Erasing Faith(90)
Abruptly, I wasn’t tired. In fact, I felt like I could’ve had marathon sex for hours, days, weeks, if Faith had so much as stirred in my arms and arched up to press her lips against mine…
Fuck.
Fantasy time was over. I was officially sporting morning wood harder than the oak tree I’d bashed my fist into last night, which meant it was past time to climb out of this damn bed before I lost myself completely.
Gently, I detangled her limbs from my body and rolled her onto her side of the bed. She barely stirred, even when I rebuilt her pillow barrier and tucked the blankets back up to her chin. As I watched, she snuggled deeper into the bed and let out another tiny, sweet sigh.
Without taking my eyes off her, I lifted the cord around my neck up to my mouth and pressed it there for a full minute, wishing everything was different. Wishing I could slide back into bed with her, wrap her up in my arms, and make love to her until she forgot about the past.
I let the cord drop back against my neck before I turned, grabbed my t-shirt off the ground, and walked away.
Chapter Fifty-One: FAITH
LEAVING TRACES
The first thought I had when I woke was coffee.
The entire cottage was suffused with the rich, delicious smell. My eyes flew open and I saw immediately that Wes had already risen from the bed. His side was barely rumpled, as though no one had even slept there, and I noticed my pillow barricade was safely in place.
I chose not to analyze the faint feelings of disappointment I felt when I saw that.
Thankfully, those unwanted emotions were overtaken by immense joy when I spotted the pot warming on the single stovetop burner. The coffee had been cooked in an old-fashioned percolator and it smelled a little burned, but I couldn’t have cared less.
Caffeine was caffeine.
I poured myself a steaming cup and drank it black, so happy I almost didn’t miss the heaping teaspoon of sugar I typically dumped in. Stretching my back like a cat in a vain attempt to work out some of the kinks after a night on the ancient mattress, I pushed through the screen door and stepped onto the dew-covered porch. I could see my breath puffing in the crisp morning air, and my coffee steamed steadily as I shifted back and forth on bare feet, trying to keep warm as my eyes swept the small clearing.
My gaze eventually settled on Wes, who was standing with his back to me about fifty yards away on the edge of the glade. I felt my eyes widen as I took in the dark streak of sweat soaking the back of his gray t-shirt and saw the axe in his hands.
The man was chopping firewood like a genuine freaking lumberjack.
I felt my mouth go dry as I watched his muscles bunching and cording with sheer strength. He swung the axe high over his head and brought it down on the log with so much force, I thought he’d likely strike straight through to the stump beneath.
For five minutes, I watched him in the pale morning light, the smell of autumn lingering in the air. I felt like I was intruding on a private moment, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Seeing him this way was captivating. A show of pure power, of sheer masculinity.
There was beauty in it — beauty and brutality.
The coffee in my mug went cold, totally forgotten as my eyes followed every lift of his arms, every crack of the axe. The sight took my breath away.
Eventually, my good sense returned and I wanted to shake myself for spying on him. Cursing, I turned and crept back inside, careful to ease the screen shut slowly so as not to disturb him. Judging by the pile of split kindling, he’d been at it a while — judging by the mountain of yet uncut logs, he’d be at it a long while still. Not one to let an opportunity go to waste, I made quick work of turning on the spigot in the large copper tub.
It took a few minutes, but the water at last began to run clear and hot. I fished the travel-sized body wash from my duffel, dumped a heaping capful into the bath, and watched, delighted, as the basin began to fill with bubbles. Nearly tripping in my eagerness to shed my clothes, in less than a minute, I’d kicked off my pajamas and sunken into the heavenly warmth of the water with a content sigh.
I felt the wear and tear of the past few days begin to slide off my skin. The taut bands of emotion that had been squeezing my chest, slowly suffocating me, started to loosen for the first time since I’d left my parents’ house.
Margot’s death, Wes’ presence, Szekely’s hitman — it all faded away, and for a few brief moments, I was a hollow, emotionless shell without a care in the world or a thought in my head.
It was blissful.
When the water lost its warmth, I was forced to open my eyes and emerge from the chilled tub. And of course — because my love life was just one long series of awkward moments — at the exact second I’d risen to my feet and begun to reach for the towel rack, trying desperately not to slip and fall on my face, Wes decided his time as a lumberjack was over. I heard the screen door screech as he stepped back inside the cabin and I lunged for the towel, but it was too late.
He’d seen.
In the tiny fraction of time before I managed to tug the pitiful excuse for a curtain in front of me and wrap a towel around my body, his ever-intent eyes had scanned my entire frame and locked on the ugly round scar, just below my left breast. Even after I’d covered myself, his gaze burned into the fabric, like he couldn’t stop seeing what lay beneath. I tried not to tremble as I stepped as gracefully as possible from the tub, my wet feet leaving damp footprints on the hardwood as I moved out of the bathroom area.