by Fiona West
“Take off my . . .” Kyle looked pale, like he might pass out, and Ainsley laughed.
“You can close the door first.”
He was still giving her a wide-eyed look as she shut the bathroom door on him, trusting that he’d obey her. Ainsley smirked as she heard the water run, then the rustle of fabric as he stripped down.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” he griped through the door.
“Yes,” she replied, ignoring the strange look Abshir was giving her. “Just do it.”
A moment later, he stepped out, his face and hair damp. “Fine, but I’m not doing the lotion.”
“It doesn’t have a scent. It won’t make you smell flowery.”
“It’s not that.” He looked around, but no one else was listening. “It’s kind of a trigger for me, autism-wise.”
“Oh. Of course.” She felt stupid for not having realized that earlier. She lowered her voice, mindful that he’d tried to ensure privacy in the moment. “What if I did it for you?” She was used to doing things for small people: tying their shoes, wiping their noses, cleaning up their scraped knees, drying their tears. Helping a sensory-sensitive adult friend protect his skin just felt . . . natural. “Then you only have to feel it a little bit.”
“Okay.” His voice was soft, but not sullen. If anything, she noted a spark of curiosity in his gaze. That little zing, that little interest, had her hypersensitive, and she wondered if she’d made the wrong decision in offering to help. Because she wasn’t supposed to let herself fall for Kyle; their closeness was proving dangerous already. That’s how she’d gotten her heart broken before. She found her purse in the kitchen. “That reminds me, my phone’s dying, too.”
“You should charge it.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
Kyle scowled at her. That was too harsh. He’s just trying to help. Her heart felt like a mud puddle—undiscernible, murky—and each interaction just added more ripples to the mess. At least the day was almost over. The phone situation happened to her fairly often, so she had a charger in her purse. She pulled out her lotion at the same time.
“What are you up to tonight?” she asked as she took his right hand, holding his gaze, and rubbed the lotion into his skin gently but thoroughly. Her intent was to distract, but she found herself struggling to stay focused on both tasks at once.
“Not much. I have some medical journals to read.”
“No video games?” she teased, gasping in mock shock.
“There might be video games,” he admitted. “But I also need to clean my house. My brother’s a slob.”
She laughed and picked up his other hand while he was distracted. “That he is. But won’t you miss him? I can’t imagine living in that big, drafty farmhouse by myself. I like having people around.”
“You don’t like my house?” he asked, suddenly intent on her. It was not lost on her that he hadn’t answered the question about Daniel . . . she had a suspicion that he felt more emotional about it then he was letting on.
“No, I like it.”
“But you wouldn’t want to live there?”
“No, I would, just not by myself. If there were more people, it’d be fine.”
“It is a little drafty,” he said, sounding troubled. “Maybe I should work on that. I could replace the windows.”
“Just throw on a sweater. That’s the Gary Buchanan school of thought when it comes to heating, anyway.” Looking down, Ainsley realized that she wasn’t just rubbing the lotion onto his hand, she was massaging it . . . letting the warmth from his comparatively giant hand seep into her own, pressing her thumbs deeper into the tendons, letting her fingers explore all the delicate skin between his fingers. She drew back suddenly, wiping her hands on her jeans.
“There you go!” she said, her voice sounding too chipper to her own ears. “All done!” Tone it down, Ainsley, she chided herself, then, needing a distraction, she turned and began to gather things up for the end of the day. In no time, she was juggling a can of blue paint, two hammers, a caulk gun, an extension cord, and a painting drop cloth. The brushes were still soaking in the house . . . someone had left them before lunch without cleaning them. She’d gotten to them just in time.
“You’ve got that stuff, honey?” her dad called across the yard, his breath clouding in front of him. The sun was starting to tint the horizon orange, and the chill in the air was getting stronger.
Ainsley nodded to her father. “Yup, I’ll finish up with the tools. You can head on home.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.” He gave her a prickly peck on her cheek as she passed by, then turned back to his conversation with the regulars. She shifted the tools in her arms as they started to slide.
“I got it.” Kyle caught the extension cord as it started to fall, looping it around his forearm.
“Look at you, coiling cord like a pro. You’d never know you were just a dumb doctor.”
He scowled at her. “Do you want help or not?”
“Your help? Always.” The scowl softened then, and the heat in his gaze made her stomach flip-flop. So apparently, that made up for her snarkiness earlier. He’d been doing that at pickup with Cooper, on their ride over today, on the way to the beach, basically ever since they’d talked after the town meeting. Ever since he’d asked if she was getting married. Kyle wasn’t being forward exactly, just . . . intense. Even more intense than usual. She toed the trailer door open just enough for them to slip inside, leaving it mostly darkened.
“Where do you want this?” he asked.
She sighed. “I don’t know. Just dump it on the floor. I’ll have to put it in order next weekend, I guess.”
“You don’t have to do everything yourself, you know . . .”
“It’s just easier.” She turned to find him very close, closer than she’d realized. It’s just a small space. He didn’t move out of her way. It was the same kind of concern he’d shared in the tent at the beach when he’d rendered her speechless with his blatant honesty. Truth be told, she had lost some of her sparkle in the last few years, and she wasn’t really sure why that was.
