Page 14 of Restored By the Mountain Man
“To Wild Farms? Yes.”
“No,” she shakes her head. “Their Fall festival?”
Once.Fuck.
Eight years ago. The memory hits like a blazing poker stick, cauterizing an open wound. My body heavily leans on the desk behind me. My name echoes. Her husky whisper tries to reach me, but it blends with hints of Elizabeth’s voice. Elizabeth, picking up a large rustic orange leaf the size of her head, laughing.
“Ezra,” Zoe whispers, her hand gently on my forearm as my body is slammed back to earth.
I jolt, hardening my body.
Zoe’s wide eyes study me as fury burns every nerve ending, but she doesn’t cower. She steps closer, that hand, feeling how tense I am, caressing my skin with her thumb.
“It comes out of nowhere. A word. A scent. A random object,” she continues, whispering. “Deep breaths. Ground yourself back to the now. Where are you?”
I’m hearing her words, but my mind still feels like sludge.
She looks around the room, still close, still touching me. “Where are you? Right now? Be specific.”
“My office,” I grunt.
Nodding, she softly grins. “Good.” Her voice remains soft. “What day is it?” I frown, which only has her smiling. “Humor me.”
“Thursday.”
“Okay. I’m gonna grab you a glass of water.” She steps away, and I want to grab her and pull her back.
After pouring ice water from the pitcher Cynthia refills throughout the day, Zoe returns, handing me the glass. I wrap my fingers around it, touching her. I hold the cold glass and her a moment longer. Her skin is more grounding than anythingelse. She wraps her other hand around both of ours, looking deeply into my eyes.
She’s speaking to my soul without saying words out loud. Gently squeezing, she raises the glass to my lips before letting go. I take a large gulp, the ice-cold liquid coating my throat, waking me up.
I drain the entire glass before we stand, staring at the other, communicating. When tension bleeds from my body, Zoe grabs my forearm again, smiles, then nods.
“You’re good. We’ll talk later.” She turns and leaves me watching her, trapped in this moment I want to stay in.
More of that mask fell, telling me something that not many, unless they knew firsthand from experience, would know. She got it. Like she was in my head, seeing the hit of instant grief. She has intimate knowledge of the wave that hits you out of literal nowhere. She saw through my soul and anchored me back to the now.
That wasn’t someone who has helped a loved one through it. That was something only someone who’s been in it can recognize and guide through.
As if I needed another reason to feel pulled to this unexpected woman.
The last thingI needed tonight was to be alone. In three years, I’ve learned my triggers. For the sake of my brothers and all the people who count on me at the distillery, I manage the lows.
I drive to Nash’s for dinner. He knows what my showing up at his remote cabin means. I appreciate never having to answerquestions, feel his judgment. We eat in companionable silence, sit outside afterward with our whiskey, and watch the night around us from his front porch.
“You can’t go disappearing on her,” he says after I tell him about the trip this weekend.
I give a gruff hum and sip the whiskey, welcoming the caramelized smooth burn.
“There’s no timeline to grief,” he says, and I know him and our brothers know this as fact. “But watching Beckett this last year has me thinking.”
I know where this is going. I’ve had the same thoughts.
“Perhaps, letting people in, little by little, could surprise us.”
I scoff, draining my glass. “You’re one to talk.”
“Hence, I’m talking, you shit,” he chuckles. “This town, I love it, but bless their small-mindedness sometimes.” He shakes his head.
