The Cabin

by Alice Ward

  “Yeah, all abominable snowmen like their beans freshly ground.”

  She rolled her eyes and watched with interest as I poured some beans into the grinder, like she was memorizing my every move. “You want to do this while I supervise?”

  A blush crept up onto her cheeks. “Sure. Then I’ll be able to add a new skill to my ridiculously short list of them. Who knew adulting could present so many challenges?”

  I watched her close the bag of beans and replace it in the cabinet. Even her hands were lovely. Unpolished nails, just a little longer than the tips of her fingers only complemented their graceful length.

  “How old are you?” The question burst out of me.

  She smiled, shooting me a curious look. “How old do you think I am?”

  Oh, no. No. No. No. I wasn’t falling into that trap. I lifted my hands in surrender. “No way in hell am I guessing.”

  She closed the lid of the grinder, looking at it closely. “Fine. If you have to know, I’m seventeen.”

  Oh, good god. I was a dirty old man. Shit. Fuck. Damn.

  She laughed. “I turned twenty-two last week, but the look on your face was worth the lie.”

  A rush of air pushed out of my lungs. Good. At least I wasn’t fantasizing about a child. That would have sent me over some edge of no return.

  “How old are you?” she asked. “And how do you turn this thing on?”

  I smirked. “Forty-one.”

  It was her turn to gape. Two could play at this game. Then I realized that if she believed me, my ego might never recover.

  Her eyes narrowed but still flashed with good humor. “I’m calling bullshit on that one.”

  “Then you would have called correctly. Knock ten years off that. I’m thirty-one. And to answer your other question, push down on the top.”

  She looked back at the grinder. “Oh.” Then pushed down. The scream of the grinder caused her to jump back, both of her hands flying to her head as her face twisted into a mask of agony.

  I reached for her. Shit. I hadn’t thought about the noise. Pulling her to my chest, I held her head against me, making soothing sounds into her hair.

  Long moments passed. I just held her, needing her closeness as much as it seemed she needed mine. Her hands slipped under my t-shirt, her fingertips pressing into my back. Stroking a hand down her spine, I stopped just above her lush ass, wanting to move lower, wanting to feel it in my hand.

  I was growing hard, and I knew she could feel it against her stomach, but I was finding it very hard to care.

  Human connection. I didn’t know how much I’d been internally longing for it, but damn, it felt so good to have the warmth of another person pressed against me. Jessica had been the last woman I held in my arms.

  Jess. Dammit.

  As a kid, my foster parents scrubbed me up and dragged me to church every Sunday, parading me in front of the other parishioners who constantly told them “how self-sacrificing they were” to take on such a “troubled youth.” That was me. And I was troubled. I was troubled by how my parents overdosed when I was eight, leaving me to find their dead bodies after school. I was troubled to be thrust into a foster system the next day. I was troubled when the first home was abusive. The second home was too.

  Then I’d gone to live with the Petersons for a while. It was heaven. They were kind, had good food. Mr. Peterson helped me with my homework and showed me how things worked. Mrs. Peterson ruffled my hair and kissed my cheek as she asked me about my day, and really listened like she cared. Then she got cancer, began to whither into a skeleton, and I was moved to live with the Morris family. In many ways, I’d wished I’d never known how good things could be with the Petersons. I wouldn’t have been able to miss something I never knew. Long for it. Grieve for it. Feel a bone deep anger that it was gone.

  In the Morris’s church, I’d sit still and listen to the preacher shouting at the congregation. He shouted about sin and eternal damnation. Heaven and hell.

  I didn’t know if heaven or hell actually existed, but what if it did? What if Jessica was there, “watching over me” as all the Bible people said she would? That meant she was watching me lust after this girl. Kiss this girl. Possibly fuck this girl.

  The thought was deeply disturbing.

  With supreme effort, I released Zoe and slowly stepped away. “You okay?”

  Those eyes. So light green they could be confused for gray when they weren’t lit up with humor lifted to mine. “Yeah. Just wasn’t expecting all that noise. My head is still throbbing, although I think I’m getting used to it more than it’s getting better.”

