Authors: Bella Costa
I stand up straight, pull my shoulders back and take a cleansing breath.
I can to this!
Draping my coat and the blanket over one arm and using the other to support myself against the wall, I hobble painfully into the main room. Chayton is sitting on a small armchair in front of the fire, with his legs stretched out in front of him. He is staring into the flames, deep in thought, his fingers steepled under his chin.
He glances up and sees me hugging the wall, annoyance flashing across his face. Within seconds, he is next to me. I sag with relief when instead of picking me up, he wordlessly holds out an arm for me to steady myself against. The corded muscles of his forearm twitch and flex under my hand, his skin warm under my fingers. I am led to the sofa where he pauses for me to sit and then lifts my leg, propping my foot on a low table with a cushion.
"I'll get your food. Do you want a drink?"
"Um, what do you have?"
"Whiskey, beer, coffee, milk or water."
I should not be surprised by the small choice – my host is the ultimate mountain man. "I'll have a beer please." He moves off and I hear a door open for just a second before closing again. A brief gust of cold fans the flames in fire place and Dog lifts his head to sniff the air, before drifting back to sleep. I hear a few other small sounds from the kitchenette and Chayton returns with a large tray. He gently places the tray on the coffee table, removing two bowls and a beer, and then passes the tray with its remaining bowl and beer over to me.
Dog gets a bowl and he tucks lazily, without rising. Chayton settles into a chair opposite me, with his own food and beer, picking at it, chewing slowly.
It's a peppered beef stew with mushrooms. I savour the flavours as the soft meat falls apart in my mouth. I take a long swig of the beer. It's cold. Very cold. Of course - the snow. He doesn't need a fridge. Well not in the cold months anyway. We eat in comfortable silence until Chayton spoils it.
"That is no way to dress in this weather." The words are almost growled. "And what were you doing wandering about the mountainside anyway?"
"I um...” I frown. "I had a meeting."
"Business meeting?" He is making me feel like a child. I need to change the subject.
"Yes. Thank you for the stew, it's lovely." I try to sound as calm.
"And that's how you city girls dress for meetings?" He is smirking now. "I hate to think what kind of business you thought you could accomplish, dressed like that. I mean don't get me wrong, it's sexy - all legs and bare skin...but for a meeting?"
I really do not want to get into how ridiculous I feel in the outfit, nor how embarrassed I am by the whole situation. Given his tone of voice, I don't think he deserves an answer. Hang on...did he say sexy? And he doesn’t even have the nerve to look at me, while he sits there calmly insulting me - sexy bit aside. Even Robert managed to insult me direct to my face.
I take another spoon full of the stew. It is not fair that it's so delicious
and he called me sexy. I decide I'm not going to respond. He may be all kinds of drop-dead-sexy himself and a fantastic cook but he's arrogant - and it's none of his business anyway.
I am grateful for Chayton and Dog rescuing me, but I
do not need to put up with this. As soon as the storm is over and daylight breaks, I'll ask him to call a breakdown truck to come out with some fuel and we can both go our own way. Yes, that is what I will do!
The silence between
us is now far from comfortable and I allow him to clear my tray along with Dog’s bowl and his own. When he returns from the kitchenette, he stands in front of me and me his hand his hand. I glance at his face wondering what he I’m supposed to do with this extension of his arm, but his expression is unreadable. In that moment I feel a tug of familiarity, have I met this man somewhere.
"What?” I mutter, confused.
"Come, I'm taking you to bed," he states, very matter-of-factly.
I stare at him astounded.
Just like that! Taking me to bed! Where, the hell, does this man get off?
"Don't flatter yourself," he smirks
, knowing where my thoughts are taking me. "You won't be able to get there by yourself!" I flush a little, feeling foolish and reluctantly take his hand. Like the rest of the cabin, the bedroom furniture is a real mismatch of pieces. A large log-framed bed with patchwork quilt has centre stage, while on either side, a small table each with its own oil lamp shares space with a small chair. Against a wall is a large chest of drawers. Chayton guides me to the edge of the bed and pulls the cover back.
"Sit!" He quickly skirts the bed and opens a drawer in the large chest, pulling out a T-shirt. "This may be more comfortable to sleep in than your over-sized handkerchief!" He tosses the t-shirt, so it lands on the bed next to me and leaves the room.
There is the disapproval in his voice again!
What, the hell, is his problem?
I quickly change and tuck myself under the covers. The bed may be handmade and old, but the mattress is definitely high quality and comfortable. I am just about to drift into a welcome sleep when Chayton saunters casually through, in bare feet and snug Kelvin Klein's, as if I am not even here.
Fuck me
until Christmas! What, the hell, is he doing!
