Reading Online Novel

Coming In From the Cold(9)



"Breakfast first or tow truck first?" Willow asked, shrugging off her coat.

"Definitely breakfast," he said. "I'm dying." He put his coat on an  empty hook next to hers, and tried not to notice how right the two  looked hanging there together.

"I'll bet you're hungry. Hey! I don't think I even lost power," Willow  said. "That's a first." He watched as she put a hand to the side of her  slow cooker, which sat on the counter. "Still warm," she mused. She went  to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of orange juice.

"I'll pour," he said.

"Thanks." She opened a cupboard and slid two juice glasses onto the table in his direction.

"Now, coffee," she said, turning to a very fancy Italian machine with copper pulls.

"That's gorgeous," he said.

"It sure is," she agreed. "And it's not mine. He left this, the  motorcycle and a room full of art books. At least the coffee machine is  useful."

"Let's fire her up, then," he said. "Can I do it?"

She shrugged, flipping a piece of that silky hair over her shoulder.  Without thinking, he reached out his hand and smoothed her hair down her  back. She turned to smile at him, and he admired her lips again. "You  can try, but it's a fussy machine. It took me months to get the shot  size correct."

"I like a challenge," he said. He saw her keeping an eye on him as he  mounded espresso grounds into the arm of the machine, then carefully  tamped them down. "How am I doing?" he asked.

"You have some moves," she said.

"I think I proved that already," he said with a wink.

Willow blushed, and Dane dragged his eyes off her face. He had to stop  flirting right this second. It wasn't fair to her. Never mind that he  wanted to cup her sweet ass in his hands, and then back her over to that  sofa on the other end of the room. He wasn't going to do that, or any  of the other fun little plans his mind would hatch every five minutes  until he got himself the hell away from her.

As much as he'd love to install himself in her kitchen, in her bed or in  her life, there was no way he could do that. And flirting sure as hell  wouldn't make leaving any easier. Instead, he was going to keep the  conversation going nice and easy. After he'd called the tow truck, he  would give her one friendly kiss and get the hell out of Dodge.

He chose a bar stool located safely across the worktable from her,  watching while Willow flitted around her kitchen. She wore an endearing  look of concentration, dashing between the stove and the refrigerator.  He drank his espresso and thought how ordinary the whole scene should  be.

But it wasn't, not for him. He would never have a home like this, with a  companion an arm's length away frowning over the omelet pan. There was  something about this girl and this room that drove that all home. Sober  truths marched gloomily through his head. It happened sometimes, and he  always managed to chase them away again.

Flying down the mountain at superhuman speed usually did the trick.

Dane didn't have time for a midlife crisis. The way he figured, his life  expectancy was about forty-five years, and he'd be blotto for the last  five of them. The time to have a midlife crisis was well past.

Now there was a cheery thought.

Willow put two toasted tortillas on a plate, then flipped three eggs on  top. She finished with a swirl of hot chili. "Et voilà," she said,  putting the plate in front of him. "There's about ten-million calories  there. That should be enough to shore you up."

"Thank-you, oh great one," he said, and she grinned.

She made a smaller plate for herself and sat down opposite him.

"Have you ever skied?" he asked, taking a forkful. It was heaven. "This is great, by the way."

"Thanks. No skiing for me. Crazy-right? To move to Vermont, and not know how to ski."

"You could still learn."

"Maybe," she said. "But lift tickets are pricey. Then there's the gear. All your friends are skiers, I bet."                       
       
           



       

My friends. Right. "Well, some of them are snowboarders." That won him a  smile. But Dane didn't have friends, he had competitors. He had  drinking buddies, and the occasional fuck buddy. And none of those  people knew him at all. Dane took another bite, and then tipped his head  back in appreciation. "God this is good. You're quite a cook."

She beamed at him. "You'll have to thank The Girls for these eggs. They laid them for you this yesterday. Vermont's finest."

"How many of Vermont's finest do you get a day?"

"Just under one per chicken." She had a dot of chili on her cheek, and  it was all he could do not to reach over and brush it away. He took  another bite instead. "So, about twenty eggs. I sell them to the gourmet  store in town."

"Does that pay well?" he asked.

"No. But every little bit helps. If I could just finish my doctorate, things would get easier."

"Doctorate in what?"

"Clinical psychology."

He put down his fork and laughed.

"What's so funny? Are you afraid of shrinks?"

"Hell yes."

"Well, I plan to work with kids. So you're safe with me."

I'm anything but, he reminded himself. "Why were you interested in that, anyway?"

She held his gaze for a long moment before answering. "It's complicated."

He nodded. So Willow had secrets of her own. Don't we all?





* * *



After breakfast, Willow called AAA with instructions as to where to find  their two stuck vehicles. "The Jeep can probably be freed and driven  away," she said. "The truck won't start at all." She listened, then  thanked them and hung up.

"What did they say?" Dane asked from the sink, where he was doing the dishes.

"They'll get to us when they can. When I pressed, the guy said an hour. But he might have been blowing smoke up my ass."

Dane passed her a clean dish, which she dried on a towel. He had it  again-the strange sensation of stepping momentarily into someone else's  life-a life where there was breakfast with the girlfriend, a few dishes  to wash and a second cup of coffee. He felt like he was watching a  movie, and the star looked exactly like him.

"What?" she asked suddenly.

He must have been staring at her. Dane shook his head. "Nothing, sorry. Distracted."

She put down the towel. "Thanks for doing the dishes."

"Thanks for the awesome breakfast." He gave her a slow smile.

She jutted a thumb over her shoulder. "I'm just going to clean myself up  a bit, since we have to wait," she said. "Make yourself at home," she  said.

"You go ahead," he said. "Thanks."

He made himself turn away and refill his juice glass.





* * *



Dane heard the shower running, and he was briefly tortured by the image  of Willow's naked body underneath the hot water. He shifted his weight  on the bar stool to accommodate the bulge in his jeans.

Down, boy.

The shower sounds stopped, and he scanned yesterday's newspaper,  blocking images of Willow undressed a couple of rooms away. The tow  truck would come, and he'd be out of here, gone from here. He wouldn't  see Willow again. That was the way it had to be. Always.

Then the phone rang. Dane waited, wondering if he should answer. If it  was AAA calling, Willow would want to know what they said. After two  rings, he picked up. "Hello?"

"Um … hello?" a woman's voice said. "Is Willow home?"

"Yes, she is," he said. "Let me call her for you."

But Willow came skidding into the kitchen then, tying a bathrobe around herself, her eyes wide. "Is it AAA?"

He shook his head. "That's what I was thinking, but … " he passed her the receiver.

"Hello? Hi, Callie! No … no need to alert the authorities." Her eyes  flicked to his, amusement playing in them. "Long story. But he's, um,  stuck in the snow on my road. Waiting for the tow truck. Right. No  serial killers here."

Dane forced his gaze onto the same newspaper headlines he'd been staring  at before. They were just as engrossing with Willow in a thin bathrobe  as they'd been while she showered.

"So will I see you for yoga this week?" she asked. "No way! How come  you're always the one on call? I know. Okay. Text me." She hung up the  phone. "Sorry, my friend called to make sure I wasn't dead in a  snowdrift. She worries about me out here alone."

"Should she?" he rubbed his shoulder, which was stiff from slumping onto the floor of his Jeep all night.                       
       
           



       

"No, but she's a doctor. They're born to worry. What's the matter with your shoulder?"