Page 13 of Wrecked for Love
“How hard can it be?” I said with a tilt of my head.
“Well, if you need anything, just holler.” With that, he vanished into the back of the house.
I tucked myself into the couch, and Koda jumped up at my feet, casting me a guilty glance as if knowing he wasn’t supposed to.
“It’s all right. You can stay.” I motioned my approval, and he curled up contentedly.
The wind rattled the windows as a fierce gust blew through. I was thankful Elia had come back for me. The storm wouldn’t have killed me, but it would’ve surely left me freezing, wide awake, and miserable.
Just as I pulled the blankets snug around me, Elia returned. Koda lifted his head lazily, and so did I.
“Let me take the couch,” he said matter-of-factly.
“No, no, I’m good here.”
“Take the bed,” he insisted. “I don’t want you leaving and thinking I’m an asshole.”
I giggled. “Do you really care what I think?”
He sighed, mildly exasperated. “Do you really have to argue about everything? Just take the bed.”
He motioned for me to follow, leading me down the hallway to a room at the end. It was neat in a straightforward, no-nonsense way, much like the rest of the house. Heavy wooden furniture, boots tucked under the bed, and a flannel shirt draped over a chair—it had all the marks of a rancher’s room. Practical. Lived-in. Functional.
“My room’s the only one that’s furnished. And I just changed the sheets for you,” he said, gesturing toward the bed. “But here’s a tip. Take the left side.”
I curled my lips. “Preserving your half? Or your other half?”
For some reason, a flicker of jealousy stirred inside me.
“Sure. If you count my other half being a pillow with commitment issues,” he replied. “The right side’s about as comfortable as a clown’s lumpy shoes.”
“So you’re single then?” I just couldn’t help it.
He didn’t answer directly; he just turned to leave. “Oh, and don’t close the door. The latch is jammed,” he called over his shoulder.
Naturally, I closed it anyway.
I dropped my bag next to the door and set the Ruger on the nightstand.
An unexpected surge of wakefulness had me glancing around the room again. Crashing in a guy’s space wasn’t exactly my thing, and I wasn’t the snooping type. But that didn’t stop my curiosity from stirring. Maybe it was the boredom from too many miles on the road, but suddenly, being surrounded by someone else’s things had me wondering what he kept hidden around here.
I opened the closet, almost laughing as a pile of worn clothes tumbled out. Aha! So, that’s where he’d stashed his mess. But honestly, it wasn’t that bad. I briefly considered folding them, imagining his reaction tomorrow when he found his clothes neatly stacked after I was long gone.
I poked around some more, admiring his small collection of cowboy shirts and T-shirts. He didn’t seem to own much. Definitely a minimalist, which didn’t surprise me. Then, there were the drawers.
Was he more of a boxers or briefs kinda guy?
A wicked thrill tickled the base of my neck, tempting me to find out, but I let it slide.
On the shelf above the drawers, I spotted a photo album.
I opened it and flipped through old pictures that seemed to be taken around this very farm. There were a few landscape shots—rolling hills, open skies, animals dotting the fields. Some included a woman and a man, often with sheepdogs by their sides, probably Elia’s parents when they were younger. Others featured a family: mom, dad, and their three kids. The youngest was a baby, then there was a toddler—a boy—and a girl around six or seven. If this was Elia’s family, I wasn’t sure if he was the baby or the toddler.
I kept flipping the pages until I found a clue—a photo with “Happy Birthday Elia” written across the wall, surrounded by balloons and streamers. Five candles topped the cake, and his father was holding a little boy, likely the baby from the earlier photos, now grown. His mother was cheering while his older sister helped him blow out the candles. Mother and daughter, both with the same blue eyes and blonde hair, looked like they could’ve been homecoming queens of Buffaloberry Hill.
I gave the photo one more glance. So Elia was the middle child.
“Of course you were,” I muttered, feeling a little giddy. He was unbelievably adorable in his overalls and a cone hat. Those beady brown eyes—his signature, even back then—stood out, and his thick dark hair already hinted at the man he’d become. No sign of those chiseled jaws yet, but still. How had that cheeks-too-squishable-for-his-own-good kid turned into such a stunning man? Good genes and hard work, I guessed.
