Chapter Fifteen
Lisa
“Aren’t you glad I made you go back and change clothes?”
Dax’s words are teasing, not smug, but I still seize the opportunity to smack his shoulder before I return to the task of scraping melted marshmallow off the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
“Fine,” I say, ignoring the desire that flutters through me from contact with his shoulder. Good Lord, the man is ripped. “You’re right that it’s a lot easier to get marshmallow out of fleece than cashmere.”
“And aren’t those sneakers more comfortable than those high heels would have been?”
“They weren’t high heels, they were wedges. But yes,” I admit grudgingly. “I’m glad you had me change clothes.”
“And I’m glad you let me watch.”
“Even if it did result in us hitting the road an hour late.”
“Totally worth it.” Dax grins, then bends down to add another log to the campfire. He stirs things around with a stick, giving me another chance to appreciate those deliciously broad shoulders, which are visible even through his lumberjack flannel.
He sits back, and I try to pretend I wasn’t staring. I focus instead on arranging the perfect layers of chocolate on my graham cracker, while he reaches into the Tupperware container for another marshmallow. “I still can’t believe you made marshmallows from scratch.”
“And graham crackers,” I point out. “And the Guittard Ambanja chocolate is way better than that Hershey’s crap you wanted to bring.”
“Bonus points on the food,” he says. “Does that make us even?”
“Maybe. You haven’t tried the wine yet.”
He laughs and reaches for the decanter. “For future reference, most people bring cans of beer and Dinty Moore stew when they camp,” he says. “Not an entire Riedel stemware set and an eighty-dollar bottle of port.”
“Taste it.”
Dax pours us each a glass and takes a sip. “Damn,” he says, eyes wide. “What is that?”
“It’s a 2007 Ferreira vintage port dessert wine from Portugal.” I beam, pleased to have nailed it, even if I did overdo things just a little. “I polled my wine club on the best possible wine pairing to go with s’mores, and that was the winner.”
He shakes his head and threads another marshmallow onto his roasting stick. “That is fucking amazing,” he says. “So are you, by the way. You’ve made the best camping meal I’ve ever had in my life. Maybe the best meal I’ve had, period.”
“Thank you.” I try not to beam too wide. I know it should rankle my inner feminist to have a man praise my culinary prowess, but you know what? I’m a damn fine chef, and a kickass domestic goddess all around. It feels good to be acknowledged for it.
It also feels good to have Dax slide his arm around my shoulder as he extends his roasting stick into the fire. We’re quiet, which is pleasant, too. Crickets chirp in the distance, and the smell of wood smoke and pine needles swirls around us in a fragrant cloud. Darkness is falling, bringing with it vast swaths of stars strung across the sky like twinkle lights. It’s as though we’re the only two people on the planet. I shift in my camp chair—another thing I had no idea existed—and lean into the warmth of Dax’s body.
“Do you want to know about the wolf?”
His voice is so low that I almost don’t understand the question at first. I glance up to see him staring into the fire. His jaw is set, and I’m not quite sure how to read him.
“The one in your studio, you mean?” I ask. “Your sculpture?”
“Right. But I meant the story behind it.”
“Oh. You said it was your high school mascot?”
“Yes, but that’s not the whole story.”
He takes a deep breath, and I wait. Something tells me the words he’s about to say don’t come easily. That there’s a reason he wants to share this story. The hairs on my arm prickle, and I know I can’t blame the chill blowing off the lake.
“My mom ran off when I was ten, so it was just my brother, my sister, my dad, and me living by ourselves in this tiny little trailer at the scrapyard.”
I rest a hand on his knee. “That must have been hard.”
Losing his mother, I mean, but all of it. The trailer, the scrapyard, the sort of poverty he’s alluded to. I don’t get the sense Dax had the best childhood.
He nods and continues. “We’d had a rash of thefts at the junkyard. Sounds stupid, but it’s actually pretty common—junkies stealing scrap metal to sell it. Anyway, my old man decided we needed a guard dog, so he went out and got the meanest sounding dog he could find. Some sort of cross between a pit bull and a wolf.”
