Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
He doesn’t say a single word as he carries me to the bed. He doesn’t have to. It was stupid to stay in the chair.
Though maybe he believes I’m asleep. Because I don’t say anything, either. I should. What kind of arrogant asshole bodily grabs someone and relocates them? I should be telling him off. Instead, I drowsily wallow in his warmth and the strength of the arms holding me.
But I can’t bear a repeat of the previous morning. Of waking to find myself writhing against his cock like a deranged Aladdin trying to rub a genie out of a lamp.
So as soon as he sets me on the bed, I shove myself all the way against the far wall. I’m still wearing my socks and pajama pants. If I hope to sleep, I need to take them off.
I don’t. I’m too afraid of falling asleep. Too afraid of what I’ll do. So I spend a miserable night, with my pants twisting around my legs every time I move and my socks irritating the fuck out of me and overheating my feet.
Reed sleeps restlessly, turning and turning. Or maybe he’s also awake. A few heavy sighs come from that side of the bed. A couple of times, the quiet within the cabin seems so thick—as if he’s about to say something.
He doesn’t.
By morning, my exhaustion has become a stupor, complete with a bonus headache. But I don’t ignore Reed anymore. It just makes me feel shittier.
Maybe because it’s Christmas Eve, we both make a concerted effort to be pleasant. Every word that passes our lips is careful. Polite. Safe. The weather has cleared, so we agree to go tree hunting after we eat—toast for me, eggs and toast for him. At the table, our conversation is courteous drivel.
“More coffee?”
“Yes, thank you. How are the eggs?”
“Perfect, thank you. I can never flip them without breaking the yolk.”
“I’ll show you the next time I make them.”
“That’d be great, thank you. I’ll do the dishes again when we get back with the tree.”
“I appreciate that, thank you. For dinner, do you have any Christmas Eve tradition that you’d like to follow? Assuming we have the ingredients, of course.”
“I don’t, but thank you for asking. I’m happy to eat whatever you traditionally have.”
“It’s not a traditional thing for me. It’s just something I wanted to do when I planned my menus. I thought to make finger foods—as a late lunch/early dinner—so that I can graze while decorating the tree.”
“A finger food free-for-all sounds damn good. What are you thinking of including?”
“A charcuterie board with the usual things, plus veggies and spinach dip—and so it’s not all cold stuff, sausage rolls and jalapeño poppers.”
“Hell, yeah. What kind of sausage rolls?”
“They’re those cocktail-sized ones that come frozen. They’re easy to throw in the oven along with the poppers.”
“I bet I’ll eat about fifty of those.”
That absurdity gets us through breakfast. Then Reed dons his snow suit and heads out to the shed for the sled, bow saw, and two pairs of snowshoes. I don’t have fancy snow gear but I bundle up, then step out onto the porch to wait for him.
It’s absolutely glorious outside. Azure skies. Majestic firs. Pristine snow.
For the first time in what seems like forever, the weight in my chest eases. The temperature’s just below freezing but the sun on my face makes the air seem warmer, fresh and exhilarating instead of biting and bitter.
I close my eyes and just breathe it in.
The crunch of snow alerts me to Reed’s return from around the back of the cabin—the uneven rhythm of his steps telling me that, despite what he says, his leg must still be hurting him. Or maybe his injury is aggravated by the difficulty of walking in the snow.
Reed grins when he spots me on the porch. “Pretty nice day, yeah?”
“It is.” His grin does fluttery little things to my insides, so I look away.
“You’ve got your tree permit?”
I pat my coat pocket.
“What are the restrictions?”
“No cutting within two hundred feet of a riverbank, lake, or a meadow. And it can’t be over fifteen feet tall.” A height which wouldn’t even fit inside the cabin.
“No worries there, then.” He drops the second pair of snowshoes by my feet. “Need help strapping these on?”
“I’ve got it.”
It takes me a few minutes to get used to walking with them, but I’m doing all right by the time we leave the clearing and start down the road. Reed keeps pace beside me, dragging the sled.
All the Douglas firs around us are much taller than fifteen feet, but I don’t care if it takes us a while to find one suitable for a Christmas tree. It’s so beautiful out here. So quiet, too, even with the noise we’re making. And I don’t know if it’s the fresh air, or simply being outside of the cabin for the first time in days, but my exhaustion and headache are gone. So is the dark and heavy mood that almost crushed me yesterday.