^^^
Later, while the shower water ran like a babbling brook, Baskia snuck over to the couch, where Trace had left his things. A leather jacket, a t-shirt, and a pair of burly black boots were in a pile on the floor. His dirty jeans draped carelessly over the end of the couch. She had to call Will, but figured she’d drive into town so she could have a private conversation and not risk dropping the call. She vaguely remembered Trace, so it wasn’t a problem of identity, but she wanted to know more. Asking him would be the right thing to do, but she wanted to interact with him as little as possible. Despite his good looks, he was rough, rude, and something about him suggested anarchy. She picked up the jeans and dug her hand in the pocket. There, she found a set of keys, a pocketknife, and loose change.
She turned to the bathroom, listening. The shower continued so she pulled the leather wallet out of the back pocket. Nervous bubbles in her stomach told her not to open it, but she ignored them. The photo on his license looked a few years old, probably taken back when they’d originally met—when he’d started at Harvard. He looked younger and fresher, his eyes bright, but his smirk demanded trouble. There were some bills, a condom, a credit card, and a creased photo of what looked like a baby picture of him. Baskia quickly put everything back.
Just then, Trace emerged from the bathroom, tucking the end of a towel around his waist. Drops of water dripped from his perfect chest. Again, he wore a mischievous grin that vaguely reminded Baskia of London, sending a rash of anger through her.
“Looking for something?” he asked.
He couldn’t have known that she’d riffled through his things, but it would have been riskier if she hadn’t; she’d worry and wonder if she’d allowed a crazy person into the cabin. Yes, maybe he was a bit wild, but she didn’t discover anything overly suspicious. Still, guilt over the intrusion crept across her mind pushing out her irritation.
“If you want to throw your clothes in with the laundry, I’m going to run a load later,” she said. The notion of doing laundry was foreign; nevertheless, it tumbled from her tongue, desperation forcing her to change the subject.
“Have you ever used a washing machine before?” he asked facetiously.
“Of course. You may think I’m a spoiled little rich girl, but—”
He waited expectantly, folding his tattooed arms across his chest, his hair damp from the shower.
Straightening up, she accepted the challenge. A powerful resolve pumped through her veins. “I’m spending the rest of the year here so, I’ll become—”
“Self-sufficient? Independent? More self-righteous?”
“I don’t care what you think of me. It doesn’t matter. But yes, all of those things. And not a coffee maker, a washing machine, or you are going to stop me.” She proffered a smug grin and turned to the bathroom. “Done?” she said, pointing into the steamy room.
He shook his head slowly, his eyes narrowing seductively, and his lips forming an impish grin. He started to speak, but she slammed the door.
The cool water trickling overhead did little to cool the burning realization that she’d committed herself to staying, really remaining on the mountain for the rest of the year, or until she got things figured out, whichever came first.
She slipped the sundress back on, slathered on sunscreen, and pulled her hair off her neck. Before heading out to the car she followed a rustling noise down to the basement. She hoped he wasn’t digging a hole to bury stolen money from a bank robbery or valuables from a heist. When she reached the foot of the stairs, Trace stood in front of the washing machine. He probably didn’t know how to operate it either, she thought with satisfaction.
Baskia looked around what once had been the cozy playroom at the evidence of the flood. Torn up carpet and stained walls explained the plumbing bill she’d found in the study at her parents’ apartment in Manhattan.
“Looks like water damage,” Trace said, peering out from the laundry room. He flipped a switch behind the washer between a hose and a valve. His towel wrapped snuggly around his chiseled waist. She couldn’t help but be distracted by how low it hung and how toned his abs were. “Just toss your clothes in when you’re ready and then press start. I already added the soap.” He smirked and then walked into the main room of the basement.
“Looks like the wine cellar was spared,” he called, as he passed a spacious room lined with burgundy and green bottles.