“Is that even legal?”
“Probably not, but that never stopped my old man.” Dax clears his throat. “Anyway, the dog looked all wolf to me. Killer was his name.”
“Killer?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately, he didn’t live up to that name.”
“How do you mean?”
A log rolls over in the fire, and he takes his time rearranging it. My s’more sits forgotten on a napkin in my lap, and I find myself holding my breath as I wait for the rest of the story.
“Killer turned out to be a total teddy bear,” Dax says. “Loved belly rubs and dog biscuits and wrestling with kids. Sweetest dog you ever met in your life.”
The softness of his voice washes over me in waves as flames flicker in my peripheral vision. I can picture it in my mind—a huge, furry body with a wagging tail and a goofy, wolfy smile. I imagine ten-year-old Dax with his arms around the shaggy neck, a smile on his face for the first time since his mother left.
“What happened to Killer?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I know without being told that this story doesn’t have a happy ending.
He doesn’t answer right away. “My dad said he was getting rid of him,” he says. “Said he wasn’t keeping some pussy puppy dog around.”
“Oh God.”
Tears prick the backs of my eyes as Dax keeps talking. “Took his hunting rifle and the dog and drove off in his shitty pickup truck. When he came back, he had a fifth of whiskey and no Killer. I didn’t ask questions.”
“Oh, Dax.” Tears spill down my cheeks, and I reach over to grab his hand. I clutch it so tight I worry I’m hurting him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He also doesn’t notice his marshmallow is starting to smolder. I say nothing, letting it burn. I’ll make him a whole tray of marshmallows. Pounds of them, as many as he can eat.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “I don’t know what else to say.”
He shrugs and turns back to me. Noticing the tears, he reaches up and wipes them away with his thumb. His ice-blue eyes flicker with the reflection of the flames. “I’ve never told anyone that story.”
I swallow hard, wishing I had some comforting words to offer. Something that could make it all better. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
He nods. “I wanted you to know. About how I grew up. About why I am the way I am. Why I don’t believe in happily-ever-afters.”
His words are dark, and there’s a thick knot in my throat. I swallow hard to get it to move. “Is that why you volunteer at Helping Paws?”
He nods once, though there’s a tiny flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so. I can’t bring myself to get a dog of my own—not after that. But I feel like I want to give back, you know?”
“I love that about you.” I squeeze his hand. “So much.”
His eyes flash again, and it’s not the fire this time. I replay my words in my head. Did he think I said I love you?
Is that what I meant?
“Your marshmallow.” I stand up and pry the roasting stick from his hand. “It’s looking a little charred. Here, let me get you another one.”
I fumble with the stick, shaking the burned marshmallow into the flames and replacing it with a fresh one.
“Ow.” I suck in a breath as melted marshmallow goo sticks to my hand, and I reach for a wet wipe to get it off.
But Dax grabs my wrist and draws my hand to his mouth. “Here, let me.” Slowly, so gently, he draws my fingers into his mouth. It’s the strangest mix of sexy and soothing, and I catch myself giving a little sigh as the burn ebbs away.
“Better?”
I nod, mesmerized by the flames and by his closeness. “Much better.”
He looks at me again, heat in his eyes that has nothing to do with the fire. “Let’s try the other hand.”
He grabs my left wrist this time, drawing my index and middle finger into his mouth with aching slowness. His tongue grazes the junction of the two fingers, and I gasp from the implication.
Drawing back, he smiles. I don’t know why, but I feel like something’s shifted between us. A connection on some level we’ve never visited before.
The heat in his eyes tells me he’s aching for a different kind of connection. The one we’ve almost perfected over the last three weeks.
I shiver, wanting it, too. Wanting it so badly my body aches from it.
“Come on,” Dax says. “Let’s put this fire out and then check the view from the tent.”