Page 55 of Little Bird
And what I hear terrifies me.
“Gunner, I know she’s still there, and now the three of you are snowed in together. I don’t trust it,” Gabby says, and I have no problem hearing the truth.
It’s not them she doesn’t trust. It’s me. This woman, who I have never met, is convinced that I’m here for nefarious purposes and that I’m going to use this forced proximity to…
What?
Does she think I somehow manufactured this entire snowstorm? Because if I can do that, I’m wasting my time trying to get a college degree. I need to start advertising my services as a Weather Wizard.
I let myself smile at the thought—the possibilities are endless—but grow serious when I hear her continue.
“I know her mother, you know. I know where she comes from. And if she’s anything like Helen, she?—”
“Gabby!” Gunner roars, sounding part furious and part panicked. “That’s enough! The girl is my stepdaughter and got into some trouble. She needed help. That’s all there is to it.”
Gabby evidently doesn’t get the memo that Gunner thinks she’s said enough. “And why didn’t she call her mother if she needed help? Why didn’t she call her new stepfather? The one with all the money and contacts, who actually has a responsibility to help her? Because you don’t, Gunner. You’re not her stepfather anymore. You’re just playing with a girl that everyone knows you can’t trust.”
Her voice cuts off when he disconnects the call, but I’m frozen on the stairs, my blood gone cold and thick in my veins.
Because he might have cut her off, but not before she revealed some very important information. She doesn’t like me. Doesn’t trust me. Definitely wants me gone. And evidently knows a lot more about my life in the city than she should.
Which makes me suspect she’s still in contact with my mother.
And that makes Gabby way more dangerous than I realized.
We spend the first day of being snowed in carefully avoiding each other, walking around like the house is covered in eggshells that we’re trying not to break and barely speaking to each other. When Gabe and Gunner cross paths they snarl at each other like two dogs forced into the same cage, and though I play peacemaker whenever I can, I start to wonder if they’d tear each other apart if they were here alone.
And I begin to get a very clear picture of what the last four years has been like for them. Two men who evidently don’t know how to communicate stuck in the same house, trying to run a business together. Two men who also don’t know how to process their own emotions. In fact, I wonder if they even realize they have them.
Because I’ve had them both alone long enough to know they have feelings for me. Hell, Gabe has practically become the best friend I knew when I was here again, sharing fears and dreams I doubt he’s ever told anyone else. Falling asleep with his head on my chest and crying about his mother. Holding me like he never wants to let me go.
At least in private.
In front of his friends or father, he acts like I don’t exist—or worse, don’t matter.
And Gunner is even more impossible. He doesn’t even wait for someone else to come around to act like I don’t matter. He does it all the time, for free. No audience required.
Though that hasn’t stopped him from climbing into bed with me. Twice.
The bigger problem is, I’m half in love with both of them, and it happened when I wasn’t looking. That’s going to make it hard to leave them, but I don’t know what else I can do. I’m not going to stay in a house with men I think I might love when they won’t even admit that they kind of like me.
I can’t.
In short, by the second day, I’m bored out of my mind and so tired of the tension that I want to get my magic bag out and take it to the bathroom for some relief. Instead, I see my old camera on the shelf and have an idea. It’s stopped snowing, at least, and I want out of the house. Away from the tension and conflict in here and out into the open air.
I grab my camera, throw on a coat, and run for the stairs, praying I don’t see Gunner on the way down. I don’t want to have to explain where I’m going or what I’m doing, and I definitely don’t want him trying to talk me out of it.
I get down the stairs and out the door without anyone interfering, and once I’m outside I pause to look around and get my bearings. It’s so bright out here it’s practically glowing, and my first thought is that the light is going to cause problems with the exposure on the film. I’m going to have to change the camera’s settings to let in as little light as possible, just to protect the pictures. It’ll make the shadows darker and the whites brighter, but to be honest... I don’t hate the idea.
Smiling, I set out, my eyes on the trees in the distance. I want to start there. I love the fact that only the tips are visible. It feels threatening. Dangerous. Almost hopeless, except that the trees are still standing. Waiting for the snow to melt.
Waiting for the sun to come back into their world.
“Yes,” I breathe. The symbolism is so perfect it takes my breath away, and the smile on my face grows. I push through the snow, which is up to my knees here, and put the camera up to my eye. Once I’m looking through the viewfinder, I see the world in a completely different way. It’s more focused, showing me only what I want to shoot, and I drop into the narrow view the camera gives me, moving through the snow to get different angles on the trees and moving again to try to take advantage of the shadows they’re casting. God, it’s gorgeous out here. Strange and alien and sort of wrong, with just the top halves of the trees growing out of the snow, but so quiet and stark and beautiful that I find myself holding my breath as I press the button on the camera again and again.
I move to a different spot, looking for a different view of the trees, and suddenly I’m not alone anymore. Something moves out of the corner of the viewfinder, and I swivel the camera in that direction, curious.
And there’s Gabe, wearing nothing but a pair of ski pants and suspenders, his arms over his head as he swings an axe. I drop the camera to my waist and watch, mouth open, as he swings repeatedly. His bare chest carries a dusting of hair, the fine down frosted by the snow flying up around him, and I can see the soft sheen of sweat across his skin. Jesus Christ, he’s gained muscle since the last time I saw him without a shirt on. His chest is heavily muscled, his shoulders broad and cut with strength. The six-pack of abs shifts as he swings, the muscles flexing at the action of bringing the axe down. A flash of darkness on his forearms tells me that he has ink there, and I cock my head, confused. How have I not noticed that before?