Baskia stepped into the custom-built wine cellar. Wooden fixtures held her parents’ copious collection, backlit tastefully. The tile floor felt cold under her feet, but she mused, if she froze during the winter, she knew one way to stay warm.
When she followed Trace back to the stairs, she noted the wooden frames of the bunk beds stood empty, the mattresses removed. Baskia opened the doors to the adjoining spare bedrooms and discovered them nearly bare, except for metal bedframes and empty storage tubs.
“I guess you get to keep sleeping on the couch,” she said.
“So, you don’t mind if I stick around for a few days?” he asked, lingering on the stairway.
She stepped up, so she was eye level with him. He was just a few inches away, heat radiating off his skin. “I’m going into town. Stay out of trouble,” she said, feeling his eyes following her and warming a place beneath her belly that she’d meant to leave in New York.
Chapter Seven
Baskia parked in front of the market, wondering if she should pick up more food. No, Trace could fend for himself. She checked the bars on her phone and then tapped to call Will. It went directly to voicemail.
“Hi, Will. This is your sister. It seems we’ve double booked the cabin. Please get in touch with your friend and let him know he’ll have to visit some other time.” Then she hung up, regretting the spite in her voice, but it was supposed to be her getaway, not a wild adventure in the woods with someone appearing in the night, judging her every move, and kindling the ashes of lust.
Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she arrived at the unnerving question of what to do. She snapped a few pics and posted them to Instagram, with tags like, #TheSticks, #RuralAmerica, and #SaveMe. It was a joke of course, she was there by choice, but she hadn’t figured out what one does when on a soul-searching expedition that detoured with Trace’s unexpected arrival.
She decided to drive to the other side of town, careful to keep to the speed limit. She blinked and almost missed the post office, the town hall, and a church. If she could offer a superlative to the town, she’d name it the most boring.
“What do people do around here?” she asked aloud. With nowhere else to go, she turned back to the winding route that brought her up the mountain.
About halfway back to the cabin, the car sputtered and slowed. She glanced at the dash. The fuel gauge read empty. The car stopped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She flicked on her phone. Zero bars. She slouched back in the seat and looked down at the platform sandals with wooden heels on her feet. “Just great.”
She walked a few yards back down the road, wondering if she’d missed a friendly looking house. Nothing but a dense forest of tall oaks and pine trees stretched toward the sky. She walked uphill, hoping that by some miracle someone would appear. At least after the message, her brother would ascertain she was up north, but no one else knew where she’d gone. She turned back. She was alone, on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. She sulked, pounding the roof of the car, and slumped back into the driver’s seat. Maybe Trace would wonder where she went, but she didn’t want him to come to the rescue.
A car approached from behind; she was afraid to look. “Please don’t be a crazy person, please don’t let it be a crazy person,” she chanted at a whisper.
A figure stood outside her window. She glanced to her left. Slender build, utility pants, a white t-shirt…she looked up and up, recognizing the guy from the day before, the one she almost backed into. She rolled down the window.
“Everything alright here?” he asked in a deep, but clear and confi
dent voice.
“Oh yeah. I’m fine. Just hanging out on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, in a BMW. I thought it’d look cool,” she said, not sure where the sarcasm came from.
He tapped the roof of the car. “Well, in that case,” he turned to go.
“Wait,” Baskia said, opening the door. “I ran out of gas.”
“Would you like a ride into town?”
Thankful, Baskia loaded into the pick-up.
“You up at the cabin by the lake?” he asked, driving down the winding road.
“Yeah. It’s my parents’ place. I uh, am visiting.”
“Long way from home, huh?”
“I guess so,” she said, not appreciating yet another suggestion that she wasn’t cut out for country life or independence.
“I’m Wes Carter, by the way. Nice to meet you,” he said, extending one hand while he drove with the other. His rough, calloused fingers clasped hers like a mitt.
“I’m Baskia. Baskia Benedict. Nice to meet you too.”
“Are you a student?” he asked.
“No. Well. It’s complicated. You?”
