by Holly Rayner
I started out treading the path Brock had made with his snowshoes, but soon I ventured out by myself, stomping out my own path in the snow. It was weird, this walking with big feet. It gave me a rush, a strange feeling of warm exhilaration amid all this cold ice. Even when I fell face-first into the snow, I only laughed, although my hands were immediately ice cold and red.
“Here,” Brock said, holding out his gloved hand, which I gladly accepted.
He lifted me until I was face to face with him. His brown beard was now flecked with snow, but his maple eyes were smoldering with fire.
“You okay?” he asked me softly.
“Yeah. I think so,” I said.
Brock brushed a snow-solidified strand of hair out of my face, and I let him, transfixed as I was by those tender, hazel eyes. His fingers lingered at my cheek, tracing down it and brushing over my lips. Then he was lowering his face to mine, bringing his lips to mine.
Amid the cold, swirling snow, touched by his cold, caressing fingers, his lips were warm.
When our lips touched, warmth blossomed through me, from my lips, down my throat, to my chest, down my arms, and to my hands, until they were clasping his face eagerly, our lips pressed together. While I had been freezing cold a minute ago, now I was entirely and utterly warm all over.
The snowy forest slid away; my job and identity fell to the wayside. All there was were those firm lips and this man—this handsome, dangerous, incredible man—his hands clasping mine and his lips tracing my jawline.
I lost myself in it, in the motions, the feelings, the want—which may have been why I stumbled forward and fell again. Brock caught me halfway, but I could see it was too late. He looked at me with a new consciousness of what he’d done, with guilty eyes that escaped my gaze as soon as they could.
He helped me up and then stepped back, murmuring, “I’m sorry.”
I put my hand on his chest.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
But he shook his head and stepped back again.
“I meant what I said, Alexa. I won’t be around for long—I can’t be. No matter how much I like you, this can’t work. You don’t know everything about me.”
I stared at him, at this cold, unfeeling-looking man who was almost unrecognizable from the warm man who had been kissing me moments ago. The truth bubbled up my throat: how I knew what he was, what he had been, the real reason I was here at all. But it stopped at my lips and then tumbled back down my throat.
I looked at him with cold, hard eyes myself and said, “Okay.”
We tramped back to the cabin in silence. The magic was gone. All that remained was the cold and the equally frigid realization of my stupidity. Kissing Brock Anderson—the target of all people, the man I was going to turn over to my client. What had I been thinking?
The snow was swirling down harder than ever; the whole world was one endlessly white series of trees with white flakes surging everywhere.
It seemed like forever had come and gone when we finally came to the snow-coated back of the cabin. I followed Brock inside and took off my coat and boots in silence.
“Good thing we have the fire,” Brock said, beelining for it.
He put in some logs and lit them with a lighter he got out of his pocket.
I flopped my shivering self on the couch, staring at the fire, at the fiery tongues flickering laughter at me.
“I’m sorry, Alexa,” he said, sitting beside me.
“It’s okay,” I said, not looking at him.
“No,” he said. “No, it’s not.”
He stood up.
“I’m going to make some more hot chocolate.”
I stared at the flames, wishing I could pick them up, take them in my hands, and take them outside, through the snow and down the path so that they could show me my way home. Why did I always have to go falling for the wrong guy?
The kettle rumbled to life, and then Brock said, “I’m adding Baileys to mine...you?”
I stared at the flames. As the “no” I should have said flickered along with them, a “sure” escaped my lips. Brock came over with two steaming cups a few minutes later and handed me one. At the sight of mine topped with more marshmallows than even I had put on last time, I couldn’t help but smile.
“It’s okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, taking a small sip. “Yeah. It’s better than okay, thank you.”
And it was. All of it, the warm, soothing fireplace, the comfy, mahogany couch that I’d sunk into, the delicious hot chocolate and alcohol something, it was good. It was great, even.
“I’ll sleep down here tonight,” Brock said, sitting beside me. “You can have the loft.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Really, I can take the couch. Or...we could both fit in the loft?”
Brock shook his head.
“No way am I having you sleep on the couch. As for the loft…I don’t know. Want to have a look and see what you think?”
Putting my drink down, I climbed partway up the ladder, pretended to check the loft, and then climbed back down.
“It’s nice. Looks like enough room.”
With a nod, he reached into the bakery bag and extracted two cookies, one of which he handed to me.
“I’ve got an idea.”
Then, in one swift motion, he dipped his cookie into his drink and took a big bite.
Closing his eyes, he nodded slowly, said, “Knew it was a good idea.”
I did the same and found myself smiling as the chocolatey goodness seeped into my mouth.
“We’ve had a lot of good ideas today.”
He opened his eyes, caught my glance, and looked away.
“Yeah,” he murmured, and something told me he wasn’t just thinking of the cookies and hot chocolate.
And so we sat there, sipping our hot chocolate, dipping our cookies, and sneaking glances at each other out of the corner of our eyes, sinking further and further into the couch and each other. The fireplace was so warm and Brock was so warm and I was so warm, so very warm and happy. I closed my eyes and enjoyed it all: the rich hot chocolate and sugary marshmallow taste, Brock’s cedar smell, the warm buzzing feeling the alcohol was filling me with.
