“I don’t exactly come to town often,” Haze replies. “So why are you here?”
“Your parents sent me to board up some windows and make sure the house would be fine.”
“Of course. Bastards haven’t come here in years but still don’t want to lose a sellable property,” Haze mutters more to himself than to us. “How bad is it going to be?”
“Violent winds, lots and lots of rain. We’d be really surprised if we don’t lose power. Hope you have plenty of food, candles, and blankets just in case.”
“Yeah, no worries. We still got some leftovers from the last storm.”
The last storm?
Did he just say the last storm? How many of those do they have around here?
“When is it starting?” I ask.
“Two hours from now.”
“All right. Well, I’ll let you do what you came here to do. Oh, and if you could not tell my parents about us being here, I’d really appreciate it.” Haze dives his right hand into his pocket and slips the man a hundred-dollar bill.
Just like that.
No hesitation.
Who casually walks around with a hundred-dollar bill in their pockets?
Haze freaking Adams, apparently.
And why would he waste that kind of money so that his parents don’t know their own kid is in their house?
The man’s eyes widen, and he happily accepts his donation. “Of course. I’ll be an hour tops.”
He tells us he’ll be back to unstormproof the house tomorrow. We watch the man walk back to his car and open his trunk to get whatever he needs to do his job. Haze shuts the door and turns away, ignoring my partially opened mouth.
“We still got leftovers from the last one? Are you kidding me right now? You brought me to a town where dangerous rainstorms are a thing?” I follow him up the stairs.
“The last one was years ago. Back when we still liv—” He stops himself, probably thinking that he’s oversharing. “Back when I was a kid.”
Now, I know for sure that he must’ve grown up in Colton Gate. What I can’t be certain of is whether or not it was in this house or if this is just his parents’ summer house.
“What are you doing?” I try and catch up to him.
“You heard the man. We need to get ready for the storm.”
“What’s going to happen? Is this how we die?” I ask, and he chuckles.
“Nah, we haven’t been evacuated. This one’s a softie.”
He pulls on the string of the retractable ladder leading up to the attic and disappears in the black hole embedded into the ceiling. He uses his phone’s flashlight to find what he’s looking for and comes back with a box labeled Emergency.
“Well, that’s reassuring,” I say.
“It’s a bunch of candles, lighters, canned food, and like a few blankets. Big fucking deal,” he teases. “I gotta get some wood for the fireplace if we don’t want to freeze. Would you go around the house to make sure all the windows are closed?”
“Sure.” I nod and watch him stride down the stairs.
The front door is shut, and I hear the rattling sound of a hammer hitting a plank outside. The Adamses’ employee is starting the job.
I’ve become quite familiar with the house in the time I’ve been here, so I go through every room pretty quickly—even the thousand bathrooms—and find myself without a task after barely fifteen minutes.
Or at least, I think so until I spot the one door I haven’t opened yet.
It’s hidden and at the opposite end of the hall. Now that I think about it, this is the only room Haze didn’t show me during the tour. I just assumed it was a closet.
I decide to go check just to be sure. I walk to it and slowly turn the handle. The door opens with a loud creak and immediately a cold—no, a freezing—breeze runs down my spine. It’s clear that no one’s opened this door in a very, very long time, and something tells me this goes back to way before Haze’s family stopped using the lake house.
It’s a kid’s room. No doubt about it.
A tiny unmade bed is centered in the middle of the room. Everything looks so… untouched. It could almost make you believe that someone slept in here yesterday.
My eyes divert to the floor. A dollhouse and a bunch of toys are lying on the ground next to the bed. They look expensive. These are rich kids’ toys. I know them all too well from the numerous commercials I saw on TV when I was younger. We could never afford them. It feels like whoever used them just got up in the middle of playing, left the toys on the floor, and never came back.
Could this kid have something to do with the empty frame and the cut picture I found on top of the fireplace?
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
My heart jumps out of my chest.
I turn around and see Haze’s tall frame standing in the doorway. His eyes are hard, dark. The arctic temperature of the room is nothing compared to the icy discomfort his words bring to my soul.
“I… I’m sorry. You said to shut all the windows, and I wanted to make sure I got them all.”
“So the fact that I didn’t show you this room when I gave you a tour didn’t ring a bell?”
I don’t move or speak, frozen in place.
“Get out,” he says, and my body decides now is a good time to reconnect with my brain. I walk around him, and he locks the door. The Haze I know—or think I know—seems like a distant memory. The guy standing in the doorway was completely different. He was mean, harsh—empty. And in his eyes… was the same pain I saw on that portrait of him at fifteen.
“I’m sorry,” I say again even if I don’t understand what the big deal is.
So, he has a younger sibling. What’s the problem with me finding out?
“It’s fine. You didn’t know. Just don’t do it again.” His voice softens although he is still upset. I follow him to the first floor where a bunch of wood is waiting next to the fireplace. I look out the window and see it’s started to rain. I know the man boarding up the windows is not done yet. Hopefully, he will be soon. I wouldn’t want to be outside when the storm hits if I were him.