“Ainsley . . .”
“Yes?”
“When was the last time you were kissed?”
“Kissed?” She wiped her dirty hands nervously on her jeans. “In college, I guess. My last real boyfriend, senior year.”
“That’s five years ago. How is that possible?”
She blinked, trying to understand his words. “What?”
“I asked,” he said, putting his hands on her upper arms, rubbing lightly, “how it’s possible that in five years, no one has asked to kiss a woman so gorgeous, capable, and effervescent?”
“Effervescent?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not an antacid.”
“I beg to differ. You always make me feel better. You make me feel . . . lighter.”
“That’s weird,” she said, looking into his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said. “You know what else is weird?”
“What?”
“You’ve stopped trying to impress me. You stopped wearing makeup to the site. You’re wearing pants with holes at the knees and faded flannels. But instead of repelling me, it has me wanting to corner you in a dark trailer and kiss you until we’re both gasping for air.” His hands slid simultaneously up her arms and into her hair, his thumbs stroking her cheeks.
“That is weird,” she said, her voice squeaky. “Are you going to kiss me now?”
“Only if you want me to.”
She nodded, and their lips connected before she could even close her eyes. She slid her hands up his sides to find his arms, traced her fingers over the inside of his veined forearms where his sleeves were pushed up. The smell of pine and dust competed with the light scent of his clothes, which smelled like Costco laundry detergent. The men outside laughed, and Ainsley stiffened. Kyle must have felt it, because he pulled back, held up one finger, and took one giant step to the door to pull it shut. “There,” he murmured. “That’s better.�
�� They felt around for each other in the pitch dark of the trailer, Ainsley’s giggles swallowed by his hungry kisses. Kyle walked her backwards slowly, pressing her against the wall of the trailer with his body. His very tight, fit body. Their tempo increased, two people wound together by more than the physical, soft touches and tastes creating for them their own private world. Ainsley felt her heart break open like a can of caulk left in the sun, a big gooey mess overflowing with happiness. The male conversations outside had faded away, but her mind still registered a familiar clank.
Ainsley broke the kiss abruptly. “What was that sound?” she whispered.
“What sound?” he whispered back. Kyle was breathing somewhat hard, but he cocked his head to listen. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“It almost sounded like . . .”
Outside, a car started. Her father’s truck.
“Oh no. No, no, no . . .” Scrambling over the hoses, sawed-off PVC pieces, and broken caulk guns, Ainsley lunged for the door. It bounced outward, but didn’t open. Ainsley cursed loudly. She turned back to Kyle, her eyes wide, both their chests still heaving. “We’re locked in.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“LOCKED IN?” HE ECHOED, and he stumbled toward her in the dark. His eyes started to adjust, and she stepped out of the way just before he would’ve run right into her. Kyle tried the door himself.
“We’re locked in,” he said flatly.
“I heard that somewhere before,” Ainsley quipped. “Oh wait, I know . . .”
“Okay, okay. Let’s not panic. I’ve got my phone, we’ll just call your dad and . . .” He went very still. Of course it was. This was not happening.
“What?”
“That flashlight thing—remember? I had the flashlight on, and I couldn’t get it to go off . . . and it’s dead.” He pivoted. “Where’s yours?”
“In the house,” she whispered. “I was charging it.”
“And it’s a padlock, right? Nothing to be done from the inside?”
“Not unless you want to break it down.”
He looked at the door, running his hands over the edges. “Hinges are on the outside. I don’t think I could get up enough speed to break it down.”
Ainsley clapped her hands. “Well, let me find a flashlight, there’s gotta be one around here somewhere . . .”
“Do you have any food?”
“Why, are you hungry?” She groped along the shelves, searching for something, and he heard her fingers moving along the tools.
Don’t hurt yourself, he wanted to say. If you’re hurt and we’re trapped in here, I’m going to lose my mind.
“I’m going to be. And since we’re stuck here all night . . .”
She laughed. “Oh, don’t be silly, Dr. Doom. We’re not going to be stuck here all night. Someone’s going to notice I’m missing.” She found a flashlight and turned it on, setting it on its end to point the beam at the ceiling and illuminate the whole room. Kyle crossed his arms, his expression grim.
“Who?”
“Who?” she echoed, moving a box of screws.
“Yes. Who’s going to notice if you’re missing?”
“Winnie.”
“You usually go home with your dad on Saturday nights because of your weakness for pancakes.”
She tossed her head, which was unfortunate, because her hair was still French braided, so the effect was lost. Adorable. “First of all, it’s not a weakness, it’s a proclivity, and second of all—”
He snorted. “Fine, your proclivity. But wouldn’t she think you were with him?”
Ainsley seemed to be considering this. “Well . . .”
“And your dad thinks you went home to your apartment. So I say again: who?”
“Well, your brother . . .”
“. . . is working the night shift at the hospital and won’t be home until 8 a.m., assuming he comes straight home. And frankly, he’s somewhat self-absorbed and Winnie-obsessed and rarely notices whether I’m there or not.”
Ainsley crossed her arms, too. “Huh.”
“Yeah.”
