Page 22 of Braving the Storm
For now, I’m ignoring the elephant in the room, you know, the whole part where I come to my senses and figure out what I want to do with my life. Truth be told, I don’t even know how long I’ll stay here in Crimson Ridge, so I don’t want him to feel like he needs to leave or move or something stupid like that.
Maybe I’ll just use this cabin as a place to come once in a while for a vacation? I’ve got more than enough of my own money to look after myself in the immediate future. One of the upsides of working in the Lane family business since I was sixteen was that I’ve carefully squirreled away those paychecks year after year.
How glad am I that my gut told me never to trust a man, so right now, even though I hate the fact that it’sLane money, there is a decade of savings at my fingertips allowing me freedom to find my feet, and a job.
Until I make some decisions however, in the meantime, I wouldn’t mind making the place feel more… I don’t even know the word for it. Homely? Less austere?
Which is why I blurt out my question after hastily swallowing a mouthful of mashed potato, without thinking.
“Where’s all your stuff?”
Piercing blue eyes tick up to meet mine across the table. It feels as though the room shrinks by about five feet whenever he studiesme like this. As if I’m a puzzle, and not the kind that is a welcome challenge, more like a burden to be undertaken under pain of life or death.
These sorts of moments feel like I’m some riddle he’s been presented with in order to save himself from the gallows.
“Stuff?” His brow creases. Every part of his face is a temptation. It’s so strong and angular, like a craggy statue, I want to drag my fingertips over to appreciate how finely it has been crafted over time.
“You know… things… possessions. Haven’t you been here ten years, you said?” Waving my fork at the bare room, I gesture vaguely at its barren appearance. Tumbleweeds wouldn’t look out of place inside these walls.
“Why would I need a whole lot of crap?”
“But… surely you would want it to feel like a home?”
“Briar.” He sighs heavily and pushes his empty plate away, leaning back in his chair. “I lived on the road for most of my life. It’s an unusual existence, but you get used to living out of a duffel bag and not needing to clutter your world with useless shit. It just is what it is, and I don’t expect you to understand if you’ve never lived that life, most people can’t get their head around it.”
He shoves both hands through his hair. Making the dirty blond strands curl in an unruly, tangled mess, sticking up at odd angles. God, he looks good no matter what, and I have to duck my eyes in an effort to stop my body from reacting to how hot this man is.
Especially when he’s in that drowsy evening state, matching the heavy weight of darkness that has blanketed the cabin.
“Besides. You can hardly talk, little thorn. Turning up here with a single piece of hand luggage.” His lips tip up on one side when I dare glance back at him. Teasing me in that way that makes my body tingle.
I’m also refusing to acknowledge how my heart starts thudding a little harder.
Did he just give me a nickname? He just did itso casually, without breaking stride, and oh god, I like that he just called me that. Far too much for my own health.
“Well, do you mind if I make the place feel a little more… cozy?” I have to pinch my thigh below the table to stop myself from fluttering out of this chair.
“You planning to build a nest in here or some shit?”
“No.” My weight shifts in the seat, and I shoot him a small scowl. “Just… maybe some extra throw blankets for the couch. Some cushions. I saw a cute art gallery in town; I’d love to grab a few things from there and put them up.”
He shakes his head with a wry smile. Getting up to clear our plates now that he sees I’ve finished eating. I notice he seems to do that a lot. Will wait for me to finish before he moves.
I’ve been so used to being ignored most of the time, I’m certain my family, and even the man I lived with, didn’t ever actually eat a meal at the table with me.
When he returns a moment later, he’s got a beer in each hand and offers me one.
“Oh. Thanks.” Again, I have to duck my head after reaching out to take it because there’s something twisting low in my stomach at the sight of his tattooed knuckles wrapped around the slender neck of the bottle.
It reminds me of having his fingers around the column of my throat. The gentle slope of the amber glass caressed beneath his fingertips is causing embers to flare and heat to pool low in my core.
Look at me. Managing to make the act of myuncleoffering me a drink all sexual.
That’s gotta be my last straw. There are no two ways about it, and no more putting it off. I’m getting myself on a dating app tomorrow.
Surely, I can find a cowboy somewhere around here who is interested in no-strings-attached sex. Guys are into that, right?
He settles himself back down in his seat, spreading his legs wide and looking too fine for his own good. A fact that doesnothing to calm the steadily building inferno between my thighs.
