Page 33 of Whiskey Weather
I sigh, folding my arms and turning my head toward my bag of cameras. For a split second, I smile. Not everyone can say they are doing exactly what they always dreamed of. By most standards, I’ve done well for myself and never strayed from my priorities in the process.
I won’t stop traveling or doing what I love for work.
But that doesn’t make the idea of doing it all alone forever sound any less miserable.
I wish I could fully understand the complexity of wanting both things at once—being accomplished on my own but having someone to share it with too.
I scoff at myself, shaking my head and leaning forward to pick up one of the cameras. Not having social media, TV, or internet in general for a few days clears your mind, but the consequence is too much extra space left for thinking. That isn’t always a bad thing, but I could do without the emotional upheaval that comes along with it.
The front door to the cabin swings open, sending a draft of frigid air across the floor and straight to my exposed feet. I quickly tuck them under the heavy blanket and swipe my unbrushed hair out of my face. The man has literally seen me naked, so I’m not sure what difference smoothing my unruly locks behind my ears will make.
My eyes shoot up as I watch him strip off his boots and jeans that look soaked from the snow. I laugh as he turns toward me in his cowboy hat, hoodie, and black briefs.
He cocks an eyebrow and walks toward the living room, leaning the side of his hip against the couch.
It’s a crime against feminism, feeling every coherent thought swirl out of my head like smoke rises into the sky above the chimney as I stare at him. I roll my lips into my mouth at the sight of the tattoos covering his thigh, studying how deliciously they curve around each ripple of muscle. If he were close enough, I’d reach out and graze the tips of my fingers along their delicate outlines.
“What’s that saying?Take a picture so you can drool longer?”
“No,” I giggle. “It’stake a picture, it’ll last longer.”
The smirk on his face tells me he already knew that. I shake my head and lean back, one hand behind me for support. My other arm reaches to the side, picking up the closest camera and holding it up toward him. Without bothering to look through the lens or line up the shot, I indulge his joke and the shutter clicks.
The lighting around him is dim, but I like it that way. It’s moody and dark like the shadow underneath his jaw and cheekbones contrasting with the subtle glimmer in his eyes.
“Well,” he sighs. “It took a while to shovel the snow around your car, but we got it loaded up and he’s going to call when it’s ready.”
Not the direction I was hoping this conversation would go.
“That’s great,” I lie. “Thank you.”
Ledger lifts his hat to run a hand through his hair. He nods, but he doesn’t seem any more enthused by the situation than I am. I would rather eat a jean jacket than extend my stay uninvited. But if he was in any hurry to get me to leave, I don’tthink he’d be looking at me like I’m a bottle of cold water in the middle of a desert right now.
I stare back at him, tilting my head and taking my time with my thoughts. What’s the worst that could happen, he turns down the idea?
“So, I was thinking,” I start. “Maybe rushing around packing, trying to get the car up and running, then getting back on the road all in one day would be too stressful.”
“Stressful,” he repeats. His eyes are narrowed like he’s thinking it over meticulously.
I nod, sitting up straight, placing the camera in my lap and holding my hands out in front of me to seem more convincing. “Right, stressful. And look outside, the day is already getting away from us. I don’t want to drive in the dark.”
“You want to stay here another night because it might be dark by the time you’re on the road?”
“Exactly.”
He chuckles, rubbing the side of his jaw. “Hmm. Definitely something to consider.”
“Not to mention the time it would take to grab dinner first or finish my book . . . Leaving tomorrow seems like a much better plan. If it’s okay with you, I mean.”
“You make some good points,” he says, seemingly processing my list of reasons to stay.
I study his expression. He’s wrestling with the idea with a crease in his forehead. His lips are pressed together and one side of his mouth twitches up as if he’s holding back a revelation.
Walking past the couch, he stops next to me with his hand stretched out. I grab the camera that was in my lap and place my other palm in his. He effortlessly pulls me to my feet, and I look up at him, desperate for a reply that isn’tno. After an over-calculated pause, he finally agrees.
“Tomorrow, then.”
I let out an embarrassing squeal of delight as he swoops down to wrap an arm behind my knees, hauling me up and over his shoulder. My hand that isn’t clutching my camera squeezes into his lower back as I try to steady myself. His callused palm slides up the back of my thigh, and he stalks toward the bedroom.