  I glanced at the grinder. “How about you go into the bedroom while I finish the beans? It’ll just take a few seconds.”

  She licked her lips and nodded before walking away. I blew out a breath, adjusted my boxers, and waited to hear the click of the door before pushing the button. After the promised few seconds, I called out, “Done,” and the door clicked open again.

  Quiet as a cat, she padded back into the kitchen, a bright smile plastered on her face. “So… you’ll show me the French press?”

  She followed my instructions on measuring out the grounds and then pouring the hot water over them, giving them a good stir. “Now we wait. I like my coffee strong, so I usually wait five or six minutes. But we can do four today. I’m not picky.”

  Zoe glanced at the clock and returned to the stove. Turning on the burner, she started to work on the omelet, but I noticed her fingers trembling a bit. I was making her nervous, and the animal inside me was glad.

  “What do you do for a living?” she asked as she poured the egg mixture into the sizzling skillet.

  I considered the question, remembering the hungry eyes of the gold diggers at Jessica’s funeral. She hadn’t been six feet under for more than five minutes when offers of condolences were purred in my direction.

  “I write security software.”

  She lifted a brow. “Like for virus protection?”

  I grinned. “Something like that.”

  “That’s really interesting. I’ve taken computer courses, and when I look at a code, I’m always amazed that so much gibberish makes sense to anyone. That all those seemingly random numbers and letters and characters actually talk to the computer in a way it understands.”

  “Yeah. I’ve always been fascinated by how things work. When I was a kid, I loved taking things apart and putting them back together again.” And getting the hell beat out of me by my foster family didn’t stop the curiosity.

  Zoe was too busy fiddling with the omelet to see the black cloud settle onto my shoulders, but she must have felt my change of mood because she looked up at me with concern in her eyes. “Do you still like to take things apart and put them back together?”

  Yeah. I’d like to shatter you, watch your face while you break apart under me, then kiss you until you’re whole again.

  “Gray?”

  “Yeah. I’ve always been good with my hands. I built the sunroom on the back, expanded the deck. When I feel like it, I write software.”

  As I watched, she jiggled the eggs in the pan, and with the smoothness I’d never quite duplicated myself, she flipped it, grinning at her success.

  Just like Jessica.

  My heart ached then leaped with the thought. Confusion and guilt and longing collided inside me, swirling around like the blizzard that had brought us together.

  Still smiling, she reduced the heat and turned back to the press. “Coffee time. What do I do next?”

  Stepping behind her, I showed her how to put the filter stem on top of the beaker and press it down, my hands on top of hers. “Ah… and so the name French press was born,” she said, her voice morphing into a weird British accent. “I’m sure the snooty French never considered that we mountain people would be pressing their invention.”

  I laughed, enjoying doing something so simple. I also enjoyed having a reason for my arms to be around her like this. She fit me perfectly. I wouldn’t h
ave to lower my head much to rest my chin on top of hers.

  Even when the coffee was done, we continued to stand like that, neither of us moving. Gravity changed again as we stood there, my hands on hers, her back to my front. Her fingers flexed, then turned until they threaded with mine. Her breathing had shallowed, grown faster. Just like my own.

  “Gray?” My name was soft on the air.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never done this before.”

  I wished I could see her face, read her eyes. “Done what?”

  She squeezed my fingers but didn’t continue. A long sigh escaped her instead.

  It hit me. No fucking way. “Zoe, are you a virgin?” I stepped away, let her go. Watched her turn to face me.

  A single tear fell, and she swiped it away with the sleeve of her robe. “No.”

  A rush of relief settled over me. “Okay,” I said without thinking. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

  She stiffened, her face growing darker as I watched her move back to the omelet, adding more cheese on top. She plated it and began working on the second one. Her hands moved furiously as she added everything to the skillet. Then she turned on me, her eyes angry now.

  “Why don’t you think that’s possible? Do I give off a slutty vibe or something?”

