Boone
It’s fucking impossible to pace in this tiny space.
Sure, it’s bigger than a broom cupboard, and I’ve got more room than a sardine in a sardine tin—but as big and broad-shouldered as I am, pacing isn’t an option.
Especially since the two most important people in my life are right next door.
I don’t want to disturb them with my heavy footsteps going up and down on the wooden floor. Just because sleep’s not coming easy to me doesn’t mean others should suffer from the same affliction.
Amelia looked like her eyelids were made of lead, that’s how tired she was. Poor thing. She’s been through a lot today.
I sit on the edge of the couch and tap my foot softly. My eyes study my feet as if seeing them for the first time.
Sitting still is not my strong point. If it weren’t for the visitors, I’d be moving around the cabin doing something.
Best cure for insomnia in the world: working with my hands. A man’s gotta do something—anything.
Sitting on my ass and twirling my thumbs only exacerbates my inability to sleep.
The only way to calm the monkey of the mind is to give it something to do. Manual fucking labor is best.
A noise startles me. I look up.
Nothing.
Now my imagination’s running away from me.
I sigh and run my hands through my hair.
If I don’t get some sleep soon, I’ll be useless come morning. I need to get some dirt beneath my boots and get my head on straight.
I’m just about to stand up and slip outside when I see her.
Margot. Beautiful fucking Margot.
Like a vision in the night. Only she’s not a vision—she’s real.
My breath catches, and my insides go up in flames. The way my oversized flannel shirt hangs off her slim shoulders makes my jaw clench with desire.
The beast slumbering inside of me threatens to stir and wake up. She looks so fucking sweet, so delicious…I want to devour her.
My eyes roam over her, taking in every minute detail…my gaze eventually meeting hers.
There’s an intensity there I haven’t seen in a long time. Not since that night when she came to me all those years ago. She’s holding my gaze, penetrating my barriers, and looking deep into me.
When Margot looks at you like that, she’s not staring at your body. She’s looking at your soul.
It leaves me breathless.
And I only want more.
I’m not sure if it’s getting hotter in the room, or if it’s only my imagination, but my body feels on fire. And my cock…
“Tried counting sheep?” I break the thick silence first.
Those intense eyes roam over me. It’s as if they’re drinking in my masculinity, sending my testosterone into fucking overdrive. They move from my chest to my six-pack, before lingering near the waistband of my pants.
If I’m not careful, she’s going to see the effect she’s having on my cock without even touching me.
Fuck.
“I…” she mumbles and takes another step toward me. “I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”
Another step.
Her velvet voice sends shivers down my spine.
“Do you want me to get you something?” I ask.
I notice her gaze travel past my waistband and rest on my crotch. My cock’s quivering with delight, knowing her eyes are on it.
She shrugs. Her right hand brushes her long blonde hair back out of her face.
“I just thought I’d see if you were still up,” she says.
“How about I make you a hot chocolate? You’ve had a rough day.” I’m pleased to hear my voice does not sound as gravelly as I thought it might. I cough to regain some composure.
And still her eyes continue their journey, caressing, teasing and arousing desire in me. Retreat and distance are my only defense at this stage.
“Yes,” she says. “Please. That sounds perfect, actually.”
“Want a nip of something a little stronger in it, too?”
Her lips shift into a small smile. “It’s like you read my mind.”
I feel her eyes on me as I move into the kitchen. Mechanically, my fingers find the necessary ingredients.
I don’t use the cheap-ass powder to make a hot chocolate. No fucking way. Here in my house, I use real chocolate.
A sideways glance confirms she’s standing in the doorway, watching.
Without looking, I find the grater and the dark chocolate. The milk is put on the stovetop before I start to grate the chocolate. Not paying attention to my actions, I grate right down to my finger.
I grit my teeth and grunt. It’s not a bad cut, but there’s no pretending it didn’t smart.
“Boone? You okay?”
She comes up behind me and takes my hand, examining the finger.
“Could be worse,” I joke. But I don’t try to pull my hand away.
Slowly, she bends forward and puts the injured finger in her mouth. I hold my breath. It feels too fucking amazing to move.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the milk. It’s bubbling away.
“Fuck,” I growl, pulling my hand away to attend to the milk.
I hear her laugh. It sounds like a million tiny bells of sweet sounds being rung.
After I pour two mugs of hot chocolate, I add a dash of rum.
She follows me, cradling her mug, and I wonder where this will end up. One thing is sure, I’ve got to remain strong and not let her do anything she’ll come to regret in the morning.
We settle on the couch.
For a while, we sit in a comfortable silence. There doesn’t seem to be a need to talk. She sips on her drink. So do I.
“It all seems so long ago,” she eventually whispers, and I turn toward her.
“What do you mean?”
She shrugs, and I love the way her hair glides over her shoulders when she moves.
“You know. The fire. College. Us.”
The fire. How could I forget that fire?
I barely got to her in time. The building was burning down around us—we both nearly died that night.
And I know in my heart that if it had come down to it—me or her—I would have chosen her. Every fucking time.
“It was a long time ago,” I grumble, not quite sure what else to say.
“You know,” she starts and stops. She’s looking at me again. Only this time, the look is different. It’s contemplative. “I still get nightmares about it. Even after all these years.” The last words are whispered.
I nod. Of course she would.
She tilts her head back, scrunches up her nose, and half-closes her eyes. It looks like she’s replaying the events in her mind right now.
“I went to bed that night so exhausted. I studied hard, and it was late.”
I can tell she’s somewhere else now. So as not to disturb her, I try and slow my breathing.
Really, I’m just listening to the sound of her voice.
“I thought I heard a noise, but I didn’t go to investigate. I thought I must be imaging things.” There’s soft laughter. “You know how you imagine all kinds of things when you’re really tired?”
Even though she’s not looking at me, I nod. I’m afraid that she’ll stop if I talk.
“Anyway, my eyes were getting heavier and heavier, and then just before they closed altogether, I thought I saw someone in my room. Then the next thing I know, I wake up in your arms, smoke in my lungs and ready to puke, outside a burning building.”
Her words hit me right where it hurts, in the heart and gut.
The fact someone might have been in her room is news to me.
“Are you sure?”
It’s a stupid question, one I ask before I can stop myself.
Luckily, she doesn’t rouse on me for being stupid or insensitive.
“As sure as I can be,” she mumbles. “Maybe it was just one of my sorority sisters…but it felt—I don’t know. It sounds stupid, but like…someone fucking evil. Someone who wanted to hurt me.”
Without saying anything else, I put my arm around her shoulder.
In my mind, I’m processing this new tidbit of information. What could it mean? At the time, there was no mention of anyone else in the room.
Could it mean something? Or was it just the result of Margot’s overactive mind?
I feel her head rest against my chest, and suddenly, thinking is becoming increasingly difficult.
As much as I want to process what she just told me, I also don’t want to stand up and disturb her.
And so I stay, sitting on the couch, arms around Margot’s shoulder, her head against my chest. Her being so close leaves me feeling all woozy on the inside and unable to think straight.
But it’s the best fucking feeling in the world, and I wouldn’t want things to be different right now.
“I know how you feel,” I whisper to the top of her head.
She doesn’t move. I take a deep breath. I’ve never talked to anyone about this before, ever. “I have night terrors sometimes, too, you know.”
Instantly, she moves off my chest. And I regret my words.
“You have nightmares?”
I nod. My throat is parched, and I feel as if I haven’t had a drink in fifty-five days.
“Sure do,” I confess.
“What about?”
I look down and wonder how to tell her and where to start.