“It went too—never mind.” Trace slouched on the couch, pulling the romance novel, which Baskia had yet to return, from the top of her reading pile.
She opened the door. “Hey, Wes,” she said not wanting to leave him outside, but afraid of him seeing Trace there. Unable to leave without the other boot, the blustery air bit her toes as Wes shuffled over the threshold.
Slowly, Trace turned his head. “Hi,” he said from the couch, shirtless and toweled, looking more interested in the book than the newcomer’s arrival.
Wes startled. “Oh, hi. I didn’t know you had company.”
“That’s not Baskia’s bike in the driveway,” Trace growled.
Baskia found her boot—resisted kicking Trace with it—blotted her lipstick, and made toward the door.
“Good read,” Trace said, his lips teasing her with a smirk. She wanted to kiss them, slap them, or both. “Don’t stay out too late,” he called as they exited.
Despite her attempt to make conversation, the cab of the pickup was quiet except for the hum of the engine and Baskia’s fidgeting until they reached the bottom of the hill. Her thoughts still swam with wine and dangerously close to Trace’s lips every time she tried not to think of him in his towel back at the cabin.
“So, unexpected house guest, huh?” Wes asked.
“You could say that. Do you ever get those?” She wondered if he knew, if he sensed the tension and the lust crackling between her and Trace.
“Nope.”
“He’s my brother’s friend.” She didn’t know what else to say. “I’m starved.”
“There’s a great pub in Hanover, also an Italian restaurant.”
“Is there a sushi place? I haven’t had sushi in like, well, since summer.” Food being neutral territory, Baskia launched into descriptions of all her favorite sushi spots in the City and then progressed to her go-tos for the dish worldwide.
Settled into a cozy table, Wes exhaustively perused the menu as if he studied for an exam or read hieroglyphics.
Baskia glanced at the drinks on offer. “Have you ever had saké?”
He shook his head.
“You should really try it. Will you order one for me?”
Wes looked perplexed, but then said, “I’ll order you anything you want, but tell me, what should I order?”
“Wait a minute; you’ve never eaten sushi before? Why didn’t you say so?”
“Sushi-virgin,” he replied, turning the same color as the wrapper of the chopsticks resting on the table between them.
“Oh, I said I was going to pay you back for helping me, and this is going to blow your mind, possibly more than the cheesy fries.”
While they tiptoed through small talk, Trace’s image filled Baskia’s thoughts and made her stomach jitter with excitement. When Wes cleared his throat, she tried to ignore the comparison with Trace’s lips and the way they made her feel and focus on being with him.
“Tell the server you want two glasses of saké and the Royal Dragon Sushi Boat. This is going to be epic.”
When the two ceramic glasses appeared, Baskia sipped hers, enjoying the smooth beverage.
Wes lifted it to his lips and then put it down with a clatter. “Is this alcohol?”
“Yeah, it’s just rice wine,” she said, shrugging.
“I told you that I don’t drink, and I have to drive.” His mouth formed a hard line, but his eyes softened like something sad hid behind them.
“I’m sorry. I forgot. Don’t worry you’ll love the sushi. I guess I’ll just have to drink yours,” Baskia said with a nervous laugh. After a few more sips, the liquid glow of the saké dulled the awkwardness.
Baskia chirped more about food. She quietly reflected that among models, where they often talked about food instead of eating it, she’d never covered so much ground about tapas, crepes, and canapés as she had with him. It proved to be a safe and familiar subject. Discussing anything more personal seemed unwelcome. Trace’s hungry expression crowded her mind.
The wooden boat arrived, artfully arranged with colorful sushi. Baskia went on to identify rolls, maki, inari, and sashimi. Wes appeared enthusiastic, but after a few tastes, he pushed his plate aside. His eyes said he was somewhere else entirely.
She tried to pull him back from what looked like a ponderous edge. “So you said you studied architecture.”
“Yeah. I went to Notre Dame for three years, scholarship.”
“You didn’t finish?”
“Not yet.” Wes’s end of the conversation went cold.
“Well, I still don’t know what I want to study…” Her momentum was lost. The saké made her tongue thick.
“Want to take a walk?” he asked after she’d paid the bill.
The heeled boots she wore were not choice footwear for taking an evening stroll, but she consented, hoping to salvage the date.
“My mom went to Dartmouth,” she said, as they set foot on the austere campus.
“Mine too.” Once again, the shadow of sadness burdened his features. “We should probably head back. You have company and all.”
“Oh, he’s fine.” The truth was that she wanted the date to end; she’d never experienced such a failure with a guy before. Was he not into her? Was there someone else? Had he heard her moaning when he’d arrived at the cabin? She wanted to see it through if only to uncover, even the minutest amount of chemistry, to remind herself that she was still desirable.
Like a gentleman, Wes opened the door to the truck for her.
“I wonder if our moms were roommates or knew each other. What year did she graduate? I’ll have to ask next time we talk. What’s your mom’s name?”
Wes didn’t answer. Just as she was about to repeat the question he said, “Her name was Nina Carter.”
