by Ellen Mint
“She must be very important to you,” Beth whispered as a painful past banged in her brain.
Tristan’s hands broke from hers, sliding to the side to cup to his extended knees. “She is. But that’s what mothers are for, right?”
“I…” Dread thudding into her gullet, Beth wanted to tear herself away from him and this conversation. It’s not his fault, he doesn’t know. “Yep,” she said, her lips popping the p hard.
Pain burning her eyes, Beth stared at the laptop resting on the cushions, the notebooks spilling with the life of her father, of which she’d shared only a small portion. “Did you always want to be a musician?” Beth asked. She could feel the wall bricking itself back up between them, Tristan’s heat retreating.
“Yes.” His once tender voice froze. “Hence my mother moving heaven and hell to get me where I needed to be.”
She didn’t want to pick at a wound. Instead, Beth leaned away. The guitar came with her, Tristan opening his hands as if to let her go. But it was the old blue notebook she picked up and she leaned back into him. Tugging the faded newspaper out, she stared at her father in his requisite reporter outfit. She’d rarely seen him in anything else.
“I traveled everywhere I could with my dad. Some places I really shouldn’t have. As a kid, I thought the only jobs in the world were reporter, cameraman or dictator.”
A snicker rolled down the back of her neck, Tristan scooting forward to take in the clipping. “Your elementary teachers must have loved career day with you.”
She’d had to spend her falls and winters in school living with her grandmother and only hearing her father’s voice on the phone or seeing him in newspapers. Some days, Beth would wake up at three a.m., just to catch his calls, her feet freezing as she sat in the peeling chair by the phone. But the summers, then she was Beth Cho, intrepid reporter.
“He could get anyone to talk. Dictators, military commanders, people who’d spent their whole lives only saying ‘No comment’ would sing the second my dad showed up. I was enthralled. I thought it magic. And I wanted nothing more than to do what he did.”
The hand that had strummed a full song from hers swept across the clipping. Slowly, it circled around the little girl proud of her notebook full of observations. God help her, she’d even written her own articles as a kid, which her grandmother would proofread before ‘publication.’ Beth really needed to burn them whenever she was back in San Francisco.
“You don’t mention your mom.”
She flinched, the clipping falling to the folder. “And you don’t speak of your father.”
Silence clicked between them, one of nervous energy, of words swallowed and erased rather than being spoken.
“Alive?” Tristan whispered.
“Yes. Yours?”
A deadened voice answered, “Yes.”
“I tried to forgive her. To heal that wound all the books talk about. She was sick, she needed help and got it eventually. She couldn’t be my mother when I was a kid but wanted to try as an adult.” Beth tried to ignore the tears pinging inside her unwanted heart. “I want to go along with it, but then I think about all the missed birthdays, the school plays, the days and days she chose to abandon me and I…I can’t.”
“My father couldn’t even be bothered to cut a check for two-hundred-and-forty-five dollars every month. I get on TV, climb the charts, and he shows up one day. Talks reconciliation, rekindling, regrets.” The bitterness oozed from his tongue, Tristan slapping a hand to his thighs with each thought.
“And the second that I vanish from the spotlight, so too does he. Never again. I know far better now than…”
Than to let them back in. To delude yourself into thinking that someone so instrumental in your very being wouldn’t break your heart.
Glancing down, Beth realized that he’d scooped his hands not around the guitar with his confession, but her belly. Both pulled her tighter to him instead of farther away.
“I…” She gulped. Frost permeated the window, encompassing the snow-bound landscape. With only the flicker of the firelight to guide them, the isolation transformed into coziness and comfort.
What was she doing? Confessing about her mother like that. Not even her father heard all that. And she just unraveled it all upon this near stranger?
The light softened around her, Beth’s head growing fuzzy as she breathed in the scent of juniper and sandalwood. The scent of Tristan Harty.
