Page 41 of Loud Unspoken Memories

I glance at the table, all done up with fancy napkins and shit. “Where did you get all this?”

“Don’t you know Amazon delivers everywhere?” She laughs and I look at her like she’s nuts. “You don’t do much spring cleaning around here, do you? You had this stuff in the bottom drawer of that hutch.”

“My mother must have put it there when she and my dad brought up some of my belongings.”

Her head cocks to the side. She’s going to ask me something.

“Smells great,” I say quickly to avert any questioning. “I can’t believe you threw all this together at the last minute.”

I peruse the spread of food on the counter. Homemade stuffing. Green bean casserole. Sliced beef tenderloin. Even mashed potatoes and gravy.

“Do you want to pick a bottle of wine?” she asks.

I hesitate. Wine would make this feel like it’s something it’s not. Sure, I drink it with meals all the time. But alone. Not with someone else. And definitely not with a woman. Because this isn’t a date.

But she’s gone through all this trouble. It’s the least I can do.

“Not the special occasion bottle,” she adds. “Just your ordinary everyday wine will do. Hell, give me a glass of Barefoot and I’m good.”

I cringe. “You won’t find anything like that in this house.”

“No. I suppose I won’t. I am looking forward to tasting what you have, though. You’ll forgive me if I don’t sniff it, swish it, and talk about things like body and acidity. I’m just a girl who likes what she likes.” She shrugs. “Or spits out what she doesn’t.”

“Spit out my wine and you’ll be sleeping outside tonight.”

A smile reaches her stunning hazel eyes that dance with laughter. I question why she’s even doing this. Doesn’t she hate me after what I said last night? You’d think she’d be pissed off at me, not cooking me dinner.

When her cheeks pink, I realize I’ve been staring. It’s the first time today I’ve really looked at her. There’s a tug in my gut, like a tractor beam holding me hostage to her. Sheepishly, she tucks an errant hair behind her ear. She bites her lower lip, chewing on it anxiously. Her feet shuffle. She does all those things, but the one thing she doesn’t do is look away.

A crackle of raw energy passes between us. The attraction is palpable. Our eyes are locked onto each other. A pang of excitement has me stirring below the belt and some foreign emotion cascades through me. It’s a longing I haven’t felt in eons. One I never thought I’d feel again. And the way it sneaks up on me and pounces, like a lion finding a meal, knocks the wind right out of me.

That longing gives way to guilt, and finally I break the stare and turn to fetch the wine.

Behind me, she lets out a deep, audible exhalation that I try to ignore as I select a bottle. I take far longer to pick one than I should, needing time for my erection to abate.

While I open the bottle, she dishes food onto our plates and brings them to the table.

She sits and puts her napkin in her lap, waiting for me to join her. Our eyes connect again, and then…

The lights go out, leaving us shrouded in darkness and silence. The propane has finally run out, the only light coming from the fire.

Instantly, I know it’s not even the power I’ll miss. It’s the noise. The constant drone of the generator that’s always there in the background. It’s gone. The silence is almost deafening, leaving nothing where there once was something. Like that ever-present hum of grief that lives in my head, it’s been a source of comfort almost. The white noise that keeps me from overthinking shit.

It’s gone now. And I miss it.

Marti is most definitely not having the same reaction. In fact, she’s laughing.

“Wow.” She giggles heartily. “That couldn’t have been better timing.”

I set the opened bottle on the table and put a few more logs on the fire. It’s midday, but the sky is gray, offering little in the way of light.

Marti gets a few candles from a cabinet. I watch her every move, trying to decide if I’m disturbed by how well she knows her way around my cabin after such a short time.

She takes them to the fireplace and lights them, then places them on the table. Then she sits, looking over at me expectantly.

Dinner. Wine. Candlelight. It’s all a little too romantic for me. I’ve half a mind to turn and go back outside and chop wood until the woman sitting at my table gets the fuck out of my head.

But my mother would have my balls on a platter if she knew Marti had gone through all this trouble and I bailed. She raised her sons better than that. So I sit. Despite the warning sirens in my head.

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