Page 42 of Melt the Ice

I laugh despite the mood, “I’ve never known you to take the easy way out, Lucas Monroe.”

“You’re right, that isn’t me. And I know that.” He says, still looking at the ground. “I’m just confused. Overwhelmed may be a better word. I’ve dealt with her not being around for two decades, but then you come back days before I thought the ranch was being signed over to me.”

He pauses, looking up at me, sincerity shining in his eyes. “And don’t misunderstand me, I’m happy you’re here. It’s just something else that felt like a loss. But in the same breath, I got you back. Maybe not in the way I hoped at first, but now?”

He lets out a heavy breath, swiping his tongue over his chapped lips. “You’re everything, Lettie. And you deserve the best of me. Total honesty, total transparency. It’s like everything happened at once. And then there’s your dad. The white truck, the fence cutting. Yet there’s been no escalation, no anything. It’s like we’re in limbo. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

I about choke on my tongue, eyes bulging as I stare at the man in front of me. When he lays it out like that, it’s a lot. More than anyone should have to deal with. And here I am, sitting on what could be monumental information, yet I continue to keep it to myself.

Normally, I’d have a handle on the situation, but right now I feel completely out of my element. I wrack my brain for ideas on how to deflect when an idea pops into my head, “Can I color in your tattoos?” Maybe the familiarity of me drawing on him will bring us both some peace.

He chuffs, returning my smile that sends a gust of warmth straight through my stomach. “I’ve got something better.” He says, pushing off the counter. “Come on.”

We walk up the stairs to a part of the house I’ve never been in. And when we get to the loft at the far end, my eyes widen when I realize how it's decorated. The walls are lined with the pictures I drew for him when we were younger. He kept them all. There’s got to be hundreds of them here. “Lucas, what?” I ask in awe as I slowly spin around the room.

“I’m going to take a shower. There are empty sketchbooks in the drawer over there.” He points to the right side of the room where a drawing desk sits. “If you still want to color me when I get back, I’m all yours. But I’d love it if you’d add some updated art to my collection.”

He kisses my forehead, then disappears down the hallway, leaving me with so many conflicting feelings. Running my hand over the numerous pictures on the wall, my heart constricts when I come across one of my favorites. The memory plays like it was yesterday.

“We are Lucas and Lettie, cute and strong. We love Nana, Miller, Stella, and John. When we grow up, we’re gonna sing this song. Cause we are Lucas and Lettie, cute. And. stroooooooong.” Our laughter cuts through the sunflower field as we make up yet another song to the tune of I’m a Little Teapot. This time, we added Nana’s new sheepdog, John. It fit, but honestly, I just like to hear him sing.

The way he can make up a song about anything at any time is one of my favorite things about him. When he’s upset or doesn’t know what to say, he just sings. Well, he used to anyway, now it’s a game for us. It rained earlier, and while we waited it out in the barn, he made up a song to Old McDonald.

He makes me laugh, my heart is so happy when he’s around, I swear it smiles. “Lettie,” he says. My head rolls to the side so I can look at him. “One day, I want to marry you. Right here in the sunflower field.”

“With Moolan as our officiant?!” I ask, sitting up so fast my head spins.

He laughs, rolling over on his side so he can look at me. “Whatever you want, pretty girl. Just don’t leave me hanging.”

I giggle, lying back down. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You and me forever, Goldie.”

“That’s one of my favorites.” His breath is close enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

“Mine too.” It’s the two of us in the field, we’re both lying on the ground, eyes closed, with my hand resting softly on the outside of his neck, our noses are nearly touching, and soft smiles play on our faces. We’d never actually laid like that, but it’s how I imagined we looked, older and still in love.

“I’m so sorry,” I say as I lean back into him.

His arms slide around my waist, chin hooking over my shoulder. “For what?”

“Not coming back. Breaking all my promises while you kept yours.”

He spins me in his arms, damp hair hanging at his shoulders, “No more looking back, okay? If I’m going to get past losing mom and you’re going to get past your pain, we’ve got to move forward. Okay? We’ll go together. Where you go, I go.”

I nod, letting my eyes trace the lines of his face. “Where you go, I go,” I repeat. And then he’s stepping toward me, his intimidating presence makes me take a step back. He mirrors my movements until I’m pressed up against the wall, strong hands snake around my hips, squeezing softly while mine trail up his chest, wrapping around the back of his neck.

We hold each other’s gaze for a moment, my eyes falling to his lips as he bites down softly on his own. He angles his head, bending toward me when one of his hands moves to find its favorite spot at the front of my chin. He holds me there for a second, his eyes now focused on my lips. I lick across them, an invitation I hope he takes. And he does. A shy smile quickly passes over his face before his grip on my chin tightens ever so slightly, and he presses his lips to mine.

It’s feather light, almost hesitant, but he doesn’t move. His lips quiver against mine, the tiny tremble betrays everything he’s trying not to feel. Then he exhales, the warmth of his breath ghosting over my lips before he kisses me again. Harder this time. Needier. This moment feels significant, a silent surrender of the things we’ve held on to all this time.

After a few more gentle kisses, he pulls away. Resting his forehead against my own, our breaths tangling together in the small space between us. His chest rises and falls at a rate that says he’s struggling to steady himself. Me too, Goldie. His eyes stay closed, but I watch him drag his tongue slowly across his lips, as if he’s savoring the taste of us.

“Will you call me next time you get the urge to drink?” I whisper, watching his blonde lashes flutter open.

“I still don’t have your number,” he whispers, sliding his hand over my jaw, threading through my hair until his fingers curl around the back of my neck.

“Hmm… We should change that then.” I lean into his touch, unable to stop myself. Unable to keep up the lie that I don’t want him, this.

He chuckles, lips quirking up as he nods, moving both our heads in tandem. His hands trail down my neck, settling on my shoulders. The warmth of his gaze settles over me like a blanket, cozy and welcoming. “Yeah, pretty girl, we should. And I give you full permission to slap any alcohol out of my hand should you ever see me with it.”