Page 29 of Made for Wilde
"Charlotte, you call me tomorrow when the storm clears, alright?’ My dad replies. “Let me know when you get back to your place."
"I will, Dad. Promise." I try to keep my voice steady. "Don't worry about me."
"That's like asking the sun not to rise." Dad laughs. "You two take care of each other. Love you, baby girl."
"Love you too, Dad."
After we hang up, the silence returns. But it's different now, charged with something I can't quite name.
The rest of the drive takes nearly forty minutes.
The further we get from town, the more the storm seems to fold the world in on itself. Everything disappears except Koda, me, and the glare of headlights on a narrow river of asphalt. I lose track of the turns as the truck climbs higher, windingbetween pines that crowd so close together their branches scrape the windows.
By the time we lurch onto Koda's private road, it feels like we're the only people left alive in the county.
Gravel crunches under the tires as we bounce up a long, steep drive. Headlights sweep over the bulk of what has to be his cabin.
Except "cabin" is way too humble a word.
Even in the dark, I can see it's massive with a wraparound porch and big plate-glass windows facing the valley below. A shingled roof angles sharply over the deck, and fat beams hold up a covered carport. It looks like something out of a magazine about lumberjack millionaires.
Koda kills the engine. Then he says, "Stay there. I'll get your door."
Before I can argue, he's already outside, jogging to my side.
He hauls open the passenger door and offers me his hand. For a weird second, I think about refusing, making a dumb point about independence. But I'm so cold and waterlogged and disoriented that I just take it.
The moment I hit the ground, the wind hits hard enough to stagger me sideways.
Koda slips an arm around my waist and keeps it there as we sprint up the path and take the porch steps two at a time. He fumbles a key out of his pocket and unlocks the door. I half-trip through the doorway, blinking water out of my eyes, and freeze on the threshold.
The place is not what I expected. Not even close.
It's huge inside. It’s open-plan and airy, with exposed beams overhead and a stone fireplace taking up most of one wall. The hearth is stacked with split logs, and a lighter sits ready on the mantle. The rest of the living room flows into a kitchen with butcher-block counters and a wall of gleaming steel appliances.
There's no clutter. No mismatched furniture. No weird hunting trophies or bear rugs. Just clean lines, lots of wood, and a quiet sense of order.
Koda kicks off his boots, shrugs out of his jacket, and hangs it on a row of hooks by the door. I copy him, peeling myself out of my soggy layers as best I can without stripping down to my underwear right in his entryway. The towel from the gym is a sad little rag compared to the amount of water I'm leaking everywhere.
He kneels at the fireplace without a word. I watch the muscles in his back shift under his soaked t-shirt as he stacks logs with practiced precision. Kindling pops, flames catch, and in seconds the room goes from icy gray to a golden, flickering cocoon.
He stands and brushes his hands on his jeans. When he turns to look at me, his eyes trace the outline of my soaked shirt plastered to my skin, the way my hair drips down my shoulders.
"You should get out of those wet clothes," he says.
My face goes hot.
Koda’s eyebrows jump slightly, and he clears his throat. "I mean, before you catch cold.” He gestures for me to follow him.
I trail after him down the hallway, leaving a dotted path of water behind me. The hallway smells faintly of orange peel and aftershave. There are only three doors, and he pushes open the one at the end with his foot.
The bedroom is dark and masculine. A massive bed covered with a storm-gray comforter sits against one wall. There are exposed beams overhead and clean lines everywhere. Koda flips on the lamp. I hover in the doorway, dripping on the hardwood, unsure whether I should step inside or wait in the hall.
Koda crosses to the dresser and yanks open a drawer. He digs through it, shoving things aside, his movements tense and jerky. Finally, he pulls out an oversized black t-shirt and a pair of navysweatpants with a drawstring. He turns and holds them out to me.
"They'll be big on you," he says, his jaw tight. "But it's the best I've got."
"Thank you." I take the clothes from him, my fingers brushing his for the briefest second. "Um…where will I be sleeping?"
