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Julian played it again, and then he must have played it a third time, because the sky outside the narrow windows was getting dark by the time I heard him shut the laptop. I looked up from my book and checked their faces. Callum’s was inscrutable, but Julian looked smug. He threw me a wink.
“And there’s no aliens?” Callum said.
“No aliens,” Julian said wearily, like it wasn’t the first time Callum had asked.
Callum pulled at his long beard. “It’s not shit. Could a documentarian handle a film, though? They’re different animals.”
“This isn’t a documentary. Miller is creating an entirely new art form,” I said quickly. “He’s creating the biographical film of Michio’s lifeas he’s living it.He’s marrying real footage to a narrative he controls. And Miller has done films, too. Julian, can you pull one up for him?”
“They weren’t with Lewis Productions, but yeah.” Julian tried, then said, “What are the odds you have Wi-Fi, Callum?”
“Havewhat?” Callum asked, looking pleased that he had to ask the questions.
“It’s–never mind.”
Julian was muttering something about driving back to the motel, downloading one, and then coming back. I put the book down on the arm of the chair and wandered over to the windows. The glass looked thick, but I could still feel the chill pressing through. The Chevy Tahoe was rapidly resembling a giant snowball more than a vehicle. I didn’t know how Julian was going to get us to the motel, much less bring us back. I threaded my fingers together anxiously. I wanted this to work out for him, but I didn’t want to freeze to death in the process. The idea of slowly running out of oxygen as the snow built up around the Tahoe, stacking over the windows like bricks, building up on the roof made my throat close up.
“Julian, I don’t know if we can get back,” I said faintly.
He came up behind me, and I slid out of the way so he could see what was happening for himself. “Shit,” he muttered.
“LA people,” Callum said disgustedly, coming to the window himself. “It’s just a little–hmm.” He pulled at his beard again with ink-stained fingers. “That’s quite a pile up.”
I looked around discreetly. The room we were in was the majority of the house. There wasn’t a full kitchen so much as a long counter against the back wall with a microwave, range, and coffee machine. A small round table with two chairs sat in front of it. There was another door perpendicular to the entrance that I imagined was his bedroom, but there definitely wasn’t a guest room. And that made sense because Callum didn’t look like the kind of guy who wanted guests. Suddenly, the motel seemed like a palace of safety and privacy. Not just one queen bed buttwo.
“There’s no helping it,” Callum said finally, disgusted. “You two are staying here tonight.”
Julian and I looked at each other, the same thought running through our heads.
So much for our romantic getaway.
20
JULIAN
We pulled our inadequate snow gear back on and followed Callum through the drifts to a small, squat structure. The snow was caked around the chimney, obscuring its shape, but a steady plume of smoke was billowing up into the increasingly hazardous sky.
“Guest house,” he grunted, shoving open the door. It wasn’t locked, but I guessed they didn’t need locks out here.
The inside was a smaller replica of his place. One small bedroom to the right, one big room to the left that served as a kitchen, dining, and living room. It was as shabby as the hotel, but this time, I appreciated every inch of it. I’d had visions of having to contort myself across two armchairs while Willow slept on the couch.
Callum sized up the couch, then sized up me. “It won’t be comfortable, but it’ll do,” he said, a flinty look in his eye that said he didn’t think for a damn minute that I’d be on the couch.
“We’re so grateful,” Willow said, neatly saving me from having to respond. “I don’t know what we would have done if we’d had to drive back.”
Callum grunted again and left us to it. Another burst of snow flurried in through the open door, then it was closed and the two of us were finally alone. I turned away from the door and found Willow watching me.
“I’m sorry,” I said baldly. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, not checking the weather.”
She shrugged and snow shifted off her shoulders, out of her long, dark hair, to melt on the stone floor. “I think we can make the best of it.” Slowly, she pulled the zipper of the parka down and pulled one arm out, then another. It shouldn’t have been sexy, watching a woman take off what was essentially a sheet of insulation, but my mouth went dry watching her, and my cock stirred in my pants.
“How do you propose we do that?” I asked, my tone measured.
Willow smiled over her shoulder at me as she went to hang the jacket up in the entryway. “Roaring fireplace. Bear skin rug. It’s not the most original set up, but I have a few ideas.”
I glanced at what she was generously referring to as a bear skin rug. It was more the threadbare remnants of what had once been a nice wool rug, but hell. If Willow wanted a cliche, I would give her a cliche. I shrugged out of my own parka and tossed it on a hook, catching her arm as she slid by. I held her face between my palms. Her skin was icy cold, but soft as flower petals. Her lips curved as I brushed my thumb over them. “Tell me about these ideas.”
“I think you can imagine, Lewis. Imagination is your livelihood, after all.”
