Page 27 of Melt the Ice

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say our dear captain was blushing. Sammy catches it. “Hey, wait, he’s right. Have you been eating Cecilia's goodies?”

Reed chokes on his food, slapping a hand against his chest to dislodge it from wherever it's stuck. His hand shakily reaches for his water as he tries to get a handle on himself.

My head falls forward as a shudder rolls through me. “Good lord, Sammy. Please don’t talk about your sister's goodies while we’re eating.”

His eyes widen before they narrow, and he tosses his balled-up napkin in my direction. “You absolute degenerate,” he says in mock outrage. “That’s my sister. I don’t want to be thinking about her goodies.” He puts them in air quotes like that makes it any better.

Wilson groans. “Can we stop saying goodies? I’m trying to enjoy my freaking panini.”

“Sure, but we never got to vote. Candy or Decor?” I ask, smiling around the fry I just took a bite of.

All five of them throw their napkins at me. Oh, to be loved in such a way that my teammates shower me with paper balls of adoration. I love it here, and for the time being, it’s done its job.

11

scarlett

I found an old journal of Nana’s today, it was filled with page after page of letters to me. They detailed all the adventures she and I went on, the way she saw not only me but Lucas, too. Said we were two peas in a pod, two sides of the same coin, how if ever there came a time where the world was against one of us, we’d always be able to win if we fought together.

Part of me thinks I let go of the dream of this place because I feared I’d come back and he'd be happily married or worse, nowhere to be found. The ranch wouldn’t feel like home without him. I’m starting to realize it isn’t actually the ranch, it’s him. It’s always been him who makes this place so special to me.

He’s such a giant, tall and muscular in a way that would terrify me if I didn’t know him like the back of my hand. Yet, he’s so gentle with animals and kids. Hell, it makes me itch to push him to the point that he throws me over his shoulder and shows me just how rough he can be. I dream about his calloused hands roaming over my curves, the way he whispered in my ear while he was filling my plate with food the other day, almost had me coming undone on the spot.

I know he’s hoping for something more, maybe to pick up where we left off all those years ago. If I’m being totally honest with myself, I want those things too. But what happens when he realizes I’m damaged goods?

I wasn’t prepared for the way being back here makes me hate myself. Hate the way I am, who I’ve become. The words I sling like weapons, how I watch them land, the light dimming in his eyes with every carefully crafted wall I throw up. That’s the problem with knowing someone as intimately as I know him. I know where his soft spots are. And for some reason, the fact that he’s more at home here than I am makes that ugly monster rear its head. The one that deliberately puts people down to make itself feel better.

The one that feels entitled to be the most respected, most feared, the one people come to for direction and help. It doesn’t like feeling weak, trapped, or like it doesn’t belong. It’s a monster that grew alongside my father. He groomed and fed it. Show up as the most important person, Scarlett. People respect confident people. Don’t let them see your fear, your emotions. Keep your cool at all times. If they don’t think you’re the one for the job, you'd best dig deep until you convince them it’s you who calls the shots.

I start walking, letting my legs carry me where they desire. It should come as no surprise that half an hour later, I find myself outside his house. He’s sitting on one of the chairs on his porch, one ankle crossed over his knee as he stares out at the towering trees that line his driveway.

Apparently, the Halloween fairy has already been to his house. Pumpkins line the driveway, continuing up the walkway to the porch that has four of those fake pumpkins with the lights inside sitting on the steps.

“Hey,” I say, but he doesn’t look at me. My heart rate picks up at his silence. Closing the distance, I stop when the toe of my shoes kisses the bottom stair. “Can I come up?”

He turns to look at me, his eyes are distant, guarded in a way that feels so foreign to me. “Sure,” he mumbles.

Sitting on the bench across from him, I pull my legs into my chest and let my head rest on my knees while I try not to take his clipped response personally. “You decorated?” I ask, trying to strike up a conversation again.

He puts his finger through the ring hanging from his neck, sliding it back and forth a couple of times, filling the air with the telltale zipping noise that gives way to his nerves.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes still locked on the trees. “I should have asked if you wanted me to do your house too.” The ring slips from between his fingers, leaning back, eyes drifting closed, head resting against the chair like he’s trying to hold himself together. “I just felt like that might be overstepping our current…” he pauses like he’s unsure of what to say here.

“Situation.” He finally says through clenched teeth as if it physically pains him to say anything so impersonal.

I wish his words didn’t threaten to flay me alive, but they do. They snake around my neck the way his hands did all those years ago. But instead of making me feel safe like being under his palms did, the words now make it harder to breathe.

“Yeah,” I say, aiming for unbothered. Epically missing the mark when I add. “I mean, we’re basically strangers these days.”

He flies off the chair so fast he’s almost a blur. The legs of the chair scrape against the deck, and then he’s on his feet in front of me. Tension rolls off him in waves, cascading over me like a rip current meant to pull me out to sea.

“Don’t insult me by calling us strangers, Scarlett.” The words scrape from his throat, so low it’s almost a growl. I don’t even have time to take a full breath before he turns and walks into the house, slamming the door behind him hard enough that it rattles against the frame.

My heart slows yet feels like it’s thumping harder just to keep me upright as I watch him through the window. His back expands impossibly larger as he sits at the kitchen island and drops his head in his hands. His body sways back and forth, something he did as a kid when he was trying to keep himself from falling apart.

For some reason, my body automatically reacts to his distress. Pushing through the door, I go straight to him, lifting up on my toes and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “I’m sorry. You’re right. We could never be strangers, Goldie.”

I feel him tense beneath me. “You called me Goldie.” He says into his hands. When his eyes lift to mine, they’re red-rimmed, but there’s a lightness to them. One that looks a lot like hope.