Page 22 of Loud Unspoken Memories

Don’t promise, my subconscious reminds me. But it’s too late, I already did.

“How long do you think it will take?”

“A couple hours. Three tops.”

She looks at the time. “And if you’re not back in four?”

I stand, walk over to the wine rack, and pull out a bottle. “If I’m not back in four, open this. I guarantee it’ll take your mind off things. It’s my best one.” I point to a cabinet. “Glasses are over there.”

Finished with my food, I do the dishes. Then I bundle up, put a few things in my backpack, and head for the door.

“Dallas?”

I turn. Her expression morphs from her usual one of stubborn determination into one I’ve never seen before. Her hazel eyes bore into me with an intensity I’ve never experienced. “Yeah?”

“Please don’t make me open the wine.”

I don’t say anything. The way she’s looking at me. The pleading in her alluring eyes. The helplessness in her enchanting gaze. The pure fucking beauty of her entire being. I don’t say anything because I can’t. The only thing I’m capable of doing is giving her a slight nod and walking out the door.

And damn it if I don’t spend the entire hike to Abe’s thinking of the pretty brunette sitting back in my cabin.

Chapter Ten

Martina

I take the fastest cold shower in the history of mankind, washing only the most important areas. I figure I can stretch it a few more days before I have to shampoo my hair. Hopefully, it won’t be too long, and I’ll be out of here and able to take a warm bath. Not to mention give Charlie a big hug. I smile at the thought.

Still wrapped in the large fluffy towel, I race out into the other room and warm myself by the fire. I rotate, letting the heat hit every part of me.

It’s strange being alone here. On one hand, I’m scared of being in the middle of nowhere during a snowstorm. On the other, I’m not sure I could be in more capable hands than the man who just left to check on his elderly neighbor.

It makes me wonder if Dallas will still be here when he’s Abe’s age. And more—why is he even here in the first place? It’s a question I’ve been dying to get to the bottom of, but every time I see an opening, he changes the subject.

Warm enough now, I shed the towel and get dressed. Pulling my one-and-only hoodie over my head has me thinking—when the propane runs out, I won’t be able to use the washing machine. Hand washing laundry is on the same list as flying. I hate it.

Going off the assumption that I may end up here for another day or two, I eye his stackable washer/dryer unit off to the far side of the kitchen. How much propane would it take for one load? Maybe if I do a quick wash cycle, then hang my clothes near the fireplace to dry, it won’t use too much.

Remembering the laundry hamper in the bathroom, I collect Dallas’s dirty clothes, along with my damp towel, and head to the washing machine. It’s just big enough to fit everything. I’m not sure what comes over me when I pull one of his shirts to my nose and inhale. I almost don’t want to wash it. It smells heavenly—a mixture of the body wash I just used along with a sharp outdoorsy scent of wood, smoke, and citrus that evokes a visceral reaction in the center of my body.

I quickly stuff the shirt into the machine knowing it’s pointless to lust after a guy who is only around me because he’s forced to be. One who will be rid of me as soon as he’s able. And one who, for all I know, is gay.

He’s not.

Something in the back of my mind tells me it’s not possible. That if he were gay, we wouldn’t banter like we have been. Nor would he look at me the way he does when he thinks I’m not aware.

I remove my hoodie and stuff it in on top of the load then add soap and start the machine, hoping he won’t be mad that I used up a little propane. But I only have so many pairs of underwear.

Being an unexpected visitor, I try to be a good houseguest and clean up whatever I can. I sweep the floor. Wipe the counters. Organize his cupboards. But I can’t help looking at the door next to the bathroom. He said it’s a hobby room. He never explicitly said I couldn’t go in there. But somehow I get the feeling it’s not something he’d be too keen on. Still, it calls out to me, preying on my curious nature.

To pass the time, if not distract myself from the other room, I peruse his book collection. The books he has are not ones I would generally read. Mostly autobiographies, finance books, mysteries, and thrillers. I pick one up, recognizing the title, then quickly put it away, deciding I do not, in fact, need to be readinga Stephen King novel about being trapped with a psychopath in a remote location during a blizzard.

I decide on the Matthew Perry autobiography as I’ve always been a fan ofFriends.

A while later, I’m startled awake by a loud noise. I must have drifted off while reading. I hop out of bed to investigate, hoping it’s Dallas coming back. Sadly, it’s not. A tree branch snapped under the weight of the snow, only missing the front of his truck by mere inches.

This does nothing to tamp down my nervousness over all the things that could go wrong with Dallas being out in the storm. This is one time I hate being right. Branchescanfall and kill you.

Instead of dwelling on all the ways he could be injured, I empty the washer and drape the clothes over the makeshift laundry line I strung from the side of his refrigerator to the bathroom door. I can rotate the clothes periodically, so they all get equal time by the warm fireplace.

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