  That surprised the shit out of me. “No. I—”

  She poked me in the chest, her nail digging into the thin material. “Do you think that just because I have tits and ass I show them to anyone with a dick?”

  “No. I—”

  “Well, I haven’t.” She poked again. “And I don’t, okay. I can’t help the way I look. And I know what you’re thinking…” The nail turned, dug in as she gave out a harsh laugh. “Poor little pretty girl has it sooo hard.” Another tear fell, and she left it alone. It hovered at the base of her chin before dropping to her t-shirt, darkening the material near where her four-leaf pendant lay above her heaving chest. “You don’t know me. You don’t know…” Her voice cracked, and she trailed off, turning back to the stove.

  In that moment, I felt helpless, and there was only one other time I felt this way.

  The gun. Jessica on the floor. Bam.

  I’d survived my childhood, getting into fistfights nearly every day. I’d built a multibillion-dollar company from the ground up. I could take apart any machine. I could fell a tree and make a house out of it. I could kill a man with my bare hands.

  The thought stopped my mental tirade. I looked down at my hands and was almost able to see the blood still lingering there. Not the man’s blood, but hers. Jessica’s blood. And the blood of the child who died just ten days before she should have breathed her first breath.

  No. I didn’t know Zoe. And she didn’t know me. She didn’t know what I was capable of. What I could do, would do if pressed into a corner.

  Click. Click. Click.

  As if sensing the tension growing in the cabin, Maggie nuzzled the side of my leg. The kitten pranced in behind her and started swatting at Zoe’s toes.

  Zoe plated the omelet, added a few slices of bacon beside it before she stopped moving and exhaled a long breath.

  She looked at me. “I’m sorry. I overreacted.”

  “I’m sorry for being thick and saying something that clearly upset you. You were right. I don’t know you.” I stepped closer to her, pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But I want to.”

  And not just carnally. I wanted to know all of her. Inside and out.

  Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she blinked them back and turned her face into my hand lingering there. She kissed my palm, her breath warm against my skin.

  Then she stepped closer, until her body was pressed against mine. My heart squeezed as I looked down into her incredible eyes. “I want to know you too.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Zoe

  “Truth or dare.”

  Startled, I just stared up at him. Then realized that for some reason, he was playing the game. “Truth.”

  He grinned, those blue eyes shining. “Mustard or ketchup?”

  I grinned too, understanding where this was going. After such a tense few minutes, he was lightening the mood. Plus, we both just said that we wanted to know the other better. What better way than with this game? “Ketchup mixed with mustard and mayo.”

  There. If that didn’t run him off, nothing would.

  His grin only grew wider. “Me too.” His hand fell away, and he reached for both plates. “Want to pour the coffee?”

  “Truth or dare.”

  He lifted a brow. “Truth.”

  “Black or with sugar and cream?”

  The little gap in his front teeth appeared. “Black.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Figures. Do you beat your hairy chest at night too?”

  He looked offended. “Hey, I’m hairy, but not Chewbacca hairy.”

  Laughing, I raised a hand to his face and stroked his beard. “You sure? Truth or dare.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “It’s officially my turn, but I’ll let you cheat this time, so… dare.”

  I was expecting another “truth,” so the “dare” surprised me. I knew what I wanted, but I also knew I was stepping into dangerous territory. For some reason, I didn’t much care.

  “I dare you to show me your non-hairy chest. I don’t believe you, Chewy.”

  He barked out a laugh and set the plates on the counter. Very slowly, he pulled his shirt up, but didn’t take it off. Oh. Good. God.

  He was right. He did have hair on his chest, but it was more like a smattering than a bush. My eyes fell down his body, past the sexy outline of his abs and to his bellybutton, where a new trail of hair began. The trail was cut off by the gray sweats he wore low on his hips. The sweats that covered… oh heaven, a bulge. A big bulge.

  I’ll make you feel real good.

  Hating where my mind had gone, I turned away too abruptly, too sharply. I was forced to catch myself on the counter to stop from falling like a downed gazelle to the floor. Still unsteady, I opened the cabinet for the coffee mugs I’d seen earlier, pulling two down.