“I was supposed to graduate next spring, but I had to take a year off.” His eyes held steadily to the road ahead.
“I’m supposed to start tomorrow, orientation, blah, blah, blah, but—” she abruptly stopped, startled by speaking her decision aloud.
“That doesn’t sound complicated.”
“Trust me, it is.”
The gas station came into view and Wes pulled in. Baskia looked uncertainly at the old-fashioned pumps and the small station.
“I have a spare tank in the back,” he said, getting out.
“Thanks.” Baskia remained in the truck, paralyzed because not only did she not know what to do, but also because embarrassment burned her cheeks. Trace would have had fun with her foible; fortunately, he didn’t have to know, thanks to Wes. As he got back in the truck, her phone rang. Will’s photo appeared on the screen.
“I have to take this,” she said.
Wes started up the truck and headed out to the road.
“Hey, little sister,” Will said cheerfully. “Got your message.”
“And…”
“Are you in Vermont?”
“Don’t say anything to um...”
“Mom? Why?” Will asked, picking up her meaning.
“I’ll tell you later,” she said, eyeing Wes. She knew her brother would understand, but she didn’t want to share her flimsy reasoning with the rugged mountain man beside her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. But, Trace is a good guy. Do you mind if he just stays a few days?”
“I do mind.”
“Come on. I owe him,” Will said.
“And why’s that?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Touché.” She started to say more, but the call dropped. She sighed.
“Spotty service around here,” Wes said. “Everything okay?”
“I guess so.” At that, they returned to the BMW. Baskia opened the fuel door and poured in the gas; she didn’t want to appear completely incompetent. “Thanks a lot.”
“Of course. Anytime,” Wes said, getting back in his truck.
Baskia turned the key in the ignition, but the engine was quiet. She tried again, but still nothing. Even though she knew little about cars, she was certain the gas made them go. Her forehead rested on the steering wheel.
Wes wrapped on the window. “Won’t start?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Can you pop the hood?”
Thankfully, he walked over to the front of the car so he couldn’t see her groping under the dash for the lever, cursing herself for being so—she didn’t want to say dumb, but that was how she felt. And helpless. Dumb and helpless with no business out in the sticks. She was a city girl. She considered just calling a cab; surely, one would come get her. She’d pay for it no matter how much it cost. Her phone vibrated with a text. Miraculously, the message came through. It was from one of her friends, Ali.
Missed you last night at the Dome. Where the heck are you? London said you bailed. What’s up?
She didn’t have the energy to explain. No one would understand.
Wes slammed the hood. “I think you need a new alternator. I thought it was the battery, but it looks like—”
Baskia stopped listening. Tears of failure welled in her eyes.
“It’s no biggie.”
She shook her head, looking away.
“There’s a place just on the edge of town. Let’s get it towed there, and they’ll repair it for you. How about I bring you home?”
Thankful for Wes’s kindness, Baskia got in the truck and they climbed back up the mountain.
He tuned the radio dial, but with the exception of country western static, no stations came through clearly.
Wes cleared his throat. “I went to high school with the owner of the shop’s son. I’ll call when I get home and have them tow it down there. Do you mind leaving me the keys? I’ll drop them off with Curtis, the mechanic, this afternoon.”
Although a very determined part of her wanted to handle this all on her own, without a landline, spotty cell service, and no clue about where to begin with getting a car repaired, she accepted Wes’s generosity. When the truck rumbled into the driveway, she shuffled around in her purse for a twenty-dollar bill—for his trouble. He waved it away, his attention glued to the porch. Baskia turned to see Trace leaning against the railing, still in his towel, smoking a cigarette.
“Looks like someone’s waiting for you,” Wes said.
“What him?—” but before she could say more, Trace strode across the lawn toward the driveway totally at ease outside, in a towel, looking like Baskia’s boyfriend or boy toy, which he was not. She wanted Wes to know this, but he’d already put the truck in reverse.
