Page 14 of Whiskey Weather
She’s been in there for about twenty minutes. I did my best to stay busy while she freshened up, tidying the space and stocking the log holder for a cold night ahead. As a warm-blooded adult man, it still wasn’t enough to keep me from wondering what the hell she was doing in there for so long.
The handle to my bedroom door turns, and I move instantly, pretending to pick a book off the shelf. Soft footsteps patter across the hardwood floor behind me.
“I feel so much better,” she sighs.
I look over my shoulder, assuming she’s decent since she’s striking up a conversation. She’s got another sweater on, a different one this time. It’s way too big for her, but looks soft and comfortable. Her black leggings cling to her like a second skin, and I wish I would have stayed staring at the bookshelf instead of at her. She plops down on the couch and reaches for the nearest knit blanket as if she’s lived here for years and this is her nightly ritual.
“Wanna watch a movie?” She’s being more relaxed and friendly with me now, which I definitely prefer compared to the scared version of her when I was trying to convince her to get out of the snow and into my truck.
I clear my throat. “I—don’t have a TV.”
“Oh,” she says with a wrinkled brow. “We could use my computer. What’s your WiFi password?”
Before I can answer, she leans forward and unzips the front pocket of one of her bags, pulling out a silver laptop covered in stickers.
“No WiFi either,” I chuckle.
My body stills, waiting for her reaction.
I expect her to throw a fit and wave her hands around, whining over what the hell she’s going to do until the storm passes if there’s no TV or internet. But she doesn’t. In fact, her eyes light up and she snuggles deeper into the couch cushions.
My brows draw together and I tilt my head, studying her. The bored sighs and annoyed huffs should begin any minute now.
“Okay.” She smiles. “So our choices are pajama party or turning in to get some sleep. Your pick.”
Huh?
I’m not tired, so my vote is pajama party. Whatever the fuck that is.
At that moment, I catch her scanning over my black shorts and hoodie. She holds her gaze a little longer on my legs.
I look down and hold my arms out to my side. “Do I need to find some old flannel plaid pants to qualify for the pajama party or what?”
“No!” She sits up abruptly, sending the blanket that was across her legs to the side in protest. “I mean—the shorts . . . could be considered adequate attire. I’ll let it slide.”
“Good because I get hot when I sleep.”
“Right,” she says softly. “Of course.”
Rather than pulling the blanket to cover her again, she stands and walks toward me. I don’t know why I tense up, but my fists clench as she steps up to the bookshelf and runs her fingers along the spines.
“I love the look of old books. And the smell. Why is it so calming?”
I barely hear her speaking because the only thing I can focus on is the fact that she very clearly used my bar of soap. I can’t help but inhale, just to double check. There’s no mistaking it, and I take a step to the left to put a few feet of distance between us before I lean in and start teasing her about it.
“Are they here for the aesthetic or do you actually read them? Be honest.” She points her finger to my chest with one raised brow.
I huff and lift my hand to straighten a few of the books that were sticking out too far. “I read them. No TV or internet, remember?”
Based on her satisfied nod, I think she likes that answer.
She bends her knees, eyeing the lower shelf, and finally slides one out of its place to inspect it.
“Oh mygod,” she gasps. “Please say this is a joke. You donotdog ear.”
I take the book from her hands and have a look for myself. It’s one of the oldest ones on the shelf. The familiar yellowed pages, frayed edges, and a thin line of dust on the top might not mean much to most. To me, it means a whole lot. On the inside cover, the initials BC are written in black pen. Just like in most of the other books on this shelf.
“That was probably my grandpa,” I say with a knowing nod. “These were his before he passed them down to me. He used to read them to me when I was younger. I’ve collected some and added to the shelf myself over the years too.”
