“They’re fine,” I tell him. This isn’t the first cold night we’ve experienced together, nor will it be the last. The chickens are probably warmer than we are, honestly.
We’re quiet for a length of time that I’ve never seen Oliver achieve before. His eyes stay on the fire as he sips his drink, occasionally adjusting the blanket or his sweater. I stare at the thin green strap that periodically comes into view, wondering. He seemed intent upon hiding it last time, but comfortable now. Maybe with the excitement of the storm, he’s merely forgotten to be embarrassed. I can’t imagine what he thinks he has to be ashamed about anyway.
The calm, quiet atmosphere breaks when Oliver laughs, suddenly. He leans forward over his legs, mug cupped between his hands. I watch him, grinning. Unless he was telling jokes in his own head, there’s not a single thing he could be laughing about.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, smile wide as his crystalline eyes meetmine. “I just had a thought. I was at the Temptress tonight, and Dryden Roy was there—you know him, Shiloh’s old boyfriend?” I nod. I know him. Never talked to him, but I know him. Oliver nods, understanding what I mean without me saying it. “Well, I’m pretty sure he went home with Ryan, the bartender. I just thought…can you imagine how mad he probably is right now? Dryden? Snowed in during a one-night stand?”
He laughs again, the sound low and mirthful and beautiful. I wonder if excess smoke inhalation from the fire is causing me to be low on oxygen. Yes, Oliver has always been pretty, and yes, I’ve always known it. I don’t usually want to touch so badly, though.
“Oh, gosh, I bet he’s just stewing,” Oliver continues, delighted. “Maybe they’ll be stuck together all weekend and fall in love.”
“Murder,” I correct, which makes him start laughing again.
I think about it for a second, finding less to care about concerning Dryden Roy’s love life and wondering more about why Oliver was at the bar. Does he go there a lot? Was he with someone? Apparently not Dryden Roy, since the man went home with the bartender instead. Tonight could have been a hell of a lot more awkward had Oliver not been alone when I came knocking. I hadn’t even considered the possibility.
“Well, hopefully they’re both alive and staying warm,” Oliver continues, mouth twisted into a smile as he takes a sip of hot chocolate.
“You-you-you were meeting someo-o-o-one?” I ask, going for casual but getting railroaded by my tongue instead. Sometimes it doesn’t even matter that I’m not stressed or anxious or in any sort of distress at all. My own body is always tryingto betray me, no matter what is happening externally. I try to ignore the self-hatred that burns through my gut and instead focus on Oliver. This isn’t the time for self-pity.
“Oh, no. I just get lonely sometimes at home, so I go sit and bother Ryan.” He grins over the rim of his mug. “He can’t run away and hide since I’m also a paying customer. Well, unless there are other paying customers that need his attention. But tonight was slow. Just me, Dryden, and Ryan. Dryden’s not so bad. I know people like to bad-mouth him, but he’s pretty nice, actually.”
I don’t know about him being nice, but I do know about the bad-mouthing. I shrug, trying to convey that I don’t care what people say about Dryden or anyone else. I’ve been on the receiving end of town talk too many times to wish it upon someone else. Even someone like Dryden Roy, whom I’m pretty sure has strong enough shoulders to bear it.
“You can come here,” I tell Oliver, surprising myself both with the ease of the sentence and that I spoke it at all. He stares at me.
“What, you mean like instead of going to the bar? When I want company?” he asks.
I turn away again. Everything about him looks welcoming right now. Soft and enticing, skin warm from the fire. I nod, not wanting to ruin everything by opening my mouth and stuttering. Oliver’s lips, which I’m also now noticing are very smooth and soft-looking, part, the ends curled upward into a small smile.
“Well, thanks. I might just take you up on that.”
I nod, feeling well past my allotted words for the day. It doesn’t matter, anyway. With Oliver, it’s safe to be silent.
Chapter Eight
OLIVER
From the bed, I can see the gray of the sky and the lack of snow falling. I stay still, unable to fully shake the sleep off and happy under my mound of blankets. Nils had been worried I’d get cold and compensated for that by providing me with what might be every bit of fabric he had in the house. I half expected him to give me the sheets from his own bed.