“I’ll let you know when the car is ready,” he said, his hand gripping the gearshift.
Hesitating, Baskia wanted to explain, but she gathered up her purse, and exited the cab of the pick-up. “Thanks again.”
Wes pulled away, but instead of approaching her, Trace walked over to the motorcycle parked on the other side of the shed—built to match the cabin, but in miniature. She hadn’t noticed it earlier.
“You’ve been up here, what a day? And you already have a booty call?” he said, exhaling a puff of smoke.
“No, I broke down, and he gave me a ride back.” As the defense rose from her lips she wasn’t sure if she meant that she’d broken down, failed at this experiment already, or that the BMW wouldn’t start.
“Gallant.”
“Huh?”
“Very gentlemanly, chivalrous.”
“Whatever.”
“And he’s getting it repaired for you, I presume.”
Instead of engaging in Trace’s game of questioning her abilities and insulting her with a grin that edged toward laughter, she stormed into the house. Then she paused. “I just have to ask, why are you still in a towel?”
“You haven’t run the laundry yet, hon,” he called back with a laugh.
“Ugh,” Baskia vented, stomping into the house.
The next few days passed painfully slow. Baskia was eager to get on with her soul searching. Trapped in the house without a car, punctual afternoon thunderstorms, and Trace alternatingly looking like he was sulking and like he was ready to blow something up, had her on edge. She wanted nothing more than to lock the door to the cabin and speed back to the city, forgetting the whole thing. Practicing law or landing in the corporate world wasn’t the worst that could happen. Being bored out of her mind, keeping to her room, and dealing with a brooding hottie—on top of the trench of uncertainty that continued to plague her anytime she thought beyond the present moment—was way, way worse.
And it was hot. Baskia lounged in the wooden Adirondack chair, reading and rereading a line in one of the thick, glossy books on interior decorating her mother had artfully displayed on a
shelf inside. She couldn’t focus, so she rounded to the back deck, hoping for a breeze to come over the mountain, blowing away her restlessness.
“Way for August to end with a wicked heat wave,” Trace said without lifting his head. He rocked in the hammock on the back deck overlooking the lake and mountain vista. A green bottle of beer met his lips. Four empty bottles stood in a line on the railing. “Good thing there’s a lake just feet away to cool off in.” With that, he was up and running, shedding his t-shirt and jeans. As he neared the lake, he tossed his boxers off and jumped in, naked. His whoop echoed over the hills and down into the valley interrupting the tree frogs chirping and croaking.
Ignoring her involuntary giggle and flushed cheeks—she told herself it was the heat—Baskia envied his wildness and freedom. She wanted to cool off, but solitude and the hammock enticed her to stay put.
When Trace returned, he carried his pile of clothes in front of his torso. He whipped his head forward and then slicked his blond hair back, sending a shower of lake water onto her. She flinched and yelped. He was in dire need of a shave. Baskia had to admit he was deliciously handsome, but also cocky and full of himself, probably because he needed to get laid. She laughed, shaking the thought from her head.
“Something funny?” he asked, his lips quirking into a smile.
“I’m going to get something to eat,” she said, opening the screen door.
Trace followed her inside wearing only his boxers. “Want a beer?”
She’d declined his offer earlier, wanting to stay away from alcohol for a while, but the beads that formed on the bottle as he popped the cap, made her thirsty. Or maybe it was just looking at him. She forgot about getting something to eat.
“Sure.”
He lifted his bottle to clink with hers. “To getting our shit together.”
“Something like that,” she said and took a long sip. The amber liquid glided down her throat, leaving her refreshed.
“Hey, don’t tell your brother I supported a minor in obtaining alcohol,” he said with a wink.
“I hardly think my brother will care. My parents give me wine with dinner—my mother’s parents were Vintners—they had a vineyard in Minnesota. Thank goodness, she moved away. Ugh. That would have sucked, except for the abundance of wine. They don’t care as long as I drink responsibly.”
On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) Page 6