Page 42 of Not Your Valentine
He turns onto an even smaller road, and sure enough, it’s not long before we pull up to a cabin in the woods. When he turns off the engine, my heart is beating even faster than before, which is quite a feat.
We take our suitcases and food out of the trunk and head inside. The space is only marginally bigger than my apartment, though there are two bedrooms rather than one. It’s…cozy. That’s the best word for it. Like, you better fucking like whoever you’re here with because you’re not getting very far away from them.
Okay, it’s not that small, but I’m used to having my own space.
There’s a kitchen area in one corner, a table, an old washer and dryer, and a fireplace. I’m particularly interested in that fireplace because it’s not all that warm in here, and the fact that I’m fucking cold is currently overwhelming any thoughts of taking off my clothes.
Fortunately, Taylor turns up the thermostat, then removes his winter coat and begins making a fire, while I sit on the couch and bundle myself in a blanket. He also starts the electric kettle, and a few minutes later, he places a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows on the small table next to me.
I am simultaneously appalled and thrilled.
“Once, when you were drunk,” he says, “you asked if you could tell me a secret. When I said sure, you confessed that you like hot chocolate with lots of mini marshmallows. You emphasized lots.”
“When the hell was this?”
“The night after the video went viral. I expected a secret about Charlie, but you talked about marshmallows instead.” He adds another log to the fire. “It was cute and unexpected.”
“Did you just call me cute?”
“Why are you so outraged?”
“I’m not cute.”
“Would you prefer being told you look like an assassin?”
“Obviously,” I say.
“Would you prefer if I drank all the hot chocolate?”
“Oh, fuck you.”
Taylor just laughs again.
I take a sip of my hot chocolate. The truth is, I’m touched he remembered this. I shouldn’t be, but I am. And not only did he remember, but he brought the hot chocolate mix and marshmallows to the cabin for me.
“Helen, I…” His expression is more sober now, and for some reason, it calls to mind that night, almost a year ago, when he gently tucked me in.
No, I probably imagined that. As the whole marshmallow situation proves, my memory of that night is particularly poor.
“Never mind,” he says.
I’m relieved he didn’t finish that sentence.
Why? What did I think he was going to say?
Luckily, I don’t have much time to dwell on it. After turning out the overhead lights, Taylor joins me on the couch with his own mug, which contains chamomile tea. (Disgusting.) As we sip our drinks and look at the crackling fire, I can’t help being very aware of how close he is…and he’s no longer operating a moving vehicle that needs his full attention.
He slips his arm around me, careful not to disturb the blanket. His hand seeks out my lower back, and even though he’s exposing a small slice of my skin to the cool air, I don’t mind.
When I turn to look at him in profile, I make a strange sound.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, concerned.
“No, no,” I rush to say.
You’re just so beautiful.
Honestly, it’s almost painful to look at him, like I’m looking at the sun. His face is mostly in the shadows, but the flickering light of the fire highlights his features.