“I should go to bed,” Beth forced out, spinning in place. His hand fell off her, his body locking in tight as she scooted onto her research. She passed the guitar back. Throwing her arms wide, she faked a yawn. “I’m really tired.”
“Of course.” Confusion crawled across his face as if he didn’t also know that maintaining that wall was best for both of them. “Right. As you…” Tristan placed the guitar back into its case and rose on his sturdy legs. “Are you certain you don’t wish to take the bed?”
“Let’s not start that argument again.” Beth interrupted his attempts at generosity. She could understand where he was coming from. First night he got the bed, second night she could. It was even and equal. And the idea of having to curl up under the sheets where his naked body had once been caused her brain to melt.
Tristan took it surprisingly well, nodding once as he clung white-knuckled to the guitar case’s handle. “Then, good night, Ms. Cho.” He walked stiff-legged to the bedroom, his chin high as if she hadn’t just peeled layers from his soul to find a heart beneath.
“To you as well,” Beth whispered, watching his shadow eclipsed by the door. “Tristan.”
Chapter Ten
Each prick of the staticky stubble rubbing against his palm tugged his frown deeper. Tristan despised his facial hair. It was sparse in the worst of places, uncooperative, climbed higher on one side than the other and was fading to white faster than the rest of him. Why hadn’t he put a razor in his bag? He packed damn near everything else to keep tidy before interviews, but that had slipped his mind?
Clean-shaven was how everyone had recognized him since his first chin hair. When he fell slack at keeping his face tidy, he looked less like a rugged man and more like some wild fiend who resided in a shack. No doubt said shack would be littered with animal carcasses and feces from the barbaric ex-accountant turning feral.
“You haven’t died, have you?” A melodic voice drifted through the shut bathroom door. It wasn’t malicious and it wasn’t cold. It prodded with a gentle joke, but concern lingered in the base note, as if she would force open the door if he didn’t respond.
“No,” Tristan answered, abandoning his attempts at sprucing up. Trying to make himself presentable was clearly a fool’s errand. A tiny voice in the back of his head wondered why he cared. Barry’d seen him in worse states, even the dreaded one-month beard that looked like a felt teddy bear with mange.
Once he was free of this cabin, he could properly shave and shake off the salt-and-pepper hairs obscuring his jaw. No reason to be concerned about his appearance at all.
After rolling the three-day-old shirt over his head and arms, Tristan emerged from the foggy bathroom to find her staring out of the window. She’d fully abandoned the black blazer, and he’d swear her pink blouse grew more see-through with each passing day. While her hair obscured the delicate shoulder blades and the band of her bra, Tristan homed in right on the edge of the black curtain.
The scoop of her back, barely shrouded by the pink silk, looked softer than the fabric gracing it. Dotted right at the top of the waistband, before her trousers flared out at the hips, was a birthmark. How deep did it reach down her backside? What shape was it when she rested on her front? Would it taste as cleansing as the rest of her skin?
“Hey,” Beth called, shaking Tristan to the core.
What was his problem? Had she seen him staring? What excuse could he give? ‘I’m a stay-at-home dermatologist and was concerned about your perfect s-curve.’ Yes, use that one, Harty. That won’t send her shrieking into the snow
y mountains.
“Come see this.” She indicated the window. Tristan had taken a step when a wave of déjà vu swarmed over him. But instead of the impenetrable night, it was a tender sun streaking through passing clouds. And rather than wearing a look of despair at their situation, Beth’s face was bright with joy.
“What is it?” Tristan asked even as he approached to learn for himself. He paused a shoulder brush from her, growing more aware of his clothes washed tight to his skin. Absently, he rubbed his cheek as if that would worry the scruff off.
She didn’t point, didn’t even open her arms, her breaths shallow as if she feared startling something. Slowly, he turned from her to the wintery vista beyond. Two sleek-haired deer sniffed about the fallen snow. “I’ve been watching them,” Beth whispered so the creatures wouldn’t overhear.
