Boone
It’s going to be a long night.
Rubbing my tired eyes, I check the fireplace. It’s time to build it again.
Amelia and Margot headed to bed a little over an hour ago.
By the time we got back from berry picking and made dinner, Amelia’s eyes were significantly drooping. Her chatter had slowed down, and she couldn’t hide that she desperately needed to go to bed.
I kept my eyes peeled, constantly looking for anything—footprints, a broken branch, or any mark that would indicate that someone had breached the cabin’s perimeter.
So far, I haven’t found a fucking thing.
Maybe I should listen to Margot who seems to be inclined to believe that it was all a product of Amelia’s vivid imagination.
After all, she does know her better than I do.
Still, it bugs me a lot, even though it makes no sense to dwell in the past.
Haven’t I been applying that principle to so many aspects of my life lately?
It’s bad enough when I accidentally dwell upon my past.
There are triggers, memories that suddenly flood my mind. I fucking hate dealing with it.
I certainly don’t intend to intentionally think about it.
Oh sure, I’ve been told to go to a fucking shrink. But seeing a therapist means talking about your problems in hopes of finding solutions.
I’m not much of a talker.
Needless to say, that obviously won’t work for me.
The period of time when I regularly visited a psychologist was the biggest living hell of my entire life.
That whole therapy experience was worse than when it happened.
It was worse than the weeks after, as I attended all the funerals.
Worse than the months after that, when all the fucking well-intentioned family and friends dropped by to visit.
I knew they were trying to make me feel better, but it only made me feel uncomfortable. And made me remember.
That’s why I really feel that this is the best place for me—outside, with nature and just thinking about what needs to be done right now.
It’s best to focus on the present.
And that’s what I’m going to do.
Margot has always been one of the pleasant, safe memories to dwell on, one of my happiest daydreams.
Now, with her here, I just want to make more pleasant memories.
It would be easy to hold a grudge, to hate her for keeping the secret of my daughter from me.
But I know her family is just as bad as mine.
Again, one of the major reasons I’m out here.
Living under their thumb is really just existing.
I can’t even imagine what she went through—pregnant and alone.
Maybe having another person depending on her has given her that bit of independence needed to pull away, separating herself.
Hearing the floors creaking in the hall, I continue to rake the coals in the fireplace and arrange a couple additional logs strategically between them.
When I turn around, there she is.
My radiant angel.
She looks good enough to eat in another button-down flannel shirt of mine.
“Do you mind if I keep you company for a while?”
As if she needs to ask. As I lean against the warm stones surrounding the fireplace, I enjoy the view of her long legs.
I wonder if she’s wearing panties.
Focus, asshole.
“I would love the company. Are you up for hot chocolate again?”
She does an almost perfect imitation of Amelia. Rolling onto her toes, she clenches her hands as she quickly nods her head and smiles.
If I hadn’t been watching that same look on her daughter, I never would’ve thought twice about it.
But the one thing I’ve learned is to notice all the little things and enjoy them.
I want to notice everything about her.
Smiling, I snag one of her hands as I walk by. Tugging her gently into the kitchen, I pull her to the brighter light.
Releasing her hand, I reach for a pot from the hanging rack over the stove.
Margot immediately starts pulling the mugs from the cabinet, and while I’m lighting the burner, she gets the milk from the fridge.
“How’d you learn to cook so well? All your meals have been fabulous, and I wouldn’t have taken you for a ‘from-scratch-hot-chocolate’ kind of guy.”
Her air quotes are adorable, so I’m not offended by her words as I suppress a smile.
When we first met, we were both starving students who cooked from hot pots in our dorms. Meals were quick and unhealthy. This was brought about by lack of interest and time, not insufficient funds.
There was just too much going on in my life then, no reason to put learning how to cook as the top priority.
“Just necessity. I did take an Asian six-week evening course with a buddy of mine a few years ago.”
The milk is starting to heat up as I stir it slowly.
Margot leans over and starts grating the chocolate into the milk I’m stirring slowly.
