Page 7 of My Starry Valentine

A sharp sigh graces her lips. “Finally, something going right today,” she whispers. I can tell by the tired tone of her voice that she has a lot more to say, and I celebrate being counted among the “something going right” parts of her life.

I want to sit her down, hold her hands, and stare lovingly into her face while asking about her day. I’ll never do this in real life, of course. I can’t begin to count the endless ways my appearance has stilted my responses to other people, rendering me a heartless-seeming bystander.

“Watch your step,” I caution as I wade around the Jeep to help her down. She grabs my arm for support, and the skinsizzles on the back of my hand where her petal-soft fingertips inadvertently brush my flesh.Lightning.Again.

After more than five years without female companionship, the gesture feels akin to nirvana. Delicious sparks feather across the flesh of my arm, shooting up its length to my heart. The breath rattles in my throat despite my best efforts to play it cool, and my cheeks heat.

Get control of yourself, man. You’re a thirty-nine-year-old Marine, not a kid with a schoolboy crush.I securely place my other hand atop hers, and she smiles warmly, melting my heart. I walk her toward my front porch, shrouded in the fluffy white veil of the storm, working hard not to hyperventilate.

“Let’s get you safely inside, and then I’ll grab the rest of your stuff.”

“Thank you,” she says softly, and I’m aware of her eyes roving over my profile. I bring my head forward, shaking it slightly to ensure my hair fully shrouds my bad side.

Luna lets out a tiny puff of air as her boots slip out from under her, and she nearly takes a tumble. But I hold onto her securely, steadying her.

“It’s more slippery than it looks,” she observes, leaning in to wrap her left arm tightly around my waist. The move sends electric shocks straight to my core, and I breathe hard despite being well-acclimated to the elevation.

As soon as we stand inside the entryway, her arm falls away. I feel instantly and entirely alone again. More lonely than before ever meeting her.What has she done to me in the short time since I found her standing in the road?Not ready to think this through any further, I excuse myself back outside to grab the rest of her belongings, ducking my head away from her inquisitive gaze.

Chapter Five

LUNA

Ican still feel the warmth of Ledger’s muscular body on my arm and side as he turns on his heels, heading back toward the front door with a grumble. “Make yourself at home. I’ll get the rest of your stuff.”

I admire him from behind, his physique large and muscular, at well over six feet tall. He’s got the build and perfect posture of a Marine. The angry red scars on the left side of his face, which he tries to conceal with his long hair, make me think he’s a wounded warrior.

Of course, I shouldn’t jump to any conclusions, but it’s clear he’s been burned. By his mannerisms, it’s also obvious he’s attracted to me and feels uncomfortable with me in his space. I wonder if this has to do with his appearance or something else.

There’s no telltale wedding band on his left hand, but after taking off my snow boots and setting them on the mat near the front door, lined with man-sized snow and work boots, I walk around his cabin slowly, looking for signs of a wife or children. Instead, I find the accouterments of a cowboy. A rack lined with Stetsons in various shades and hand-tooled, well-worn leather boots in the line by the front door.

The living room includes an impressive hearth constructed from local granite, which complements the rich, dark tones of the expertly finished wood lining the walls and floors. Ledger meant it when he said cabin, and I admire the beautiful Persian rugs covering the floor and imbuing the chilly air with a sense of warmth. I can only imagine how cozy this place will feel with a roaring fire.

Rustic, rough-hewn, wood-framed couches invite visitors to sit on overstuffed leather cushions lined with tribal-patterned accent pillows. I don’t know if the designs are Native American or from farther afield, like the rich rugs.

The back corner of the room draws my eyes to a modest memory box containing a photograph of a breathtakingly handsome, clean-cut Marine. The youth and lack of scars, long hair, and beard veil his identity, making me scrutinize the image closely. But I recognize Ledger in the kind, sky-blue eyes and rugged square-cut jawline.

The box also contains a smaller candid photo of him in full camo and gear overseas with his firearm. The background is orange and sandy. I can’t tell if it’s Iraq, Afghanistan, or elsewhere. Besides photos, there are a handful of medals, including a purple heart. The last time I saw the glittery memento with George Washington’s profile in relief was as a little girl, stealing a forbidden glance into my grandpa’s top bedroom drawer where he keeps his most sacred possessions.

The front door flies open, and the whistle of the blizzard fills the room with a burst of cold air. I turn around, my face heated with guilt, feeling like a voyeur caught mid-gaze. My eyes lock with Ledger’s intensely blue ones for the briefest of moments, and it hits me again. The inexplicable zing of electricity crackling in the air between us.

But then, he turns again, shrouding his left side in hair and shadows and breaking the moment. It’s awkward how he tries toveil the painfully obvious, though I saw his scars as we unloaded my car.

His refusal to make full eye contact feels oddly dismissive, though unintended. I can’t shake the inexplicable sense of familiarity between us. Like I know him from somehow or, at a bare minimum,shouldknow him. The strangeness of this sentiment sparks irrational frustration as he continues to hide from me, physically and emotionally.

“There’s a guest bedroom in the back, where I’ll put your stuff. I’m sure you don’t want to hear this, but I think you’re more or less stuck here. At least for the night. The weather’s pretty crazy outside.”

His words don’t surprise me, but I still let out a tired little sigh, struggling to grasp the craziness of the day. His shoulders hunch as he walks past, and he says under his breath, “I’m sorry to relay the bad news to you. I’m sure you have other places you need to be. But in Ouray, nature always gets the first say.”

“It’s not that,” I call after him, kicking myself for seeming ungrateful. “I’ve just had the most insane day ever. And yes, there is somewhere I really need to be.”

He pauses at the sound of my voice, listening attentively without turning. “I’m sorry,” he says before disappearing down the hallway.

In his absence, I go back to surveying the room. Black and white Ansel Adams photographs line the walls, and the cabin has a large open-air plan with a skylight punctuating vaulted ceilings. It must be glorious on summer days, but now it amplifies the wildness of the storm outside. The sky looks angry and dark overhead, and I imagine my host is optimistic in his forecast that I might have to spend one night here. It doesn’t look like this blizzard will let up any time soon.

The Marine strides back into the room, his perfect posture restored and that contagious energy rolling off him that drew meto him during the Jeep ride. I can tell he’s a man who enjoys life, savors it to the best of his ability despite the cards dealt him. It’s an odd and alluring juxtaposition against the severe nature of his disfigurement.

He turns to the side again, not making eye contact with me, and I hate it. I hate the fact I make him uncomfortable in his own home, and I hate that he feels the need to conceal his scars from me.

---