by Vivien Vale
But I don’t.
Instead, I button up the flannel and breathe in the scent of Boone that lingers upon it. It smells like the cologne he’s used since college and the fresh mountain air from all around us, infused with pine. It’s comforting—familiar and fresh all at once.
Just like Boone.
Standing in his bedroom, I begin to realize how little I actually know about Boone. He’s a man of few trinkets and of little expression. But I know that he usually cares deeply—too deeply, in fact.
On the mantel of the fireplace sit some photographs. I tiptoe over the shag rug towards them, studying each picture to see if I recognize anyone. A few are obvious—there’s one of his parents, a picture of him and me from college, and then a framed photograph of Boone and the fire department.
I go to pick it up, and Amelia murmurs in her sleep.
I pull my hand back as though the frame was burning and turn to check on her. But she’s fine, sucking on her thumb and peacefully sleeping. So I return my attention to the photograph of Boone and the boys.
He’s smiling—a grin that shows off his teeth and exudes a golden warmth just from the image of it.
Seeing it reignites my suspicions from earlier.
Unsurprisingly, there’s no pictures of his Wall Street office and of the people who he met whilst working there. There’s no pictures of him with the college football team, either—even though he was their star quarterback. But that’s because he didn’t care about them—he was never comfortable around those types.
But the Fire Department—saving lives…that was where Boone flourished. And it looked like he found a strong band of brothers in the New York Fire Department—men he could really connect with.
Yet here he is.
Alone in the mountains, with only a rescued raccoon for company on cold winter nights.
Almost as though he’s deliberately avoiding any and all hints of civilization. But I can’t work out if Boone is protecting himself from the world—or protecting the world from him. He’s always been a hero, even if that means he sees himself as the villain.
I wonder who else Boone left behind when he moved away from the city. I’ve never been with another man, but Boone didn’t have the responsibility of a child. He could have had any woman he wanted, and I wonder if he did.
But clearly, he couldn’t have cared about any woman that much if he chose to leave and move out here.
I can’t help myself, and I continue to tiptoe around the bedroom. Opening and closing the wardrobe, checking what he keeps in his chest of drawers. Everything belongs to Boone—from the thermal socks to the ripped jeans and the beard oil in the bathroom cupboard.
There’s no trace of a woman’s touch anywhere in the cabin, really.
This puts my mind at ease as I turn off the bedside lamp and climb into Boone’s bed. The thick quilts quickly envelop me as I settle into the mattress.
Amelia shuffles closer to me. She wraps some of my hair around her child’s finger and holds it against her nose as she begins to snore lightly. Her feet begin to wiggle and twitch, and in the darkness, I watch her as she sleeps, wondering what pleasant dreams she’s lost in currently.
She’s perfect, my little angel. Boone’s flannel was far too large for me, and it completely swallows her tiny child’s form. The sleeves have been rolled up, but they still fall to her wrists, and her legs are lost beneath the red fabric. She looks cozy, comfortable, and I wish I could join her.
I lie there in the darkness, listening to Amelia’s breathing. Normally, knowing that she’s content and happy sets my mind at ease, and I can sleep without waking until morning.
And Boone’s bed is so comfortable, I feel the mattress swallow my body, cocooned in the thick blankets. My toes are kept warm by the faux fur throw over the end of the bed, as if I needed to get any warmer.
Yet I can’t sleep.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. Amelia reluctantly lets go of my hair so that I can move freely, from my back to my other side—and then I roll onto my back again.
I’m restless, and then I hear a creak on the floorboards down the hall, and I remember why.
I sigh and climb back out of bed.
I wrap Boone’s flannel tighter around my body and tuck Amelia in, cocooning her as much as I can in the thick blankets.
I kiss her gently on the forehead and exit the bedroom, softly padding down the hallway. My footsteps are silent, and as I approach the living room, Boone doesn’t notice me at first.
Moonlight spills in through the windows, casting a light over Boone’s muscled body as he finally turns to face me.
“Is Amelia okay?”
“Yes, yes, she’s fine… she’ll be out all night,” I say, taking a tentative step forward. “It’s me. I’m the one who can’t sleep.”
Chapter 15
Boone
It’s fucking impossible to pace in this tiny space.
Sure, it’s bigger than a broom cupboard, and I’ve got more room than a sardine in a sardine tin—but as big and broad-shouldered as I am, pacing isn’t an option.
Especially since the two most important people in my life are right next door.
I don’t want to disturb them with my heavy footsteps going up and down on the wooden floor. Just because sleep’s not coming easy to me doesn’t mean others should suffer from the same affliction.
Amelia looked like her eyelids were made of lead, that’s how tired she was. Poor thing. She’s been through a lot today.
I sit on the edge of the couch and tap my foot softly. My eyes study my feet as if seeing them for the first time.
Sitting still is not my strong point. If it weren’t for the visitors, I’d be moving around the cabin doing something.
Best cure for insomnia in the world: working with my hands. A man’s gotta do something—anything.