Through the haze of food and drink, Baskia realized what he meant.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry. If you need to talk about it…” Her offer was feeble, but his lips quirked as if he swallowed back long sentences, paragraphs even, but was afraid, yet desperate, to force his way through the difficulty.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, not taking his eyes off the road.
“Need and want are two different things,” Baskia answered lucidly, despite the saké. Nevertheless, like him, she watched the road ahead until the truck climbed the mountain.
“Thanks for dinner,” Wes said when they pulled into the driveway.
“You’re welcome. You’ve helped me out, a lot.”
“I can get that wood delivered and stacked by the end of next week. They say a storm is on its way. Do you still need me to show you how to operate the woodstove?”
She didn’t want to say yes. However, no, meant there would still be a stack of wood outside in the spring and possibly a case of frostbite. He was capable, strong, and manly, yet there was something he needed, something she didn’t have. Happiness? Companionship? Time away from the woods and in civilization? She wanted to figure it out and help him find it, just as she wanted someone to reach down and give her a hand, pointing her in the right direction.
“That would be great. Um, you can show me now if you want,” she knew that was a bad idea as she eyed the motorcycle parked in the driveway.
“Better to have wood first,” he said, almost laughing.
She was glad her foolishness earned her a smile. “Right. Of course. Thanks again,” she said, getting out of the truck just as soon as it stopped.
Once inside, a dim light shone next to the couch. Trace lay there, fast asleep, his inked arms folded over his chest, his lips, perpetually on the edge of laughter.
Baskia fell into bed, glad the night was over.
^^^
For the next few days, Trace made no mention of the twenty minutes they spent making out on the counter, nor did he try again. Electricity fizzed and popped anytime they were in a room together, but he kept his distance.
By the weekend, Trace had read Baskia’s wide range of books, as if bei
ng on the mountain wasn’t enough of an escape.
She couldn’t stop moving. She caught him watching her more times than she could count, making her wonder what he saw through his alluring eyes. She continued her fitness routine, prepping for the upcoming show, dropping calories despite the few times he’d offered to cook for her. She cleaned the house, top to bottom, practiced her walk—not that she needed to—sifted through old magazines, and couldn’t sit still.
One afternoon, while she contemplated whether to go into town or sort her cosmetics, her knee jitterbugged against his on the couch.
He said, “Don’t you get bored here?”
“Yeah,” she answered absently.
He tilted his head toward her as if waiting to hear more.
“That’s the point.” She could hardly endure the long stretches of measured time, the grandfather clock counting the seconds, but it was an exercise she wanted to push through.
Her smile brought him closer to the punch line. “So you came here to get bored? You know what they say about idle hands. But it doesn’t seem like you can keep still.”
“That’s just because you’re here,” she said candidly, before she could stop herself.
“And why’s that? Do I make you nervous?” He gripped her knee in his strong hand, stopping it from shaking.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No, you don’t make me anything,” she said, leaving the room, cursing herself for pouting, for wanting him, for being so confused. When she closed her bedroom door behind her, she stuck her tongue out in the direction of the living room like a petulant child. “So there,” she muttered. Desire burned, but if his interest came and went on a whim, or whenever he was bored, she wouldn’t give in.
Chapter Twelve
Baskia strutted from her room after a few hours of online browsing and shopping to get something to eat. Trace reclined on the couch, one hand behind his head and his legs stretched long. He watched her cross the room; she would have been concerned if he didn’t look at her with his particular hunger written on his lips. Yet, he didn’t try to fill it, so what was the point?
While she looked in the fridge, he stood close behind her, reaching up and taking two glasses out of the cupboard overhead.
“Want a drink?” he asked, his voice whisper-soft by her ear. “There are some swank drinks in that book of yours.” He referred to the copy of Mixology she’d bought online.
“Fine,” she said, indulging him, but also sure that a drink would stem her own boredom.
“Cards?” he asked, holding a deck in his hand as he brought her an ombré tequila sunrise. The layers of colorful liquid melted into each other. “Sunrise for a sunset. Enjoy,” he said, looking out the window as the copper sun dipped low against the dark span of the mountains.
“You’re really bored, aren’t you?”
He smirked.
While they worked their way through the tequila section of the book, and a great deal of a bottle of Patrón, Baskia found herself yearning for him, remembering that late summer afternoon, and the lake. More than once their hands brushed while playing cards, but from beneath the surface of the alcohol that burned her stomach, she told herself, no, no, no.
As she knocked another drink back, she could hardly resist the urge to laugh and giggle, to nudge him with her foot when he made a teasing comment, but she resisted the pull of desire.
“I’m leaving in a couple days, back to Brooklyn.” Trace said.
“Thanks for telling me this time.” She wanted to ask him where he went and what he did, but in truth, the possible range of answers made her uneasy. “I won’t be here for the first two weeks in December, so if you come up, clean up after yourself.”
“Sure thing,” he said, tossing down a winning hand.
“Hey, no fair,” Baskia said, mad that he’d won. She’d needed one more card. “I demand a rematch. And a refill.” She didn’t want to think about him leaving.
With a tequini in hand—a tequila version of a martini—she shifted to untuck her leg, leaned too far over, and the drink splashed and spilled on the cards. As she went to wipe it up, she and Trace knocked heads.