A long silence passed in the darkened trailer. His fingers were tapping furiously against his leg in an effort to stave off real panic. He couldn’t spend the night here; this wasn’t right. This wasn’t home. There was no bed, no toothbrush, no . . .
“How are we going to get out of here?” he blurted out.
She tapped her chin. “Yell really loud?”
Kyle’s chin fell to his chest. “I can’t believe this.”
“Wait, are you giving up?”
“Aren’t you?”
Ainsley laughed. “Of course not! No, I’m just . . . I’m just brainstorming. I’m just getting warmed up.” She climbed over the stuff on the floor to get closer to him, and he felt himself tense, unsure of what she’d do next. “Do you perhaps have one of those ‘Oops, I slipped and fell’ bracelets that we could activate?”
Kyle shook his head slowly.
“Do you have a flare that we could set off?”
What an imagination this woman has. He liked that about her in general. But not now, when they should be preparing for the inevitable night they were going to spend here. Yet Kyle decided to play along, and he felt there was no greater proof that he’d lost all good judgment when it came to her.
“How’s that going to help inside a metal box? We’d just burn the place down with ourselves inside.”
“Hmm, good point.” She put her arms around his waist, and he stilled. He’d been so nervous to kiss her, to even ask, and now she’d just initiated contact with him, like it was normal. Like she was allowed to now, like he belonged to her. The panic over spending the night here began to ebb away as she held him. Maybe she’d be willing to sleep next to him tonight to keep warm; his body was singing like a gospel choir that they should definitely do that, do that, best idea ever. He lifted his hands and put them gently on her hips, trying to focus on what she was saying, but his heart was flipping around like a gymnast.
“Do you have telepathic powers? Could you perhaps signal someone with your mind?”
“My mind is powerful. But not that powerful.”
“Are you secretly a superhero?”
“How could I be? I don’t have glasses, and I prefer my underwear underneath my pants.”
Ainsley snort-laughed into his shoulder, and he chuckled, too. Tentatively, he hugged her. She was warm, and it must be catching, because he felt like he’d never been more comfortable while touching someone; he felt his whole body sigh finally. Forget what he’d said about their immediate survival; it wasn’t going to change anything whenever he investigated the situation further. It felt much more crucial that he kiss her again. Her lovely face was right there, tucked into his shoulder—when she abruptly went another way.
“Yeah, I’ve got nothing. Let’s see if my dad hides any snacks in here. He’s diabetic; he’s gotta have sugar somewhere in this pit.”
Disappointment bit him hard, but he hid the sting. They cleaned up while they searched and were rewarded with a Costco-sized box of Oreos in wrapped cellophane packages, which had been hidden behind the flooring boxes.
“Come to Papa,” Kyle said, snagging two rolls for himself.
“I’d never have pegged you for a junk food enthusiast,” Ainsley said, giving him the side eye.
“All things in moderation.”
“Aristotle.”
“Is it?”
Ainsley nodded. “I like quotes. Do another one.”
Kyle tilted his head to the side, thinking, watching her eat. Her teeth were turning black from the cookies. “‘I have no special talent. I am only—’”
“‘Passionately curious.’ Albert Einstein. A hard one, please.”
He chuckled, covering his mouth so he didn’t spew cookie crumbs everywhere. “Fine. ‘Whatever you are, be a good one.’”
“Abraham Lincoln. I use that one in my classroom all the time.”
“I’d kill for a glass of milk right now.”
/>
“I don’t know that one.” Ainsley smirked, and, amused, Kyle threw a cookie at her. “Food waster!” she gasped. “We need those calories right now, Durand!”
“Okay, okay.” He thought for a moment. This was a chance to show her something real about himself . . . to go a little deeper. There would be no escape if he was embarrassed, but he couldn’t imagine she’d laugh at him. At least, not like kids used to laugh at him, when he didn’t know they were teasing him. He wolfed down another cookie for courage. “‘But there was no need to be ashamed of tears, for tears bore witness that a man had the greatest of courage, the courage to suffer.’”
Ainsley squinted at him. “Shoot. C. S. Lewis?”
“Nope. Want another clue?”
She nodded.
“‘What is to give light must endure burning.’”
She twisted her lips to the side, hesitating. “Buddha?”
Kyle laughed. “Nope.” She wasn’t going to get it. Maybe he should’ve picked another one. Was it important to let her win? He’d never let his brothers win at anything, but girlfriends were definitely not brothers. He didn’t want her to feel dumb; she wasn’t.
“Dang it!” Ainsley pounded the sack of cement she was sitting on. “Who?”
“One more, then I’ll tell you. ‘Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.’”
Ainsley shook her head. “I have no idea, but I love it. Especially when I’m trapped in a trailer for the night.” So not a bad choice after all.
“His name was Viktor Frankl, he was a Holocaust survivor. Wrote a book called Man’s Search for Meaning. It’s one of my favorites.”
Her expression changed, but he couldn’t read it. “So when he says any given set of circumstances . . .”
“He’d been through the worst of it.” Kyle swallowed. “I tell my patients that when I have to give bad news. Lots of times, an ER visit is the first sign of a bigger problem.”