  He dropped the shirt, his hands outstretched like he might have to catch me at any moment. “You okay?”

  I laughed, but it was shaky even to my ears. “Yes. Just a little dizzy. When does that go away?”

  “Depends. It could be a couple days or a couple weeks. Without a brain scan it’s difficult to know the extent of the injury.”

  Opening the fridge, I pulled out the milk, then found the sugar in a bowl in another cabinet. “You seem to know quite a lot about medical stuff.” I could feel the frantic movements of my hands but couldn’t seem to slow them from their jerky pace.

  His palms came down on my shoulders before sliding down my arms to hold my wrists. “Pre-med in college. Hated it. Why are you shaking?”

  I tried to pull away, mad at myself for not controlling my emotions. “It’s nothing.” I tried to smile but knew it fell flat. “I’m fine.”

  “Stop.” Exhaling, I did as he said and let him take the sugar and milk away, setting them on the counter. “I’m sorry, Zoe. I’m being too forward with you. Too familiar. I keep forgetting we’re strangers. Forgetting how vulnerable you are.”

  I didn’t feel vulnerable. Confused maybe, but not vulnerable. Not with him. It was just the images that wanted to flash through my mind when I didn’t expect them to. Images of that night. Those men. How they’d laughed when the first one forced himself into me. “You’re wet,” he’d hissed in my ear. “See how much you want this? You’re a natural. Just like your mother.”

  I shuddered, and Gray took both my hands in his, rubbing them like he was trying to rub away the cold. What he didn’t understand was that I wasn’t cold. I was hot. Burning with anger. Yes, anger at those men, but also at myself. You’re wet. Did that mean I wanted them to do what they did? Did a part of me, the deep, dark part of me that was just like my mother, want them inside my body? Did I want them to make me feel good?

&
nbsp; The questions haunted me, crept into my dreams. Was I like her after all?

  You’re wet.

  That was why I didn’t go to the police. That was why I didn’t tell Leslie or anyone else. That was why I couldn’t eat and my ulcers got worse, and why I ran away to the mountains. Away from myself.

  “Hey…” He tipped my chin up until I was looking at him. “What just happened?”

  His eyes were so beautiful, so kind. So concerned. His eyes held the promise of all eternity as well as my total damnation in their depths. I wanted him to make me forget. To give me new memories to hold onto as I navigated the rest of my life.

  Somehow, none of the evil voices from the past mattered now, because all that mattered was how he was looking at me. Not with lust. Not exactly anyway. Lust was there, but something more important as well. Longing. Need. And he felt so familiar to me, like I had known him for more than a day.

  “Truth or dare.”

  He grinned, the little gap showing for an instant as his eyes wandered over my face. “Dare.”

  I reached up and touched my clover. Own luck. Own love. Own life. Own legacy.

  With a heart pounding so hard I felt the rush of blood throbbing in my temples, I said, “I dare you to kiss me.”

  At my soft words, his pupils bloomed, his jaw tightened. He let go of my chin, but instead of stepping away from me like I thought he would, he released the knot on top of my head, then combed the strands with his fingers.

  I wanted to crawl up his chest and close my lips over his. I couldn’t remember needing human touch this intently. This freely. On my own terms. But, good heavens, I needed it now.

  As if in slow motion, he took my mouth, slicing his lips across mine in a kiss of urgent need and desire. Our tongues danced, entwined, as his hands fisted in my hair. He pulled, and… oh, a liquid deliciousness spread through my body. He pulled again, and I was lost, my hands curling into his shirt.

  “So sweet,” he murmured against my lips before tugging at the bottom one with his teeth. His words were like a balm for my tortured spirit, a beacon of light to chase away the shadows of my memories.

  For a while.

  His hands fell from my hair and ran down my back before cupping my ass, lifting me harder against him. I felt his erection against my belly and pressed into it harder. I was scared, my heart beating like a wild drum, but I wanted this so badly that nothing else mattered.