Blue Moon (Blue Mountain Book 2)

by Tess Thompson

  To my dismay, his shirt clung to his torso in all the right places, revealing muscular shoulders and back. I wanted to press my face against the middle of his back where the shirt crinkled just above his tailbone. I should tell Henry about waffle material, I thought. Henry should wear one of the waffle shirts in front of Mrs. Pennington. I made a mental note to order him a couple and have them delivered to Moonstone’s.

  To distract my twitchy hands, I rubbed my thumb against the boxer shorts he’d thrown me. Soft, probably made of some expensive silk blend. What did these boxers look like on him? An image of my hands moving up his thighs to tug them off came to me in a sudden flash. Teasing him with my fingertips. Making him beg me to keep going.

  “Hey, you still with us?” Ciaran held a pair of swim trunks in his hands, staring at me with obvious amusement.

  I blinked and cleared my throat, as I flushed what I’m sure was a shade away from fuchsia. “Yeah. Where should I change?”

  “Change here.” He put up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Don’t say it. I’m leaving. I’ll change downstairs. Just come on down when you’re ready.”

  I followed him to the bedroom door, closing it firmly behind him, and listened until I could no longer hear his footsteps. After peeling off my sweater and the undershirt, I stood for a moment in my bra. Should I take it off? If I did, it would be my own wet T-shirt contest for sure. If I kept it on, it wouldn’t be very comfortable. Leave it off, I decided. I’d just slip into the hot tub quickly and stay submerged. Good plan. I unclasped my bra, bringing it to my nose to make sure I hadn’t perspired to the point of stinking, but it smelled of my perfume and body lotion. Apparently, I hadn’t sweated too profusely during my entanglement with the great outdoors.

  Realizing I needed to use the toilet, I went into the bathroom, which was only slightly smaller than the size of my bedroom, with marble floor and granite tiles, high ceiling with a skylight. Large soaking tub set high with five rectangular windows that displayed the view of Blue Mountain. The room housed a shower with traditional twin showerheads on both sides, plus a large, round one in the middle with a dozen or so holes and six nozzles hung horizontally so that water came from every angle spraying all parts of a body like I’d seen at spas. Two could shower at once quite easily, I thought, with a shiver. A bench ran across the back, perfect for shaving legs, or other things, which I didn’t allow myself to think about now.

  The bathroom was clean, thankfully, but as untidy as the bedroom. A can of shaving cream without its cap in perfect unison with a tube of topless toothpaste on one side of the double sink, the other with a bottle of cologne on its side and an unplugged electric toothbrush. I held the shaving cream can to my nose; it smelled of Ciaran’s face. Then I picked up the cologne and sniffed, closing my eyes to the intoxicating smell that was Ciaran’s neck. Get a grip, I told myself, setting it aside, and looking around the rest of the bathroom. A towel lay crumpled like a toddler after a day at the zoo on the floor near the heating vent while the chrome hangers remained empty. Several Sports Illustrated magazines, opened to pages crinkled from water (did he read in the bathtub?) cascaded from the back of the toilet. The toilet seat was up; splashes of urine speckled the rim. Think about that, I told myself, when lustful thoughts come to you in the hot tub. He’s messy. His toilet has pee spots. After putting the seat down and emptying my bladder, I tugged off my ski pants and used the last three sheets from the roll of toilet paper to wipe. After washing my hands, I plugged the toothbrush into an outlet between the two sinks, righted the cologne and put the caps on the toothpaste and shaving cream.

  I looked at my bare torso in the mirror. My breasts were not bad for a woman of almost forty. Gravity and my lack of children had been kind to them. Blythe had told me hers were a mess after nursing two children. That said, although perky, mine were barely a B-cup, which for my tall and medium-boned frame appeared quite small. I had long, trim legs. I could be grateful for that, I supposed, as I pinched the skin at my waist. Not exactly a perfectly flat stomach like Ciaran’s little actress in that tiny bikini. Damn those cookies at the office. I took off my pants and looked at myself from the back. My black thong underwear left little to the imagination, including a few dimples on my rather round butt cheeks that I’d rather not have. Why did I look so much better in clothes? Ciaran would surely be disappointed if he saw me naked.

  I dismissed these thoughts. He was not going to see me naked. Absolutely not. I had to put all this kissing to a stop as well. We should be friends. We were practically siblings, for heaven’s sake. I peered into the mirror, leaning over the sink for a closer look, and examined my skin. Hardly any sign of wrinkles. I could thank the fact that I barely came out of the office for that. I guess it hadn’t all been in vain. My eyeliner had smudged. All that rigorous exercise wreaked havoc on a girl’s makeup. Taking a tissue from the box on the floor next to the fallen towel, I swiped under each eye. What would I look like after sitting in the hot tub with snow falling into my face? “Never mind,” I whispered out loud. “Just have fun.”