“Okay. Can we put this behind us, please?” I blurt out the second Haze finishes lighting the fire. The rain has only gotten worse, and thunder has joined us, too. We heard the man’s car take off in a roar around thirty minutes ago. It shouldn’t be long until the power is out, so we thought we’d get a head start and make the fire now.
It’s been awkward between us since he lashed out on me for no reason. I’d like to know why he’s so mad about something so harmless.
“Please say something.”
He turns to look at me, his eyes piercing into mine. I hold my breath, afraid of what he’s going to say.
“Something.”
Of course. Haze will be Haze.
I can’t believe I held my breath for this.
“Jerk.” I roll my eyes.
“Prude.” He smiles.
That’s how I know we’re not “fighting” anymore.
I sit on the carpet in front of the fireplace and enjoy the heat the waving flames provide. Haze sits down by my side and stretches. It must’ve taken him five minutes tops to light that fire.
“How did you know how to make a fire? Was Hazie a Scout?” I snigger.
He frowns. “Don’t call me that.”
“Whatever you say, Hazie.”
He sighs, but I catch his grin.
“I believe I asked you a question, mister.”
He runs a quick hand through his hair. “I wasn’t a Scout. I was a son. My dad taught me when I was a kid.”
I’m surprised by the information. Was a son? As in, not anymore? He refrains from saying anything else, but we’re making progress. This is the first time he’s voluntarily mentioned his family or a somewhat personal story since I met him. All the other facts I had to practically blackmail out of him. I’m about to ask him another question when loud thunder makes me jump.
Everything turns black.
There goes the power.
We thought the fire would be enough, but we were wrong. We can barely see anything apart from the living room. I don’t know why we thought that one tiny fire would be enough to light up this freaking mansion. I stare out into the gloom.
“Wow, we really can’t see shit.” He states the obvious. “I’m going to get the candles. Mind giving me a hand?”
“I’m right behind you.”
I watch him get up and do the same. I try following him, but I lose him barely two steps into the kitchen. Why’d he have to walk so fast? I can barely see one inch in front of me, so how is his silhouette, that’s dressed in black, going to make it any easier?
“Haze?” I let out a nervous laugh.
I hear footsteps getting closer but can’t seem to figure out which side they’re coming from.
I hear a light scoff.
“Stop, it’s not funny.”
“You scared of the dark, Kingston?”
I can’t locate his voice.
“No,” I lie.
I swear I will never admit that I run to my bed after turning off the lights. I’ll take that secret to the grave.
“Well, you’re definitely scared of something.”
“I’m not.”
I jump, feeling a presence behind me. I have no idea how he could even find me in this cave. My heartbeat goes from uneven to nonexistent when he presses his torso to my back and circles my waist with his arm. Slowly, he leans in until his mouth is next to my ear.
“Then why are you so tense?” he whispers.
Static and electricity linger everywhere he lays his fingers.
“Personal space, ever heard of it?”
He snorts. “Right, sorry.”
Without a warning, he grips my waist with both his hands and spins me around to make me face him. He’s even closer.
“Is this better?” he taunts.
“I… I don’t know.” I almost choke on the words.
Damn it, Winter, speak!
A faint streak of moonlight peeking through the partially covered window allows me to see his chiseled features.
“Well, what does your gut tell you?”
“My gut gets me in trouble. I’ve learned not to trust it anymore.” My voice comes out in a murmur.
“Why? I always follow mine.” He seems intrigued.
“And it’s always right?”
“Yes,” he says.
Bitter thoughts flood my mind.
Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it.
“Like it was right when it told you to go sleep with Bianca after you said you loved me?”
I finally let the truth that’s been dominating my brain for the past month come out. I never confronted him about what he said that night. I never really had a chance. I bet he wondered if I even heard him at all.
When he doesn’t reply as quickly as I anticipated, a wave of nerves and regret drown me.
“I… I’m sorry. Just… Forget I said that.” I turn away, intending to walk back to the fireplace, but he captures my wrist and yanks me back to him.
I suppress a gasp.
In the moonlight, I see everything, from the way he narrows his blue eyes, to the way he tries to figure out what I’m feeling, to the way he destroys my ability to think properly with just one look.
“It’s fine. Really. I get it, Haze. You thought I was going to die and you felt bad, so you said…” I ramble. “I understand that it didn’t mean anything. Plus, you tell everyone that we’re friends. It’s oka—”
He cuts me off. “Winter, look at me.”
I don’t move, my heart caught in a war against my brain.
“Look at me,” he repeats, cupping my face with his hand.
He lifts my chin up to let our eyes come together. I hate that I shiver at the contact.
“I told you. I didn’t sleep with her.”
I refuse to let his pretty words work their magic on me but can’t help but want to hold on for dear life to the sincerity in the back of his irises. I want to believe him. I really do.
“Right,” I whisper.
“It’s true. Yes, I showed up at her house, but I didn’t sleep with her. I must’ve been there two minutes, if that.”