When I opened my eyes, Brock was inches away from me, his eyes on mine.
“I’m going to bed now,” he said.
“I’ll go too,” I said.
He didn’t move. I didn’t move.
Then, slowly, Brock inched toward me.
He took the same stray strand of hair between his fingers, tugged it with a half smile, and then tucked it behind my ear once more.
“Good night, Alexa.”
“Good night, Brock.”
Then he rose and offered me his hand. I accepted it and stopped inches from his face.
“Need help getting up there?”
I shook my head, stumbled to the ladder, and then gave him a rueful smile.
“Maybe.”
“Here,” he said, his hands on my waist, his lips by my ear. “Just take it one step at a time.”
And as I clambered my way up, his hands supported my waist, then thighs, then lower legs, it occurred to me that this wasn’t such bad advice for life in general.
At the top, I collapsed onto the sheets and rolled over to make room for Brock, who was on the bed a few seconds later.
The two of us tossed and turned as we made ourselves comfortable. Then there was a stillness, although my heart was anything but still. It was shaking with anticipation, with a silent, painful longing. I lay there for who knew how long in a tortured purgatory of half-wakefulness. Too tired to be awake but too anxious to sleep, as chunks of thoughts clattered through my head.
Was he still awake too? What if I turned around and kissed him and felt his cedar scent on my skin and his warm fingers in mine and let what was bottled up inside me break free? What if I climbed down the ladder and ran away, ran outside and drove into the snow, into the snow storm that was nothing compared to what wa
s raging in my head?
I lay there in the loft bed, twisting with impossible want, wanting to stay and leave, wanting to embrace this man beside me and run as far away from him as I could.
Finally, I flopped to the other side of the bed, to the cold side of the pillow, and faced him.
My eyes were squeezed shut, and the bed jostled. He was moving too, but he didn’t touch me. No, I felt nothing but his gaze. My eyes were closed, my body still, and yet I knew he was watching me. I could feel it. I didn’t move. I didn’t open my eyes. If I opened them, my lips would be his and all would be lost. I needed this job. I couldn’t do this.
I lay there as seconds joined into minutes and became hours strung together into whole years. And, once nothing less than a century had rolled on past, I opened my eyes.
His face was inches from mine, his eyes on me. He had never stopped looking.
What happened next was what had always been going to happen next, what was inevitable from the first moment we laid eyes on each other. Our lips joined once more, our hands too. Our clothes slid off, and in the dark, warm, cedar loft, we became one.
Chapter Eight
I awoke cold. The bed beside me was empty. Brock. Had last night been a dream?
I lifted the covers and gasped. I wasn’t wearing any clothes. No, last night had been no dream. Closing my eyes, I inhaled his still-lingering cedar scent.
Last night may not have been a dream, but it had been as good as one. I lay there, memories sliding in one after the other, and remembered it, feeling it once more. It had been so natural, so seamless. Brock and I—there was no denying it—we worked.
And now?
I turned to look at his empty spot on the bed. Now things would go back to how they had been. So I’d had one drunken night of fun, one slight bout of unprofessional conduct. No one needed to know. No one would know. I had a job to do. Brock had said it himself: this couldn’t work.
I slid into my clothes and then made my way down the ladder, nostalgia swirling through me on the final rung. If I could have told myself just what I was climbing the ladder to, would I have stopped? Should I have?
Brock wasn’t in the cabin. I put on my coat, then my boots, and grabbed my bakery bag.
I opened the door to see his feet poking out from under my car.
“Brock?”
He slid out and gave me a strained smile.
“Hey.”
“Hey… What’s up?”
“Ah, your car. It’s…I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. The fuel pump’s somehow worked its way loose, and I can’t figure out where or how you even continued on without it. Your car can’t start without it.”
“Oh, yeah, that is weird.”
I stuck my hands in my pockets, feeling the offending fuel pump in my left one and wondering what exactly I was supposed to do now.
“Yeah. I can tow you into town later. There’s a good garage I know, East Street Garage.”
My face was reddening by the minute. This just kept getting worse and worse.
“Thanks,” I said, “but...my ex works there. If you could tow me anywhere else?”
“Well, not in Nederland, but...how about we have breakfast and discuss it then?”
I shook my head.
“I have stuff I need to do today. Would you be able to take me now?”
His face fell, but he nodded and headed past me into the cabin.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
I didn’t move, just stood staring at my car, gripping the fuel pump in my pocket. Should I try putting it back in? Before I could decide, the door behind me was shutting and Brock was hurrying past me.
A few steps away from the cars, Brock stopped.
“Actually, would going for a forest swim be crazy?”
He had addressed the question to the cars, but he turned to me to see my response.
My gaze fell.
“Brock…” I said softly.
He strode up to me and took my hands.
“Please, Alexa. It’ll be quick and then you can go. I promise.”
His voice was coaxing, but my inner voice was adamant. I had to leave now.
“Please. It’s just a few minutes away,” Brock said, pulling me toward the back of the cabin.
