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Please enjoy your time with him this holiday.
It's all that I can ask.
Sincerely,
Your friend, Lucy.
I don’t reply. I’m still mad. But I’m also confused and a little—I hate to admit it—intrigued.
The kitchen is easy to find. It's attached to a sprawling living room with, yes, a wood burning stove. The house is warm, so warm. I probably don't even need my sweater. I could have come out in a tank top and been comfortable enough. But I want to feel cozy, and although this house and the blizzard howling outside set the stage for that, my sweater is a bonus.
I’m still surprised at the size of this mountain house. Off the large foyer to the left is a room with a couch, reading chair, and wall of books sits with massive windows overlooking the front yard. Walking in the front door, the first thing you see when you enter is a massive, sweeping staircase that leads to an upper level that is open to a living room below. To the right of the entrance, after passing a large closet, is the hall he led me down with his office, the bathroom, and the bedroom I’m staying in. The kitchen is situated mostly under the second story, hidden from view at the front door by the stairs.
I cast my gaze to the big windows that reach to the vaulted ceiling of the living room and see that the blizzard has yet to let up. Dark night blankets the sky beyond the chaos of white, but in here—in Nick’s house—I’m safe and warm.
Nick is in the kitchen. His back is to me, and he hasn't noticed me. He’s standing at the counter, but I can’t see what he’s doing from this angle. I don’t move closer. I take a minute to look at him, to take him in. His broad shoulders are muscular under his fitted navy sweater. Dark jeans hug thick hips, and thicker thighs. He really is a massive man. I wonder what he looks like under his sweater.Under his jeans...
I wonder what hefeelslike.
And then I wonder why I wonder.
Maybe it's just that I've been too lonely for too long.
Maybe this curiosity I have about Nick isn't really about Nick. Maybe it's about me. Maybe I need something, someone. Maybe Lucy is right, and I should just give this a shot.
I'm here, aren't I? It's not like I can leave.
Until this storm blows over, I'm here. I'mstuck.
I've always tried to make the best of a bad situation. Lemonade out of lemons, right?
He must feel me, because he turns, his gaze finding me instantly.
His eyes drag the length of me as he rolls his bottom lip into his mouth, releasing it just as fast. His jaw is, again, hard. But the way he looks at me isn’t just hard. It feels hot.
Butterflies swarm my belly, and in an attempt to ignore them, I force a smile that feels fragile as I skip forward.
“Hey,” I chirp. I sound nervous.Shoot.
“You found the kitchen.”
“Sure did.” I walk closer until I place my hands on the back of a chair at his island. “Are you cooking?”
“You’re hungry.” He turns back to the counter.
“I thought you didn’t cook.”
“I don’t bake.”
“Oh, right. Well, can I help?”
“No.”
“Right.” I tap my thighs to an uncomfortable tune. “Okay then.”
He doesn't want my help. That’s cool.
Pulling a deep breath, I tug a stool from the island and slide onto it, watching as he recaps the mayonnaise.