He pauses and places a hand on my cheek.
“And, for the record, I didn’t say shit because I felt bad or because I thought you were dying.” He lowers his eyes to my mouth for a few endless seconds. “I meant what I said.”
If I thought I was shocked before, I definitely wasn’t ready for this.
“I still do.”
A whirlwind of disbelief captures me. His words hit me so hard I know I won’t be able to formulate a comprehensible sentence anytime soon.
He steps closer and I step back, reminded of the countless times we almost kissed. We’ve been there, we’ve done that. We’ve been through this before.
But… is this time different?
“So, no, I don’t want to be your friend, Kingston.”
Oxygen.
I need oxygen.
“I don’t want to be near you knowing I can’t push you up against the wall right now and do all the things we talked about last week.” I know he’s referring to our lovely favorite-positions talk. “I don’t want you to give your number to another guy, and I especially, really, truly don’t want to help you pick out a dress.”
My back hits the wall, and I know that I can’t run from my feelings anymore. I’m cornered. Literally. He keeps leaning in, and just before his mouth can touch mine, he stops.
“Not if I can’t be the one tearing it off of you.”
In a heartbeat, he closes the distance between us and crashes his lips against mine. I automatically kiss him back, my pulse quickening. When his fingers wander to my hair and he pulls my head forward to deepen the kiss, I swear I can hear my heart explode. I can’t find it in myself to think about anything but his mouth moving in synchronization with mine when we embark on a dance we’ve been craving for longer than we can bear.
What if I actually died right there? What if my poor heart couldn’t handle Haze Adams? Winter Kingston, died from kissing the guy she’d been crushing on. Rest in peace, idiot.
In moments like this, it doesn’t seem too far-fetched.
I recognize the urgency from the day we made out at the motel, but this feels like more than just “making out.” It feels like a step toward something else… something inevitable.
When we pull away for air, he brings his lips to my earlobe.
“Want to take this upstairs?” His voice is raspy, thick.
I swallow the pit in my throat, the desire in my lower stomach agreeing with him while my head is screaming to escape before it’s too late.
He reaches for my finger and pulls on my hand, leading me to the staircase. When we go up the stairs in complete darkness, I almost trip—because I wouldn’t be me if shit like that didn’t happen in the worst moments possible—and he catches me before I hit the ground. He laughs at my clumsiness, and this simple incident calms my racing thoughts.
This is still Haze.
He’s still the guy who can make you laugh until your stomach hurts. He’s still the guy you spent fifteen minutes arguing about Grease with. You are friends.
It isn’t long until my back hits the queen mattress and Haze kicks the door shut. He gets on top of me, his toned body calling my name, and places one arm on each side of my head to hold himself up.
His mouth finds mine again, but this time, his tongue pries its way in between my lips and I can’t believe I wasted so much time being afraid. Here we are, kissing in the dark, in the middle of a storm, in a town nobody knows about to escape people potentially trying to kill me, and I’ve never felt more alive.
His kisses are eager, hungry. It isn’t long until the clothes are peeled off his skin and he’s in nothing but his boxers. He tugs at my dress straps, letting them cascade down my shoulders, and slowly kisses my stomach as he pulls the ti
ght black dress all the way down to my feet. I want to feel his mouth everywhere, and when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere.
He throws my dress across the room and stares at my uncovered body. Strangely, I don’t feel exposed. The look in his eyes makes me feel confident.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he exhales and leans forward to kiss me. He gradually descends to my neck.
Neck kisses… man, I am not responsible for what happens if you kiss my neck.
He sucks on the skin above my collarbone, and it’s enough to make my thoughts blurry. Then, he pulls away, stares at my neck like he’s admiring his work of art, and grins. I know that grin. It’s the “I did something and you’re going to be pissed” grin.
“You didn’t.” I catch up right away and bring my hand to my neck as if I will somehow fix the damage he did.
He beams as an answer.
I’m going to kill him.
I’m about to scold him when he places a hand on my stomach and slowly works his way down to my panties. I press my lips into a thin line, and his smile grows wider. He knows how to shut me up, and he likes that.
His hands are warm, but my skin is so hot they almost feel cold. He stops just under my belly button and glances at me. He’s waiting for me to say yes. I know he won’t make another move until he has my approval. I pull his face to mine and kiss him again, whispering a quiet yes against his lips.
Without breaking the kiss, he crosses the line we won’t be able to cross back.
He slides his hand under the light fabric of my underwear, and his fingers connect with a spot I haven’t let anyone touch in a really long time.
I tense up at the contact. He feels it and stills his hand, leaving it exactly where it is for a few seconds. He pulls away, his eyes searching for mine, and stares at me for a short moment as if to make sure that I’m ready to really listen.
“Just one word, Winter. Say it and I’ll stop.”
His sentence makes me feel better. Not because I expected anything less, but because having him say it to me makes me feel respected, comfortable. This, right here, is how we should always feel in a moment like this.
Unspoken Rules Page 9