As my mouth prepared to say “no,” my feet followed him, so into the forest we went. Every step I took, the further my “no” burrowed down my throat until there was only me, my hand in Brock’s, and the beautiful, beautiful forest. Oh, how breathtaking it was! Morning dew glistened on every leaf and twig, while a gentle breeze ruffled them. As we made our way through it, there was the soft symphony of the forest: the crackling of leaves, the birds and squirrels chattering in squeaks only they understood, our own gentle footsteps.
We got there without warning. Everything was trees, trees, and more trees, and then, all at once, water.
It was a little pond just big enough for two people who didn’t want to get too close. Who couldn’t get too close.
“It’s not too deep. Or cold. Even after a big snow, somehow, it never gets too cold,” Brock said, already taking off his shirt.
“Good,” I said, walking over behind a pine so I could undress.
I didn’t want to get to talking to Brock, to joking as if things were like they had been before, like last night hadn’t happened or even like we were friends or lovers or something stupid like that. Brock Anderson was the target, nothing more. I had made a mistake, sure, but I was going to do the right thing now and distance myself so I could do my job properly and hand over what I’d found to my client.
A splash indicated Brock was already in the water.
“It’s nice!” he called.
Once my shirt and pants were off, I dashed in as fast as I could. Brock had been right: the water was cool, not cold; in between shallow and deep, it stopped just above my chest, thankfully. I swam from one side to the other and then floated on my back, my eyes closed.
“Look up,” Brock whispered from right beside me.
Surprised, I jumped and then did as I was told. The sky was a patchwork of tree branches, bright, happy blue between the black, red-leaved branches. It was beautiful; it was more than beautiful. It was awe-inspiring.
“Wow,” I said softly.
“Wow,” he said beside me.
And then we lay there, the criminal and me, quiet before the majesty of nature’s beauty.
After a few minutes of enjoyable escape, however, pesky worry started to return. How long was I planning to stay here, really? What if, as I lay here, another storm started up and I couldn’t leave again?
When I turned to look at Brock, I saw he was doing the exact same thing. Our gazes met, each flicking to the other’s lips. As we neared, a thousand more thoughts arose: You shouldn’t do this—Stop—There’s still time—Stop! So I did. An inch from him, I paused. My gaze searched his, for permission, for reassurance, for I don’t know what. But all I saw in the black of his pupils was the worried reflection of my own eyes. One last thought snuck in: You know what to do.
And I did. So, as Brock’s lips pressed against mine, I turned away. Then I swam to the shore and hurried behind the same pine as before to get dressed.
Once I was dressed, I came out from behind the tree. Brock was still in the same place as before, floating on his back again, lost in the sight of the branch-patchwork sky.
“I think we should go now,” I said in a tone colder than I had intended. I added in a kinder tone, “Please, Brock.”
Looking at me with wide, startled eyes, Brock slowly made his way to the shore.
“Yeah. Of course, yeah,” he murmured half to himself.
He pulled his clothes on in the same daze and then, with a shy smile at me, started walking. I followed him. We returned the same way, though we were not the same people as the ones who’d walked there. Maybe Brock didn’t feel it, but I knew without a doubt that something had been decided. I had decided. I
had chosen myself and my job, not the criminal I had unwittingly fallen for. Finally, I had made the right choice. And as we walked in silence through the forest, I smiled a little at that.
When we got back to the cabin, Brock stopped.
“Sorry about before,” he said.
I strode on ahead.
“Don’t worry about it. What’s going to happen with my car though?”
“Oh yeah, your car.”
Brock scanned it for a minute and then said, “I can tow it into town. Here, you can wait inside my pickup while I hook them together,” he said, gesturing to his maroon truck.
I got in, still gripping the fuel pump in my pocket. This job couldn’t be over soon enough.
A few minutes later, Brock was getting in beside me and starting the car.
“Oh, wanted to be sure you didn’t forget this. Your car was open and I saw it left on the seat there,” he said, handing me a piece of paper.
I gaped at him. Did he know? Why did he sound so casual if he did?
There, clutched in his hand, was the balled-up photo printout of him.
Chapter Nine
“What, was it for me?” he joked, starting to unravel it.
“No!” I barked, snatching it out of his hands and shoving it into my bakery bag.
Brock stared at me for a minute, his eyebrows raising in surprise and then in a questioning look.
“Just tax stuff,” I mumbled.
Not buying my unconvincing reply, Brock shrugged and said, “Anyway, got your car all hooked up. We’ll have to drive a bit slow down the bumpy old road, but we should be fine.”
Brock was better than his word. Our drive was smooth, easy, quiet. All of Brock’s attempts at conversation, I shot down. I couldn’t afford to get in another nice long talk with him; I would never want to leave. No, this was a job and nothing more, and I planned on keeping it that way.
And yet, the farther away from the cabin we got, the more a sick feeling twisted in my stomach.
By the time we got to New Moon Café, where I’d told Brock to drop me off, I felt downright nauseous.
“Wait here. This’ll just be a sec,” he said, hurrying out and unlatching my car. When he got back in, we sat in the car in silence for a few seconds before he spoke. “Alexa…I’m really glad I met you. I...you know where to find me.”