there but, unfortunately, he was not), was right.
I sighed, threw Max’s t-shirt on the armchair and dumped my toiletries in my bag. Then in bare feet I walked to the spiral staircase and descended.
When I hit the living room I saw him standing at the stove, his back to me. He was wearing another thermal, no flannel this time. It was wine colored and it fit him perfectly. Maybe a bit too perfectly. You could even see some of his muscles defined through the shirt and there appeared to be a lot of them. He was again wearing faded jeans. The waves of his thick hair at the back were just as perfect as they were from the front. Maybe even more perfect. Maybe even his hair was the definition of perfection.
I was five feet from the bar when he turned, fork in hand.
His gray eyes hit me, they did a sweep from head to toe and back again, he smiled and I stopped moving.
“She lives,” he said in his strangely attractive, gravelly voice.
His eyes and his voice both felt physical, like a touch, a nice one. I felt blood rush to my cheeks as I lifted my hand to my hair and found it wet and slicked back, so I dropped my hand and my head and, looking at my feet, I mumbled, “Sorry.”
“For what?” he asked and I looked at him again.
“For –”
“You inject yourself with a flu bug?”
“No.”
“Shit happens,” he muttered and turned back to the stove.
Well, I had to admit, shit definitely happened. Though not much shit happened to me anymore. I did my best to avoid that for a good long while but it used to happen to me and I knew it still happened because I heard from my friends when shit happened to them.
“Anyway, I’ll just –”
“Sit down,” he ordered, dropping the fork on the counter and moving to the fridge.
“I’m sorry?”
He had the fridge open but he looked at me. “Sit down.”
“I thought I’d –”
“You need juice,” he declared and pulled out what appeared to be the cranberry juice I bought in Denver.
“Really, I should just –”
He closed the fridge and pinned me with his eyes. “Duchess, sit your ass down.”
Well. What did I say to that?
I didn’t know but I started, “Max –”
“Ass on a stool or I’ll put it on a stool.”
Was he serious?
“Max, I need to –”
“Eat.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You need to eat. You haven’t had anything in two days.”
I forgot about him being somewhat rude and definitely domineering and felt my head move forward with a jerk at the same time I felt my eyes grow wide.
“What?” I whispered.
“You been out of it for two days.”
I looked out the window as if the landscape could tell me this was false (or true). Then my eyes went back to Max.
“Two days?”
“Yep.”
“It’s Tuesday?”
“Yep.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
“Sit down, Nina.”
Too shocked by the knowledge that I’d lost two whole days of my timeout adventure, without another word I moved forward and sat down on a stool. Max poured me a glass of cranberry juice and set it on the counter in front of me then he moved away.
“Coffee,” I muttered, “please.”
“Gotcha.”
“Two days,” I whispered to my cranberry juice before I took a sip.
“You remember any of it?” he asked and my eyes moved quickly to him.
His back was to me and he was pouring a cup of coffee.
Now, what did I do?
Did I tell him yes, I remembered him taking care of me? Giving me medicine, keeping me hydrated, wiping my brow, getting into bed with me and holding me until the tremors went away, changing my t-shirt, stroking my back? Did I tell him I remembered him being so sweet?
Since I wasn’t intending on thinking of any of that (ever), I decided to lie.
“Remember any of it?” I parroted.
He turned and walked the coffee to me. “Yeah, you were pretty out of it. Do you remember any of it?”
I nodded as he set the coffee cup in front of me and affirmed, “I was really out of it so actually, no. I don’t remember anything.”
He watched me for several seconds then he dipped his head to the coffee cup and asked, “Do you take cream?”
“Cream?”
He grinned. “Yeah, Duchess, cream. You got that in England?”
“We don’t call it cream.”
“What do you call it then?”
“What it is. Milk.”
“All right, you take milk?”
“Yes.”
“Sugar?”
“One.”
“One what?”
“One sugar.”
He was still grinning but he shook his head and went to the fridge. He pulled out a gallon jug of milk and set it on the counter by me. Then he pulled out a huge, unopened bag of sugar and, if I wasn’t wrong, I bought that bag in Denver too. Then he set that next to the milk. Then he opened a drawer and got me a spoon. Then he turned to his bacon.
I opened the bag of sugar while I said, “I don’t think I could do bacon.”
“Bacon’s for me. You’re getting oatmeal.”
“Oh.”
He cracked two eggs into the side of the skillet with the bacon and the bacon grease and I stared. Then he walked to a cupboard and pulled out a box of instant oatmeal.
I spooned sugar in my coffee and then I stared at the gallon jug of milk. Then I looked at my mug. Then the milk. Then back.
How was I going to get a splash of the milk in that huge gallon jug in my mug without making a mess?
Then I heard, “Honey, you gonna will it to pour itself in your cup with your eyes?”
I looked at him and asked, “Do you have a little pitcher?”
He threw his head back and burst out laughing, that was deep and gravelly too.
I stared again. What was funny?
“What’s funny?” I asked when he got control of his hilarity.
“Don’t throw many tea parties, Duchess,” he told me still smiling like I was highly amusing.
I wasn’t sure I liked him
calling me “Duchess”. Okay so, the way he was saying it now was kind of sweet in a weirdly familiar and even somewhat intimate way. The way he said it two days ago, I wasn’t so sure. It was almost like he was making fun of me except now it felt like he thought I was in on the joke.
“Maybe you could stop calling me ‘Duchess’,” I suggested.
“Maybe I couldn’t,” he returned, came toward me, picked up the gallon jug, splashed a huge dollop of milk in my mug, making coffee and milk plop up and out on the counter then he turned back and poured, without measuring, a bunch of milk into the instant oatmeal.
“My name is Nina,” I told him.
“I know that.”
“Maybe you can call me Nina.”
“I’ll call you that too.”
“Rather than Duchess.”
He’d put the milk back in the fridge and walked back to me, grabbing the bag of sugar, his eyes came to me before he turned toward the oatmeal. “You want a little pitcher for your milk, you’re definitely a Duchess.”
I decided to let it go. In about half an hour he wasn’t going to be calling me anything because I was going to be in a rental car and on my way to Denver.
“Whatever,” I muttered and took a sip of coffee.
Then I watched as he spooned sugar in the oatmeal. One spoon. Two. Three. Four.
“Is that for me?” I asked on a rush when he dipped in for spoon five.
His torso twisted and his eyes came to me. “Yeah.”
He was making me oatmeal and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so I muttered, “Um, I think four sugars will do it.”
Two would do it, actually one would have done it, but I’d settle for four.
“Your wish…” he muttered right back but he sounded amused.
I decided to let that go too.
He put the oatmeal in the microwave started it up and then headed back to the skillet. He flipped his eggs expertly then using the fork, pulled the bacon out and, without draining the grease off, he put it on a plate I hadn’t yet noticed. The plate already had two slices of toast slathered in butter and grape jelly.
Before I could stop myself, I announced in a wistful voice, “I miss grape jelly.”
His head twisted toward me and he had an expression on his face that looked like he thought I was funny at the same time he was slightly confused. “You miss grape jelly?”
The Gamble Page 3