Sitting on my ass and twirling my thumbs only exacerbates my inability to sleep.
The only way to calm the monkey of the mind is to give it something to do. Manual fucking labor is best.
A noise startles me. I look up.
Nothing.
Now my imagination’s running away from me.
I sigh and run my hands through my hair.
If I don’t get some sleep soon, I’ll be useless come morning. I need to get some dirt beneath my boots and get my head on straight.
I’m just about to stand up and slip outside when I see her.
Margot. Beautiful fucking Margot.
Like a vision in the night. Only she’s not a vision—she’s real.
My breath catches, and my insides go up in flames. The way my oversized flannel shirt hangs off her slim shoulders makes my jaw clench with desire.
The beast slumbering inside of me threatens to stir and wake up. She looks so fucking sweet, so delicious…I want to devour her.
My eyes roam over her, taking in every minute detail…my gaze eventually meeting hers.
There’s an intensity there I haven’t seen in a long time. Not since that night when she came to me all those years ago. She’s holding my gaze, penetrating my barriers, and looking deep into me.
When Margot looks at you like that, she’s not staring at your body. She’s looking at your soul.
It leaves me breathless.
And I only want more.
I’m not sure if it’s getting hotter in the room, or if it’s only my imagination, but my body feels on fire. And my cock…
“Tried counting sheep?” I break the thick silence first.
Those intense eyes roam over me. It’s as if they’re drinking in my masculinity, sending my testosterone into fucking overdrive. They move from my chest to my six-pack, before lingering near the waistband of my pants.
If I’m not careful, she’s going to see the effect she’s having on my cock without even touching me.
Fuck.
“I…” she mumbles and takes another step toward me. “I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”
Another step.
Her velvet voice sends shivers down my spine.
“Do you want me to get you something?” I ask.
I notice her gaze travel past my waistband and rest on my crotch. My cock’s quivering with delight, knowing her eyes are on it.
She shrugs. Her right hand brushes her long blonde hair back out of her face.
“I just thought I’d see if you were still up,” she says.
“How about I make you a hot chocolate? You’ve had a rough day.” I’m pleased to hear my voice does not sound as gravelly as I thought it might. I cough to regain some composure.
And still her eyes continue their journey, caressing, teasing and arousing desire in me. Retreat and distance are my only defense at this stage.
“Yes,” she says. “Please. That sounds perfect, actually.”
“Want a nip of something a little stronger in it, too?”
Her lips shift into a small smile. “It’s like you read my mind.”
I feel her eyes on me as I move into the kitchen. Mechanically, my fingers find the necessary ingredients.
I don’t use the cheap-ass powder to make a hot chocolate. No fucking way. Here in my house, I use real chocolate.
A sideways glance confirms she’s standing in the doorway, watching.
Without looking, I find the grater and the dark chocolate. The milk is put on the stovetop before I start to grate the chocolate. Not paying attention to my actions, I grate right down to my finger.
I grit my teeth and grunt. It’s not a bad cut, but there’s no pretending it didn’t smart.
“Boone? You okay?”
She comes up behind me and takes my hand, examining the finger.
“Could be worse,” I joke. But I don’t try to pull my hand away.
Slowly, she bends forward and puts the injured finger in her mouth. I hold my breath. It feels too fucking amazing to move.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the milk. It’s bubbling away.
“Fuck,” I growl, pulling my hand away to attend to the milk.
I hear her laugh. It sounds like a million tiny bells of sweet sounds being rung.
After I pour two mugs of hot chocolate, I add a dash of rum.
She follows me, cradling her mug, and I wonder where this will end up. One thing is sure, I’ve got to remain strong and not let her do anything she’ll come to regret in the morning.
We settle on the couch.
For a while, we sit in a comfortable silence. There doesn’t seem to be a need to talk. She sips on her drink. So do I.
“It all seems so long ago,” she eventually whispers, and I turn toward her.
“What do you mean?”
She shrugs, and I love the way her hair glides over her shoulders when she moves.
“You know. The fire. College. Us.”
The fire. How could I forget that fire?
I barely got to her in time. The building was burning down around us—we both nearly died that night.
And I know in my heart that if it had come down to it—me or her—I would have chosen her. Every fucking time.
“It was a long time ago,” I grumble, not quite sure what else to say.
“You know,” she starts and stops. She’s looking at me again. Only this time, the look is different. It’s contemplative. “I still get nightmares about it. Even after all these years.” The last words are whispered.
I nod. Of course she would.
She tilts her head back, scrunches up her nose, and half-closes her eyes. It looks like she’s replaying the events in her mind right now.
“I went to bed that night so exhausted. I studied hard, and it was late.”
I can tell she’s somewhere else now. So as not to disturb her, I try and slow my breathing.
Really, I’m just listening to the sound of her voice.
“I thought I heard a noise, but I didn’t go to investigate. I thought I must be imaging things.” There’s soft laughter. “You know how you imagine all kinds of things when you’re really tired?”
