Part of me wanted to talk about that night on the phone over pierogies, but between Hawaii stories and the little dance of family tension, the subject never came up.
A small relief, maybe. It feels so intimate.
Too private to discuss in front of Blake’s teenage daughter.
And maybe he’d rather forget it, too.
So I just lean against the door and watch the town pass by, idyllic little buildings in their perfect little settings. Glittery snow clings to the corners of the roofs, reflecting the clear night sky back in soft shades of blue.
The “carnival grounds” are actually a ways past the high school football field, which looks mostly like pasture that someone framed in rickety wooden bleachers. I can’t help but grin.
Small-town life.
Considering how late it is, I’m surprised to see so much activity bustling around, but there are adults and teenagers buzzing around everywhere.
They’re putting up scaffolding, setting up booths, laying out electrical wiring and strings of lights. On the far end, there’s a really impressive effort going on to fill a ton of square tubs with water, I’m guessing to create ice blocks for the huge ice-castle Andrea mentioned.
All in all, it looks like a pretty big deal.
Even as we park, I catch sight of the tall, gangly boy who’d been with Andrea that night in the woods. He’s with a few other kids and has a weird metal contraption cuffed to his wrist.
When he flexes his hand, dipping two fingers inward like Spider-Man using his web shooters, flame arcs out in thin, lashing bursts.
Wow.
Andrea apparently thinks it’s the greatest thing ever. The engine’s not even quiet before she’s scrambling out of the back seat and shooting off, waving and shouting, “Clark!”
I raise both brows. “That boy must be dense.”
“Most boys are,” Blake grunts, killing the Jeep but not opening the door yet. He folds his arms on the steering wheel, his remote, quiet gaze following his daughter. “You want to stay in here? It’s warmer. I just need to do the rounds for safety checks. Pretty boring shit.”
“I don’t mind the cold,” I say carefully, smiling and shrugging.
I don’t want to say I definitely don’t mind it with you.
I don’t want to sound that desperate.
He glances at me, raising both brows. “Yeah? Hawaiian girl out here in Montana, and you don’t mind the dead of winter? Figured you’d be missing the warmer weather like your own skin.”
“Well…” I look out the window. The frost has fogged it up, and my breaths don’t help, misting it until the whole world runs in watercolors through the glass. “I don’t miss much about Hawaii anymore.”
“Since your old man?” he asks.
Even if he’s gentle, it aches.
My eyes flutter shut a few seconds longer than they should.
“Yeah,” I answer thickly. “Since my dad.”
His silence isn’t awkward or censuring.
It’s soft.
It’s kind.
Gives me a moment to compose myself with his warmth here to keep me company. I wait until I can breathe without feeling like my throat is caught in an ever-closing noose.
“Anyway,” I say, trying to smile. “I’ve been around colder places than Montana. I once spent a summer gutting fish in Alaska and stayed a few months longer.”
“Fuck.” His startled laughter rolls over me. “Why?”
“I wanted to know what it was like,” I answer. “That’s why I do a lot of things. I’ve tried organic farming, micro-brewing, hand-carving beads in communes. If it seems fun, I try it. And I’m usually right.”
“Gutting fish was fun? You serious, lady?”
“It actually was. Just really smelly. I learned a lot of awful sailor jokes, though.”
Blake snorts. “So why’d you quit, then?”
He relaxes as he leans against the steering wheel, his powerful body slouched in a lazy sprawl of taut musculature.
“I didn’t want to mess up my hands.” I hold up my purple-gloved hands and spread my fingers. “While I wander around, I can at least make a living with massage. But gutting fish gives you carpal tunnel, and that’s if you don’t have an accident with a knife sooner or later.”
With an amused sound, he gives me the side-eye. “Can’t have that. There’s magic in those fingers.”
There’s something almost suggestive in the way he says it, in the way his gaze lingers on my outstretched fingers, very unsexy in their purple yarn sheaths.
Then he clears his throat and looks away, pushing his door open.
“C’mon,” he says. “If you really want the grand tour, let’s go.”
I pull my coat tighter, drag my cap down over my ears, and slip out after him—and nearly yelp as the biting air hits me right in the face.
Yep. It’s that time of year. The average temperature can drop drastically in the space of an hour as the winds pick up after dark in mountain towns like this. I’m shivering like a wet puppy as I turn my collar up to better cover my neck and jaw.