Spindly front legs punctured through the snow, trying to dig down to see if there was anything worth eating. All the while, the other deer kept its head up, the ears darting to the sides to pick up any sounds of danger. Both bore a set of antlers, though small and yet growing.
Dipping its nose into the snow, the first deer raked its tongue deep into the drift. When its head emerged, it threw a handful of powdery snow into the air. The pink tongue lagged around, trying to lick up whatever it had found, but it missed the snow perched upon the jet-black nose.
Beth giggled at the image, Tristan smiling as well. “What do you think they’re doing?” she whispered.
“Looking for dead grass, or perhaps there’s some spilled cooking oil out there.”
The second deer joined in once certain the coast was clear, both of them snorting and stomping through the snow’s not-so impenetrable depths. Yesterday’s sun had really worn it down, most of the car already revealed to them. Beth stared at her ride, her forehead crinkling up in what he recognized as concern.
“You don’t think they’d attack the car or anything?”
Why? Planning on leaving already?
Tristan frowned at the accusatory thought as if he could blame her for wishing to return to civilization. Why did he even care if she wanted to go now? He had his own pressing engagements.
As she leaned closer to him, her shoulder grazed right above his heart. “Or does rental insurance cover act of deer?”
A laugh rumbled from Tristan. As he pulled in a breath to speak, he caught her scent. While they’d been forced to share the same unscented soap nub in the shower, a hint of vanilla and jasmine lingered upon her silky skin.
And you sound like that wild-man butcher, Harty.
“I think you’ll be okay. It’s not mating season and deer aren’t known for eating cars.”
That answer seemed to smooth out her worries, but she didn’t step away from him. Her delicate shoulder glanced against his chest with each breath. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Tristan gulped, staring at her radiant face. “Yes, they are.”
Perhaps she heard the unmitigated lust in his voice. Perhaps she sensed that he’d stopped staring at the deer. Beth’s hair fell to the side as she stared up in wonder at him.
Step back. Run. Maintain your distance at all costs.
His brain tried to play the warnings on a loop, but Tristan’s body refused to listen. Raising his hand, he curled his fingers through her tumbled hair. Each silken strand poured through his grasp like a river of tinsel as he guided it safely behind her ear. A tinge of pink burned up her cheeks and her gaze stared deep into his, but she didn’t shift away.
She didn’t step back or run. Instead, she began to move closer, rising upon the tips of her socked feet.
A ringing shattered the air and brought with it common sense, both of them stumbling back a step, staring wildly at anything but each other. Tristan whipped around, his brain insisting that that noise was familiar. “My phone,” he mumbled, piecing it all together.
Stumbling around the cabin like a drunkard, Tristan found his phone resting upon the sofa. He barely had it to his ear before Barry bellowed out, “Kid! Great news!”
“You booked the Stone Kettle?”
“What?” Barry shouted, seemingly thrown by the rather well-known New York bar, or that Tristan was thinking business this early. “No. I finally got through to Parks and whoever owns that damn lodge you’re trapped at. Sounds like, if all goes well, we should be able to get you out of there after noon.”
“Oh…” Tristan’s lips opened, his jaw dangling without a tether as he digested the thought. They could leave. They’d be free of this place, of suffering cold nights, strange meals of ramen and the mind-numbing boredom. Of watching deer frolicking in the snow not even three feet away. Of listening to the crackle of the fire while sharing truths with each other he hadn’t spoken in years. Of feeling her body cupped inside his, fitting perfectly with him.
“So…” Barry prompted.
“That is good news,” Tristan pronounced. “We won’t have missed any deadlines and should be back on track.” He swan-dived back into work, leaving behind the woman by the window. Focus on the path ahead—it will be long and treacherous. Worrying about some foolish, flitting moment won’t help.
“Well, so, see you after lunch,” Barry said.
“Sounds good,” Tristan responded without thought.
“And, kid.” The voice that’d been bellowing suddenly dropped to a whisper. “Keep it in your pants.”