Her golden blonde hair falls in gentle waves. The red highlights are glinting under the kitchen light.
With my free hand, I gently stroke her hair away from her face, so I can admire her look of concentration.
“The chocolate already smells so good,” she says.
Her long appreciative inhale over the pot reminds me of my food ideas from earlier in the day.
Stopping the stirring for a moment, I break off a piece of the chocolate and lightly rest it between my lips and teeth, with half hanging out as an invitation.
Going back to stirring, I nudge her with my hip to get her attention.
A smile lights up her face immediately.
She springs on her tip toes as I lean in for her to grasp the other end of the chocolate in her lips.
As the chocolate breaks between us, I can’t resist sweeping my tongue across her lips as I pull away.
“Delicious.”
“Mmm, I agree,” she replies.
Her enthusiastic words and the sensual sweep of her tongue across her lips make my cock hard instantly.
She’s just so damn sexy.
“Do you think that’s enough chocolate?” She’s back to peering into the pot I’m stirring—which I’ve almost forgotten about.
I sweep my free hand up her back to her nape, settling it under her hair to knead her neck lightly.
Giving the pot a cursory look, I shrug casually. “Does it look like it’s enough for you? I’m not that picky.”
“Maybe a little more.”
She immediately starts grating another chunk of chocolate as we watch it slowly deepen in color. “We make a good team, huh?”
Her eyes drop quickly and the double meaning she insinuated dawns on me.
“It’s okay, Margot. I’m sure you did what you thought was best for yourself and Amelia at the time.”
The look of relief on her face is immediate.
Dropping the grater on the countertop next to the stove, she immediately throws her hands around my chest, hugging me tightly.
Pulling her close to me with one hand still on her neck, I inhale the feminine scent of her hair.
Fuck the hot chocolate. I’m sure it’s warm enough.
Reaching to the left, I flick off the burner and wrap both my arms around her, squeezing for a moment.
“Thank you,” her words are muffled in my chest.
Pulling back, she rests her chin on my chest to look up at me. “You have no idea what it means to me to hear you say that. You are such a good man, Boone Masters.”
Her words of admiration have me pulling away and grabbing the pot and spoon for a quick stir.
“Let’s drink this up while it’s still hot, shall we?”
I carefully pour the hot chocolate into our mugs.
Margot immediately cleans up the chocolate and then takes the pot from me to fill it with water.
Watching her making herself at home in my kitchen gives me a warm, satisfied feeling.
We each grab our mugs, and I sit on the couch in front of the now roaring fire.
Margot settles snugly against my right hip, so I throw my arm over her shoulder to clasp on her tightly.
As I sip the hot chocolate—which we did a damn good job with, I must say—I watch the flame’s shadows flickering across Margot’s face.
“Will you tell me why you left the city, Boone?”
I should’ve known the serious look on her face was leading to something like this.
Margot has always been quite pushy.
I don’t really want to talk about this. I never do.
Maybe it’s because I feel so fucking guilty.
I’m not sure what I could’ve done, or what I could do now, but that doesn’t seem to ease my feeling of guilt.
But I also know that Margot has been essentially hiding our daughter from me for years.
Besides the obvious, I need her to open up to me.
I have to understand and change her perception of how things could be between us.
The only way to do that is to start opening up to her.
Tit for tat, I guess.
But opening up to her means talking—talking, and reliving it all.
She’s still taking small, discrete sips of her hot chocolate, looking over the rim at me.
I know that look.
She isn’t going to let this go. I’d rather get this out of the fucking way now.
“Okay, I will. But with some conditions.”
I can tell she’s a bit surprised.
She must not have thought I’d cave so easily.
“What conditions?” She pulls back a little, sitting up straighter with a serious look on her face.
“I don’t want to be interrupted, especially for questions until I’m done.” She’s nodding immediately, before I even finish my words.
“After tonight, I don’t want to talk about this again. I want it to be over. I don’t want to think about it, nor do I ever want you to allude to it. Fair enough?”
She’s nodding again as she reaches out to rest her hand lightly on my thigh. “It’s a deal.”