Even though she’s not looking at me, I nod. I’m afraid that she’ll stop if I talk.
“Anyway, my eyes were getting heavier and heavier, and then just before they closed altogether, I thought I saw someone in my room. Then the next thing I know, I wake up in your arms, smoke in my lungs and ready to puke, outside a burning building.”
Her words hit me right where it hurts, in the heart and gut.
The fact someone might have been in her room is news to me.
“Are you sure?”
It’s a stupid question, one I ask before I can stop myself.
Luckily, she doesn’t rouse on me for being stupid or insensitive.
“As sure as I can be,” she mumbles. “Maybe it was just one of my sorority sisters…but it felt—I don’t know. It sounds stupid, but like…someone fucking evil. Someone who wanted to hurt me.”
Without saying anything else, I put my arm around her shoulder.
In my mind, I’m processing this new tidbit of information. What could it mean? At the time, there was no mention of anyone else in the room.
Could it mean something? Or was it just the result of Margot’s overactive mind?
I feel her head rest against my chest, and suddenly, thinking is becoming increasingly difficult.
As much as I want to process what she just told me, I also don’t want to stand up and disturb her.
And so I stay, sitting on the couch, arms around Margot’s shoulder, her head against my chest. Her being so close leaves me feeling all woozy on the inside and unable to think straight.
But it’s the best fucking feeling in the world, and I wouldn’t want things to be different right now.
“I know how you feel,” I whisper to the top of her head.
She doesn’t move. I take a deep breath. I’ve never talked to anyone about this before, ever. “I have night terrors sometimes, too, you know.”
Instantly, she moves off my chest. And I regret my words.
“You have nightmares?”
I nod. My throat is parched, and I feel as if I haven’t had a drink in fifty-five days.
“Sure do,” I confess.
“What about?”
I look down and wonder how to tell her and where to start.
Chapter 16
Margot
I feel his muscles of steel through my thick shirt. My fingers just want to trace the outlines of those pecs, and my mouth wants to feel how soft those lips are.
Instead, I take his hand and give it a little squeeze.
“Sometimes, it helps to talk about it.” I whisper.
Boone coughs.
It’s a stalling tactic if ever I’ve seen one.
But I’m not going to put pressure on him. The last thing a man like Boone needs is pressure from me.
If I start asking and prodding and probing, he’ll think I’m nagging and shut down even more, I’m sure of it. A man like Boone needs to stay in control. It needs to be his decision to tell me what happened.
So, I resist the urge to say anything else, and instead, I just sit beside him, holding his hand and sipping on my hot chocolate. It’s hard, though.
To take my mind of what’s going on, I try to focus on something else. I stare into my mug.
It’s a pretty good brew, I have to say. Nothing beats a real hot chocolate. It’s rich, it’s smooth, and it’s oh-so-delicious.
Briefly, I close my eyes. So much has happened in such a short amount of time. It’s hard to get my head around it all.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, it was only Amelia and I. Sure, I’ve known she’s Boone’s daughter, but heck, he didn’t, and I never thought I’d see him again.
And here I am now, sitting right next to him.
My insides are on fire, and my nerve endings are tingling in anticipation.
“It was late one night,” Boone begins.
His voice brings me back to the here and now.
I look up
at him. He’s got a faraway look in his eyes. There’s a certain kind of sadness in them.
An internal wrestle match ensues. Should I say something or just wait for him to keep going?
“It’s so long ago now,” he goes on. “Like you said. Barely matters, really.”
There he goes again. Stalling.
I decide to stay silent for as long as possible in response. Maybe just being here, sitting beside him is going to be enough.
“I don’t know, Margot,” he says, shaking his head.
He’s hurting. I can tell he’s hurting real bad. Bottling stuff up isn’t healthy. I’ve bottled stuff up, and it hasn’t helped me at all.
In fact, it usually has the opposite effect. Once he tells me about this nightmare, he’ll feel better. He’ll see.
“It started like any other day. The worst ones always do. I mean, if we knew things weren’t going to go well beforehand, we’d avoid them completely, wouldn’t we?”
The way he stops and starts nearly breaks my heart. I want to lean into him, kiss him, caress him, and take the pain away. If only it was that easy.
I sigh.
“I guess that’s life,” I say softly, giving his hand another squeeze.
It’s as if he’s not heard me.
“The siren went off, and we were called in. A fire. None of us knew then…”
The last few words are barely audible.
His lips are, by now, drawn into a thin line. The sorrow I saw earlier in his eyes is replaced by something else.
I try and make sense of the change. Is it anger, sadness, or something else? Of course, it could also be a combination of emotions. I know we’re complex beings and often don’t understand our own feelings or reactions to stuff.
“Have you ever talked to anyone about it?”
Even though I know the answer, I still have to ask the question.
Boone doesn’t answer. Either he didn’t hear me, or he’s trying to ignore me, or a bit of both.
Action is what is needed now. I need to draw him out and get him to talk. Once he starts talking and letting it all out, he’ll be so much better.