The extra blankets, while nice, weren’t all needed. I’d utilized a couple—enough so that I’d be comfortable enough to sleep in nothing but the satin slip—and left the rest folded at the end of the bed. Now, the mix of soft flannel and smooth satin feels heavenly on my skin, and I’m wishing I could laze around in bed for another couple of hours. I wish Nils onlyhadone bed and was lazing around in here with me.
Sliding my fingertips idly over the soft fabric covering my stomach, I watch the window and think about last night. I really wasn’t that cold at my own house, and the snowfall,while heavy and thick and far more than we’d been anticipating, hadn’t yet turned into an emergency. Before the power shut off, my heat had been working fine. I’d even turned it up, so the time after it shut down wasn’t that uncomfortable. I would have been fine until morning, until the power turned back on and I could get back outside to shovel the walk.
Nils showing up at my door hadn’t been all that shocking. Whathadbeen shocking was the obvious worry on his face and the concern in his eyes as he’d looked me up and down, snow swirling behind him. Yesterday, I would have laughed if someone tried to tell me being rescued was anything but humiliating. Today, I’m re-evaluating that stance. Being rescued is quite enjoyable, and if Nils wanted to save me from every situation I didn’t need saving from, I would accept the help with a smile.
Help and hot chocolate and a stack of blankets that smell like Nils. Time spent sitting in front of a fireplace in a dark room, voices low and attention held by nothing but each other. A single, shining sliver of time that I’d worry was a dream if I weren’t still in this bed.
Rolling onto my back, I rest both hands on my satin-covered stomach and chew my lip. It wouldn’t be right for me to assign a different meaning to what happened last night than the truth. Nils is a pragmatic, quiet helper. He knew I wouldn’t have power and came to solve the problem in the only way he knew how. It’s possible he would have done the same for anyone who lived next door. It wasn’t some romantic grand gesture, and if the firelight made his dark eyes seem warmer and his expression softer as he looked at me, well…that was nothing more than a trick of the light. I’m not the first person to look at someone they admire and hope to see desire reflected back.
Besides, even if hedidwant me, he would want the Oliver he works with. The Oliver who dresses in workman’s clothes and hauls traps, gets his hands dirty and sings sea shanties with dubious lyrics. He would not want the Oliver who sheds that skin at home and slips on a negligée. He would not want the Oliver who used to play in his mother’s makeup and jewelry, which was cute when he was two but became shameful when he got older.
Most men don’t like it. And the ones that seem to like it at the beginning tire of it in the end. My father once said I was best handled in small doses, and although he was referring to my personality at the time, it really applies to everything. I’m best experienced from a distance, where the more palatable parts of me are on display and the rest hidden away.
The slide of the satin over my skin—which usually feels so good—rubs wrong as I push back the sheets and sit up. I shouldn’t even be wearing this here. This is Nils’ house; he could walk in anytime and see me. Sleeping in someone else’s guest bedroom in skimpy lingerie is a disaster waiting to happen. Although it’s not as though I had much of a choice, since Nils seemed to think any time wasted last night was going to end in me turning into an icicle. I’d tried to go upstairs and change into something safer, and he’d shot that down quick—you can wear mine.
Looking down at the forest-green fabric scrunched up my hips, I sigh. If I were a braver sort of person, I’d walk downstairsfor a cup of coffee in nothing but this. I’d flirt and act like I didn’t care what anyone thought of who I am, while inside I braced for impact. I tell myself it’s because we have to work together that I reach for my sweater and pants, tucking the satin out of view. It feels like forcing myself into hiding and also feels like the safer choice.
The house is warm, but I pull on my wool socks before I leave the room anyway. The door creaks slightly as I open it and pause, listening for sounds coming from the end of the hall. Either Nils is asleep still, or he’s just very quiet. I’m betting on the latter, as I can’t imagine anything less likely than him sleeping in. He’s probably been up all morning, shoveling every driveway in Siren’s Point and putting down salt on the sidewalks.