I swallow, as my body responds, in a time honoured fashion, to the sight of his toned, muscular chest and rippled stomach, with its delicious dark line of hair trailing south beneath the low elastic of his pants.
"What do you think you're doing?"
I barely recognise my voice.
"I'm coming to bed,
” he replies frankly.
"I would rather you didn't."
"You don't want me to sleep?" he asks, his expression incredulous.
"I don't want you to sleep here!
” I protest weakly.
"It's my bed!" he replies, plumping his pillows and sliding under the cover.
"Yes but...” He turns the oil lamp on his bedside table off and settles onto his back, his hands tucked under his head.
"If you want to sleep on the couch let me know and I'll take you back there. Please turn out your lamp
otherwise - I am going to sleep."
Reluctantly,
I lower the lamp's wick, starving it of oxygen and snuffing out the small flame. I turn my back to him, lying very still. I can hear his breathing, calm and measured. My body is tense, every cell trying to stretch out in his direction, trying to close the gap between us, while mind is trying to force my body to put as much distance between us as possible. I am practically choking on my own breath, trying to control it. I swear, if I leave my lungs to their own devices I will be panting loudly. In this highly-strung and conflicted state, I drift off to a night of uncomfortable and erotic dreams of out of reach pleasures and dangerous woodsmen.
~.~
24th March
An unnatural silence, tugs at my awareness
, pulling me from the depths of sleep. I have grown used to the constant, clamour of a city breathing. Traffic, pets, doors, alarms, voices, children, life. By comparison, this silence is complete and unsettling.
I open my eyes to bright sunshine streaming through a small window, across the
bed. However, it is the man standing just next to the window, who holds my unmitigated attention.
Holy shit! What a view to wake up to!
My host is leaning sideways against the window frame
, bathed in revealing daylight. His is staring outside and he appears relaxed but lost in thought.
Thick dark hair sweeps the base of his neck and flops long and sexily over his forehead to frame his face. His upper body is bronzed,
bare and yummy. His hands are shoved into the back pockets of his jeans affording me a good view of all the dips and curves of his chest.
My eyes continue their languid investigation, desperate to drink in the vision, before it disappears.
I pause to admire his six-pack, which nestles within an impressively formed abdominal V. The V runs from the peak of his hips, disappearing seductively under the low-slung waistband of his jeans. With ankles crossed and all his weight on one foot, his narrow hips tilt sensually and his jeans hang indecently low.
He frees a hand, running it through his hair, sweeping it off his forehead just for it to flop back down again. Then with a small shake of his
head, he turns his attention away from the window and his gaze catches mine.
I have
seen that expression, those eyes, somewhere but my brain will not allow me to remember where. The rest of his face is hidden behind several days of dark stubble.
"Good morning." His voice is low and he moves to stand at the end of the bed, bending slightly to brace both hands on the wooden bed frame.
Fuck, he is hot!
"Good morning." My own voice sounds annoyingly husky and I sit up, bringing the blanket with me. I know
I am covered in a borrowed t-shirt, but under his gaze I feel stripped naked.
"I found your V.W."
I nod. It's about all I can manage as my eyes follow the thin trail of hair splitting his abdominal V down the middle.
Mmm, did he say something?
"You let yourself run out of fuel!" The disapproval in his voice
rouses me like a cold shower.
"It's a long story." I mumble down at my
fingertips, blood flooding to my face. I want to yell out that I am not just another dumb, useless wench - that I am normally quite capable and organised - but instead sit mute and embarrassed.
"You'll have to tell me about it sometime," he voice sardonic. "You can keep the t-Shirt and there is a pair of sweat bottoms and a sweater on the chair in the corner. Help yourself. I can't help you with shoes though." He quietly pads barefoot out the room.
Does this man have a problem with closing doors? In addition, why is he half-naked if he has already been out and found the Beast? My whole week is starting to feel a little 'Alice in Wonderland'. I shudder. Even as a child, I always found that story more than a little disturbing.
I stand slowly, testing my ankle.
It is stiff and tender and I cannot bear to put any weight on it. I stretch out grabbing the two items of clothing and collapse back onto the bed.
I
cannot wear my panties for another day so I will just have to go without. No one will know. I slip on the sweat pants. My round ass fills the fabric a little too snugly for my liking and the legs are so long, I have to roll them up. Still, better that bloody dress. I pull the sweater over my head and nearly drown in it. I decide not to roll the sleeves up, preferring to hold the cuffs in my hands like a schoolgirl. It is comforting and the bottom of the sweater covers my ass nicely.
There is
no mirror in the bedroom so I comb my fingers through my hair, hoping I look half way presentable. I fold my dress, panties tucked safely inside. Fortified, I start hopping to the bedroom door. I have almost made it when Chayton saunters through.
"Don't you knock?" I grumble, glad that I've finished changing.
