Page 40 of Loud Unspoken Memories

Movement outside the lone window in the corner startles me. I rush to make sure everything is how I found it, but in my haste, I knock something over. “Shit.” I place it upright, close the door, then race back to the kitchen.

Bex’s nails click against the floor as he scurries over to greet Dallas.

“Hey, bud. Have you been out?” he asks the dog.

I crane my neck around the side of the refrigerator. “Twice.”

He removes his hat, coat, and boots. His nose is bright red. He must be freezing. I pour him what’s left of the coffee I made hours ago.

“Drink this by the fire. You shouldn’t stay outside that long. You’ll get frostbite.”

“I’m fine.”

“Tell that to your nose. It looks ready to fall off your face.”

He pulls a kitchen chair close to the fire and sips his coffee, looking over at the cooling pies. “You were serious about this Thanksgiving thing?”

“Of course. Just because we’re stuck here, doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate.”

“I’m not stuck here.”

“Okay, fine. Just becauseI’mstuck here.”

He stands and comes over, looking at the massive pile of peeled potatoes resting in a pot of water. “Expecting company?”

“I wanted leftovers. It’ll be easier to reheat them than to whip up something new.”

“Smart.” He puts his cup in the sink. “I’m going to shower, then…” He looks at the hobby room.

You’re going to hide some more?I almost blurt.

“Dinner will be ready around two.”

He nods, then without another word, he’s behind another closed door.

Closing doors. Yes, that’s exactly what Dallas Montana does best. He closes doors and runs and hides. I stare at the bathroom and wonder just what he’s running and hiding from. His memories. Or me.

Chapter Eighteen

Dallas

Incredible smells have been drifting into this room for hours.

I feel like a major dick, being in here while she’s out there slaving over a dinner I’m not even going to enjoy.

Looking down at my book, I realize I haven’t turned a page in… well, maybe since I sat down. I slam it shut knowing I can’t get the captivating brunette on the other side of that door out of my goddamn head.

When I glance at my surroundings, it makes me feel all kinds of guilty. I pick up one of my favorite sculptures and trace my finger along the edge.

A knock on the door has it slipping out of my hands. It almost hits the floor, but I scoop it up right at the last second, my heart pounding at the thought of how close it came to being a shattered mess.

“Dinner’s ready,” Marti sing-songs through the door.

I blow out a relieved breath, place the sculpture back where it belongs, then straighten a painting that’s tipping awkwardly off the end of an easel. I study it for a half-second before leaving the room.

Instantly I’m bombarded with the mouth-watering scent of fresh bread, cooked meat, and all kinds of other amazing foods my palate hasn’t experienced in a long, long time. Out of nowhere, I find myself looking forward to a meal.

As saliva flows across my tongue, I momentarily wonder if it’s the meal I’m looking forward to—or the company.

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