Page 4 of Wrapped Up In You
“Fine,” he gritted out. He sounded so damn angry, and I wasn’t sure why, but I’d long ago given up trying to figure him out. He jerked away from me, exiting the kitchen and taking his warmth with him.
3
JONATHAN
Iwalked into the bedroom and slammed the door. I had to get away from Hayden. The feel of him pressed against me and the sound of his gruff voice as he admonished me had my dick straining against my fly to the point of pain. I hadn’t been with a man in a long time, since before Rebecca. I’d forgotten how good a male body could feel against mine and how a gruff tone of voice could shoot straight to my dick. Yet even as he stirred that lust inside me, the gentle way he’d put his hand on mine to stop me while still making sure he didn’t hurt me left a swirl of confusing emotions in my chest. Lusting after my stepbrother was problematic enough, but adding feelings into the mix was simply impossible. I shouldn’t go there.Couldn’tgo there.
I pulled a pair of pajama pants and a clean Henley out of my bag and laid them on the bed, willing my hard-on to go down. I needed to pull myself together before I went out there. Maybe by tomorrow, the storm would have blown over, and I could head home. Hayden could have the cabin to himself, and I could put some much-needed distance between us. We could go back to being nothing more than acquaintances whose parents happened to be married.
I just had to get through tonight.
I fumbled with changing my clothes, which took twice as long due to my damn hand, setting aside my neatly folded dirty clothes to keep them from mixing with the clean ones. Smoothing my good hand through my hair, I took a breath, feeling much steadier.
I grabbed my Kindle, hoping it would be a good distraction, and walked out into the living space. The small seven hundred-square-foot cabin had been built by my grandfather nearly sixty years ago. He’d come up here to fish and hunt, so it had been built for efficiency rather than aesthetics. The building itself was a rectangle with a small galley-style kitchen, an adjacent eating area that barely held a table for two, and a tiny bedroom just large enough to hold a double bed and three-drawer dresser.
There were two features of the cabin that were my favorites. One was the bay of windows in the eating area. I loved the natural light and view of the woods they offered during the day. The second was the fireplace in the living room. It was wood-burning with a stone surround that flowed all the way up the wall, the only design feature of note in the otherwise plain wood cabin. The space held a battered braided rug, an ugly couch that was at least thirty years old, and a single recliner that listed to one side and was uncomfortable as fuck.
The fire had died down some while we were eating, but Hayden was currently bent over, attempting to bring it back to life. The sight of those ratty sweatpants stretched over his tight ass had my dick tenting my pants once again.Goddammit. This insanity had to stop.
I strode across the room, nudging him out of the way. “Move and let me do it. You’re going to set the whole damn place on fire.”
“Ow! Jesus.” He rubbed his arm where I’d nudged—okay, shoved—him, a look of irritation on his face. I probably deserved that, but I couldn’t seem to get my temper under control around him. Which only made my anger flare higher. I prided myself on my ability to control my emotions, and it pissed me off that I couldn’t do so around him.
I fiddled with the logs and the poker, rearranging the wood to ensure the fire would burn for a while. Satisfied, I set the poker back in its holder and turned as Hayden walked over with his guitar in hand. While I’d been messing with the fire, he must have moved one of the stools over from the breakfast bar because that’s where he sat now, one foot on the ground and the other on the rung as he twisted and turned the pegs while strumming the strings.
Anger forgotten, I took a seat on the couch, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee, looking on in open curiosity. I’d vaguely noticed a guitar case when he’d arrived, but I’d been rather distracted and hadn’t given it much thought. Now, as I thought back over the years, I didn’t remember any mention of him playing the guitar at all. Was this another one of his phases? One of those things he got fixated on before giving up when he got distracted by something else?
He must have sensed me staring because he paused his tuning and looked at me. “This okay?” he asked.
Embarrassed at getting caught staring, I shrugged, then picked up my Kindle, hoping it could provide the distraction I was looking for. Hayden strummed a couple of times, starting and stopping as if he couldn’t decide what to play. After a few moments, he seemed to settle on something and started to play, his notes filling the air and wrapping around me, and I gave up trying to concentrate and set my Kindle aside.
He was good. Really good.
I didn’t know anything about playing the guitar, but I’d taken piano for years and was fairly decent—good enough to recognize talent when I heard it. He played a couple of Christmas carols, older ones I recognized but couldn’t remember the names of. His fingers moved assuredly along the frets and the strings, never faltering as he moved from one song to the next. I was captivated, and I found my earlier anger dissipating as he cast a spell around me with the way he wove notes and phrases together.
“Do you sing as well?” I asked as he came to the end of one song. He hadn’t glanced up at me since he started, almost as if he’d forgotten I was there, but he looked up at my question and nodded, then launched into another song.
This one I recognized. “O Holy Night”had always been one of my favorites, but as he moved past the instrumental introduction and began to sing, I was mesmerized. His voice was unlike anything I’d ever heard. His baritone was smooth, rich, and honey-sweet, weaving itself around me as he sang. And with his eyes closed and the light from the fire playing on his features, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
The melody shifted, long notes soaring as we approached the dramatic conclusion. His voice filled the cabin effortlessly, despite the shift in range, as if this song, written over a hundred years ago, was written specifically for Hayden’s voice. I’d always favored the Josh Groban version, but this one, sung by Hayden in a tiny cabin in the middle of the woods, would forever replace it as my favorite.
The final chord rang through the cabin, fading until the only sound remaining was the crackle of the fire and the wind whipping around the eaves. At length, he looked up at me, a question in his eyes that I didn’t have an answer for. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form words. I was absolutely stunned.
When I didn’t say anything, he looked down, strumming randomly a couple of times and repositioning himself on the stool. He looked back up at me, flashing a smile, one I’d seen on him many times that I was starting to suspect wasn’t entirely sincere. “Do you have any requests?”
“Hayden, that was…amazing.” His face lit up at the praise, even as a flush crept up his cheeks. “How long have you been playing?”
“Thank you. Um, I begged Mom for lessons when I was in seventh grade, I think. I was relentless, asking her over and over again until she finally caved and got me a guitar and lessons for Christmas that year. It’s the only thing I’ve ever tried that stuck.”
“Your voice is…” I was still struggling to put my thoughts into words. “I’ve never heard anything like it. You have a gift.” He ducked his head, like maybe he was uncomfortable with the praise, but I caught the turn of his lips and thought maybe he was pleased too. “How come I’ve never heard you play before?”
He strummed absentmindedly as he answered, as if his fingers had a mind of their own. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think anyone would want to hear me play.”
“Why would you think that? You’re very good.” I couldn’t believe this was the first time I was hearing him. I would have thought he would have played at a Christmas gathering or any number of other family events. I didn’t even think I’d ever heard Dad or Suzanne mention he played. It didn’t seem right that his talent had been kept locked away. It should be shared with everyone.
He shrugged. “Mom has always supported my hobbies, but Jon didn’t really care for the noise. I took to practicing whenever he wasn’t around. He probably forgot I even play at all.”
My fucking father. I loved him, I really did, but he was so damn rigid and set in his ways. You could set a watch by his daily routine. He didn’t tolerate noise, messes, or feelings of any kind. The only person I’d ever seen him show any sort of affection toward was Suzanne, Hayden’s mom. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her. The rest of us be damned.