He looked intently into her eyes. “You’re so damn sexy, even when you’re half drunk.”
She hiccupped. “Nope. I’m pretty sure I’m all drunk.” She stood, to get something to wipe up with, but slipped on some of the cards. He steadied her. They both started laughing. She lobbed a pillow at him.
“Let’s not spill any more of this,” he said.
“That’s a great idea.” She downed the remaining drink in one long sip, and then launched herself to his end of the couch, their lips instantly pressing together. “What were you saying about me being sexy?” she asked, longing to hear his low voice drawl the words in her ear.
His shirt came off. He unhooked her bra. He pawed her chest. “You taste good. You look good,” he said when he pulled away.
She nibbled on his ear. “More,” she whispered.
Then he stopped. “No, we can’t.”
“What? Why not? We did before and it was—”
He shook his head. “I should go to bed.”
“Wait a minute. You can’t just start and then stop. That’s not—” She wanted to demand another redo, like the rematch in their card game.
“I can, and I did. I don’t want to—”
Baskia’s cheeks burned with shame and anger. “You...” She stormed back to her room, slamming the door.
The next day her head only stopped spinning in the afternoon, keeping her in bed late. Rain fell heavily, cooping them up in the cabin. After refilling her glass of water and rooting around the medicine cabinet for something to dull her throbbing head, she retreated to her room.
Trace appeared in the doorway.
Looking up from where she sorted her stack of shoes, she snapped, "What?"
His arms gripped the top of the doorframe as he leaned in. “I just want to tell you that last night, wasn’t about you.”
“Oh, ‘You’re so sexy,’ isn’t about me? Were you getting me mixed up with someone else?”
“Yes, I mean no. No, not like that at all. It’s just that I’m dealing with some shit,” he said, trying to mask a look of agony with his patent smirk.
“Then deal with it. Don’t drag me into it and then leave me there.”
“You’re right. I won’t do it again.” His expression hardened.
She wanted to say, No that’s the thing, I want you to do it again, but he left her there with her pile of shoes, feeling as confused and frustrated as ever.
The smell of lasagna baking in the oven lured Baskia into the kitchen a couple hours later. She uncorked a bottle of wine hoping to chase away reminders of her headache. Trace had set the table for two and candlelight burned softly between the place settings.
“Will you join me?” he asked.
“How’d you know my favorite?” Homemade lasagna had the potential to earn him forgiveness.
His rough around the edges appearance and moody demeanor didn’t keep with details like candles and cloth napkins. If she’d been anywhere else, she’d have said so long to him, but there was no escaping him in the cabin, she was rooted there. And the meal smelled irresistible.
They didn’t say much while they ate, but Baskia noted the silence wasn’t awkward like with Wes. Of course, she wanted to ask what he’d meant when he said he was dealing with some shit, but instead they made conversation about her return trip to New York after Thanksgiving, a few of the books they’d both read, and their wine preferences. By the time they were done and the grandfather clock struck twelve, Baskia glowed with the satisfaction of a good meal shared in good company.
“Thanks,” she said before retiring to her room.
“No, thank you,” he said, meaningfully. With that, he blinked off the light.
The clock glowed a half-hour had past when Baskia felt the covers lift, shuttling in a burst of cool air. Trace’s lean body slipped into the bed, chilly against h
ers.
“Midnight delight?” he asked with a soft chuckle.
“Were you cold?” she asked, turning toward him.
“Not anymore.” He reached his muscled arm around her back and pulled her closer.
In that moment, the confusion that translated to anger from his mixed messages didn’t matter. She wanted him, and he obviously felt the same. She couldn’t deny herself the intense pleasure of hooking up with Trace. She’d never before experienced the longing and passion that played between them. His tongue explored her mouth as she nibbled on his lips, gently tugging, nipping, and sucking. She tugged on his boxers.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said.
“I don’t want you to,” she whispered. “But you said this wasn’t a good idea.”
“I never claimed to have good ideas,” he said, his breath quickening.
“I thought you were leaving tomorrow.”
“I am. At dawn.”
Baskia wanted to ask him to define what this was for him, what it meant, but it’d never mattered before, or perhaps it always had, but no one ever made her feel as much as he did. Emotions churned inside her like a storm on the sea with waves in the form of lust, yearning, confusion, arousal, frustration, intimacy, and bliss, all crashing into one another. Her attention to so many conflicting feelings waned as the heat built between their skin.
Their lips pressed urgently together, like yesterday didn’t matter and there may never be a tomorrow. In the dim light that shone through the windows, Trace never took his eyes off Baskia, perhaps afraid she’d disappear. He invited her to melt into him.
Baskia clawed her way from a deep sleep to the sound of Trace’s motorcycle revving. She leaped to the window as the back of his head disappeared in the exhaust from the tailpipe on the cold morning. Pulling a blanket from the end of the bed around her shoulders, she lingered wondering if she’d see him again and if it was worth the laughter, the frustration, the confusion, the ease, the attraction, the anger, and the passion.
“What is it about you, Trace Wolfe?” she asked aloud.
On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) Page 10