"Why? It's my room and the door is open." His eyes are glinting and a small smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
"
Arrrrh. It is open because
you
left it open. So rude!"
"Well if I'm so 'rude' as you put it, then perhaps I shouldn't help you." With a smile that could light a small country, he turns and saunters out the room.
"Wait." My mouth calls before my brain has had a chance to connect.
He
peeps his head around the doorframe, still grinning for ear-to-ear and looking quite pleased with himself.
God I could look at that smile all day
.
"I could use a small hand, please." My voice is small and
I am annoyed with myself. With flourish, he swaggers back into the room and lifts me over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes. He deposits me breathless and distressed onto the sofa, before abandoning me to the safety of the kitchenette.
"Talk about inappropriate!" I grumble a little too loudly.
Seconds later, he reappears with a plate of steaming scrambled eggs on toast and a coffee in a tin mug.
"I was just in a hurry. Your eggs were about to burn!" His earlier beaming smile has gone and his voice has dropped flat.
The hot and cold signals he's radiating are so confusing. I consider myself adept at reading, even the most subtle of male signals. I have made it my pet project since leaving Robert. Nothing I have learnt in my psychology, self-defence or body language classes is helping me figure out this confounding man.
It is
also becoming infuriating that every time I get incensed about his caddish behaviour, he exposes his actions as so innocent, that I end up feeling like a fool. I do not like feeling like a fool. I apologise moodily and tuck into my eggs. Mmm, they are good.
The cabin looks different in daylight. Impressive. I can see now that the mismatched furniture and furnishings are all indeed hand-made. Each piece is a handcrafted work of art, lovingly carved; woven; stitched or assembled. Each piece complimenting the one next to it, so your eyes are drawn on a journey around the room. The sheer array of rich colour invokes warmth and calmness, softening the masculine woods and stone. Yet everything is functional, even the seemingly ornamental. I take mental snapshots of the room.
I will have to try to emulate the effect sometime.
"Where's Dog?" I question through a mouthful of toast.
"He comes and goes as he pleases."
"Don't you worry that he'll get lost or run away?"
He tilts his head and regards me through thick lashes. "Dog doesn't belong to me, Acacia. He wondered in one day and stuck around. He chose me. As much as I can't chase him away...I can't make him stay."
I swallow hard, the
half-chewed toast scratching as it is forced down. "That's a beautiful relationship to have with an animal." I take a sip of my coffee to sooth the pain. His eyes widen just fractionally.
"It's rare to find that kind of mutual respect. Most human to animal relationships are a battle of ownership and control.
” I finish. He says nothing as he sips his coffee, but his eyes regard me intensely. It's unnerving.
"Your name, it's unusual.
” I state, aiming for distraction.
"Yes?" His eyes continue their deep steady gaze. The room is starting to feel very warm.
"This is where you tell me a little bit about yourself." It comes out a little harsh so I quickly follow it up. "So does it have a meaning? Where is it from?"
"Falcon." His face is deadpan but his eyes, at least, have stopped doing that I-can-see-right-through-you thing.
"Excuse me?"
"My name means Falcon. My mother was Sioux."
Oh.
Was?
She must have passed away.
"I know there are a lot of reservations in Washington State. I didn't realise the Sioux were from these parts
though."
"They aren't."
Sheesh, talk about pulling teeth!
"I can see a hint of Native American."
Like that gloriously tanned skin.
"I'm guessing your father isn't?" I try to make it sound like casual conversation but my curiosity is piqued.
"You are the inquisitive type aren't you?" He gazes at me broodingly.
Perhaps I have gone too far.
"Wasn't. My father wasn't Sioux. He was European. Part Swiss, part something else equally European."
He flips his left hand carelessly through the air.
"I'm sorry." I mumble. I suddenly feel a deep compassion for this beautiful man.
"For what?"
"For the loss of your parents."
I know what that’s like. I take my last mouthful and set my utensils down.
"Shit happens!" he replies gruffly and rises from his seat. He sweeps the empty
plate off my lap and strides purposely to the kitchenette. I try to remember the last time I met anyone with such extraordinary mood swings.
I jump when Chayton pulls up a small low stool and sits in front of me. The man is a master at stealth. He pulls my ankle onto his
denim-clad lap, that action alone making my mouth arid.
"It will be alright." I protest pulling my foot back in a desperate attempt to put space between us. This feels too intimate.
He grips my leg just above the injured ankle and holds it firmly in place.
"Acacia, I don't bite
," he soothes. He starts to massage the toes gently, all his attention focused on the job at hand. I try to ignore the quickening of my pulse as his fingers softly squeeze the tip of each toe. Reaching the last toe his starts the process again, this time moving his thumb in small delicious circles. This feels so good and I sigh as my body slowly starts to relax.