For the love of…
He was about to ream into his manager when the line went dead and the only person who’d overhear was the woman of his interest. No! The reporter interested in me. As a story, interested as a story.
“Good news, it sounds as if the plows will be arriving shortly to free us from our banishment,” Tristan pronounced while sliding the phone into his back pocket. No doubt Barry would keep him updated every step of the way.
“Oh,” Beth whispered curtly as she weighed his words. Was she thinking the same or happy to finally be free of this imprisonment? “How long do we have?”
“Afternoon was what I was told.” Four hours left with Ms. Cho as accompaniment. For the first time since he’d walked into that ambush of an interview, he found himself wishing for a little more time.
She swept her soulful eyes across the deer, who’d begun to move on to the next salt lick. “Well,” she said, striding away from the window, “we should at least eat breakfast.”
A snort erupted from him at her commanding tone. Tristan watched her walk with assured steps to the kitchen. “As you wish,” he whispered to himself before raising his voice. “Pancakes?”
She popped up from bending over the counter, whisk and bowl in hand. “I wouldn’t want anything else.”
* * * *
What have you got?
That was her editor’s response to her announcement that she’d be able to leave soon. It was Sunday to the outside world, which might mean less traffic on her way back to the city. Maybe she’d even make it back home before dark and have time to check in with Madeline, who was none too happy about the sudden silent treatment.
What do I have?
Aside from the strangest weekend of her life spent cursing at, then connecting with a confounding man? Their paths never would have crossed without this assignment, Beth was certain of that. If they hadn’t been trapped by this snow, they’d have both walked away hating each other. And now?
She rubbed a hand up and down her arm, feeling the rise of goosebumps. The fire was on its last legs. No reason to add more wood if they’d be leaving soon. She should be as ecstatic as a prisoner gifted parole, but Beth’s shoulders slumped at the thought. There was a ton to do back home. Like Mads and her cats. Or that succulent Beth had thought was plastic until it started to wilt. Those certainly required attention. Be a shame to miss out on it.
What did she care?
The chat box from work opened up, her editor typing.
Got an angle?
Every time she thought she had him in checkmate, Tristan would completely invert
the board. The Christmas album and his mother’s connection? Maybe. His reaction to returning after half of his old studio was named in the sexual abuse investigations a year back? Not a terrible idea, but he wasn’t much of a piece in that.
How his eyes sparkled when that taciturn shell cracked off. How warm his arms were when circled around her. How gentle and soothing his voice was as he whispered behind her ear.
No, Beth typed, shaking her head to knock the foolish idea away. Was it possible to be poisoned by testosterone, like carbon monoxide? Maybe she’d breathed in too much due to these close quarters and that was why she couldn’t think clearly.
The three bouncing dots shamed her for having failed to strike while the iron was hot. As soon as noon rolled around, it’d be ice cold, Tristan resuming his tour of redemption, she back to the world of glorified blogging.
Give me access and I’ll find it.
It was odd for her editor to be this invested, but Beth couldn’t argue. Logging on, she opened up her cloud service to include her boss, giving him the opportunity to read every note she’d taken on Tristan Harty. There wasn’t much in the TH folder, only snippets and half ideas gathered over the past two days. She skipped past the notes and the single paragraph in a document to the lone picture.
He stood before the tiny stove, one hand raised back, the other thrust out as if he were in a fencing pose. Instead of a rapier, his weapon was the frying pan. The tan blur flying through the air was a pancake he’d flipped right when Beth snapped the pic. The smile upon his lips was infectious, jumping to hers even an hour after she took it.
Huh. She zoomed in on the photo, noticing that the crow’s feet amplified to eleven. So too were the ones framing his lips. They were laugh lines, brought about by the stoic, cold man collapsing into a happy smile when he was safe behind closed doors. She’d assumed they were from the frown, but no. These deep ruts matched a soul that found joy when it could, the exact opposite of who she’d first met all of two days back.
