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Taking a sip of coffee, cold air brushes across my hand and my face. The wind this morning is slow moving and takes its time as it weaves through the trees, rattling the leaves. A giggle slips through my lips as I shake my head and look down at my arm hanging in a sling. So unintentional and unfortunate, but yet, oddly welcome and surreal at the same time.
I’ve realized over the years that although life is one long journey, it can better be defined as a series of moments. After all, journeys are usually premeditated. Rarely do people set off without some type of destination in mind, but it’s these moments—the good, bad, unexpected—that alter the plan, usually throwing the journey off course.
This is one of those moments.
If someone had told me last week, that I’d find myself here in this one, I would have laughed in their face. I never could have predicted this. Me, here in the mountains, alone with this strange guy and in his house. Never, in seven years, have I allowed myself to be close to a guy in any way, but there’s something about him that makes me feel an inner strength I haven’t felt in a long time. That strength makes me feel almost ready—ready to break free from the protective bubble I’ve been living in.
As I watch him paddle further away from me, I think about a quote I once read, “Life isn’t about how many breaths we take, but how many moments take our breath away.”But what if those moments aren’t filled with happiness and love, but something dark and haunting? For me, it’s those darker moments that’ve shaped and taken over my life. Yes, most moments are meant to be remembered and cherished . . . if only some could be forgotten.
Clearing my mind, not allowing this moment to be ruined by haunted memories, I think about Ash’s face. His dark features make him rugged, sexy. His lips are full, thick, and frame his perfect white teeth beautifully. His jaw isn’t too square, but it’s well-defined, making it strong. His nose is straight, only dusted with freckles, his cheeks are constantly covered in an even stubble, and his cheekbones are prominent, highlighting the set of his eyes.
His eyes.
Some people when they look at you, you can see the indifference and insincerity shining back. It’s as if even though they’re talking to you, they’re looking straight through you. There’s a void, a lack of connection. Sure, other emotions are glaringly evident, but it’s not so much what I see, it’s what I feel, and I feel nothing.
When Ash looks at me, every nerve in my body stops to take notice. Whether we are talking face to face, or if he’s tracking me as I walk across the room, I am fully aware. Those blue eyes aren’t looking through me, they’re looking in me. They’re searching, learning, memorizing, and I feel it from the tip ends of my hair all the way down to my toes. It’s like I’m a lightbulb and his eyes are the switch. When they’re on me, I light up and burn. When they’re off, I feel cool and alone. His eyes take notice, and when they fall into the depth of mine, they command attention, every single time. He makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world.
Letting out a sigh, a whine comes from behind me. I turn around and see Tank and Whiskey sitting there. One’s so big and one’s so little, I can’t help but grin at them. Shouldn’t they be off running and playing? I know—they can come with me.
“Come on, you two. If I remember correctly, a challenge was issued. Let’s go pick some apples.”
I hear Ash’s footsteps the minute they hit the stairs on the back deck. A smile springs to my lips and my heart starts racing. I’m excited to see him and I feel optimistic for the first time in a long time.
As the door pushes open, his eyes immediately fall to me and panic streaks across his face.
“Are you okay?” he drops down next to me and starts looking me over. The richness of his voice blankets over me and I’m immediately engulfed in his scent. He smells like sweat, some type of sporty deodorant, and the outdoors.
My heart stops at his nearness . . . in a good way.
“What do you mean?” I ask, looking him over from head to toe. His face is flushed and the stubble is thicker this morning. He has on a gray pullover that’s soaked through, white athletic shorts, a dark blue beanie that covers his ears, and his feet are bare.
“You’re on the floor and covered in flour.” There’s tension in his words and around his eyes. He runs his hand over his face and through his hair, pushing the beanie off in the process. His hair is damp from sweat and sticks straight up. He’s so good-looking, and with those bright blue eyes, I’m awestruck.
“Making cupcakes,” I mumble, trying to ignore the flush that’s crept into my cheeks.
“On the floor?” His eyebrows rise in confusion. He then looks around the rest of the kitchen and sees the mess that I’ve made.
“Yep, needed to use my legs to hold the bowl.” His eyes drop to my lap, where I’m sitting cross-legged with the bowl securely in the middle. He lets out a warm chuckle, and it does amazing things to my body: tingles, pounding heart, sweaty palms.
“So, maybe not a caterer.” He winks at me, his dimples sink into his cheeks, and my blush deepens.
“Whatever. You said to make myself at home.” I bump him with my uninjured arm and he sways, almost losing his balance. “Where are your shoes?” I point to his feet.
“Water shoes, they stay outside,” he tilts his head toward the door. “So, what kind of cupcakes?” he peeks into the bowl.
“Apple, of course. Don’t you remember the challenge you issued? Here, taste.”
I dip the spoon into the batter and hold it out for him. Without thinking, he grabs my wrist and moves the spoon to his mouth. Every muscle freezes, my vision blacks out, and I gasp in fear.
“Ava,” his voice drifts in through the haze and slowly the kitchen reappears. I can feel myself trembling, and I look to my hand. His eyes widen at my reaction, they follow my line of sight, and he drops me like I’ve burned him. “I’m sorry,” he says, swallowing. Standing up, he moves one step away from me.
Regret instantly washes over me and I have to look away from him.
“No, I’m the one that’s sorry. What you did was completely normal; what I did was not.”
I’m so embarrassed. He didn’t do anything wrong, and I’ve just made him uncomfortable.
He regards me for a moment and silence builds between us. I drop the spoon back to the bowl and watch as he shifts his weight back and forth on his feet. I hate that I ruined this moment. I mean, do all of our interactions have to include me having some type of mental breakdown?