  I remembered the empty toilet paper holder then, and decided I better replenish it in case I needed it later. Without much hope of finding any, I opened the cupboard under the sink. To my surprise, a dozen rolls were stacked neatly on the far left-hand side. I leaned down to get one and what I saw made me gasp. Toward the back of the cupboard, behind the drainpipes, was a shotgun. At least I assumed it was a shotgun. It was long and black. An image of a panther came to mind. Why did Ciaran have a gun in the bathroom? Is this how they did things in Idaho? But why was it in the bathroom next to rolls of toilet paper?

  I went back to the bedroom, leaving my clothes on the bed. For some reason I couldn’t explain, I went to the right-side bedside table and opened the drawer, slowly in case it squeaked. I needn’t have worried. It was one of those expensive sliders that felt like opening a silk handkerchief. The drawer was empty. Committed now to my treachery, I went to the other and opened it, this time with little regard for sound. A handgun, made of dull black metal with tiny ridges on the handle, rested on top of a book of Mary Oliver poems. The juxtaposition of these two things duly noted, I closed the drawer.

  Slightly shaken by my discovery of two guns within ten feet of one another, I dressed in the boxers and T-shirt, having forgotten my worry over whether or not to wear a bra. Owning guns is not that odd, I assured myself, as I descended the spiral staircase. People in the country owned guns. There were bears and cougars and other dangerous creatures. But a handgun by your bed? It seemed out of character for playboy Ciaran. He certainly did not seem like the gun type. Not that there was a type, I supposed. People from all sectors of society owned guns for a variety of reasons. Gun for political reasons, for sport and hunting, and for safety. Which of these were the reasons Ciaran owned them? I thought of the tracks again. Ciaran had seemed distinctly unsettled, even afraid. Was there a reason for this? Was he afraid of something, or someone?

  Ciaran was downstairs by the glass doors dressed in nothing but his swim trunks, holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and two plastic glasses in the other. Outside on the patio, he’d shoveled a path to the hot tub. I sighed, resigned that I was clearly out of my mind. Red wine and a hot tub with Ciaran? I was doomed.

  Chapter 16

  HE WAS RIGHT about one thing. Snowflakes falling while your body was submerged in hot, swirling water? Perfection. Ciaran and I sat across from one another, our glasses resting in cup holders built into the sides of the tub. Neither of us spoke for some time, seemingly in agreement that the setting required no conversation. Sinking down until my neck was covered by the water, I watched him, letting the flakes fall on my face. Ciaran sat with his shoulders above the water, occasionally sipping from his glass of wine. His eyes darted around the yard from time to time in a way that made me wonder if he was worried about an intruder, thinking of the footsteps we’d seen earlier.

  “You ever get scared out
here all by yourself?” I asked.

  One shoulder came up and down in a shrug. “I have an alarm on the house.”

  “What about when you’re out here?”

  He picked up his glass, shaking his head. “I don’t come out at night for the most part.”

  “Bears?”

  “Sure.” Flakes of snow settled on his thick, brown hair, then melted almost immediately from the steam, to be replaced immediately by more. Why did I have the feeling he was lying? It wasn’t bears that had him frightened.

  “Do you have guns?” I asked, keeping my voice light.

  “Everyone has guns in Idaho.”

  “For the bears?” I asked. “And other critters?”

  “Right.”

  I sighed with contentment, moving my hands under the water, feeling warm and relaxed, both from the tub and his answer. Of course that’s why he had guns, I assured myself. Bears and other critters. Just to be safe. He wasn’t in danger.

  I looked up to see him staring at me. “Why did you ask that?”

  “No reason,” I said.

  He set his glass into the cup holder, rising slightly from the tub, his skin pink from the hot water. Perching on the side with only his legs in the water, he slicked wet fingers through his hair. Creases I hadn’t noticed before lined his forehead. He seemed to be considering whether he should say something or not.

  “What is it?” A chill ran up my spine. I felt my skin turn to goose bumps in the hot water. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Those tracks in the snow made you nervous, didn’t they?”

  “It’s probably nothing.”

  “Probably?”

  “It makes no sense, but sometimes I just get these feelings—like darkness—like I won’t be alive much longer.”

  Something clicked in my head just then. “Do you think it’s because your brother Finn was murdered? Has it made you fearful the same thing could happen to you?”

  “No, it’s not that. I’ve felt like this since I graduated from college. I’m certain someone’s trying to harm me.”

  “What do you mean by harm?”

  “Serious harm. Like death.”

  “Like someone’s trying to kill you?” I asked.

  “I know it sounds crazy. But I’ve had several near-death experiences in the last year alone.”

  “Several?”

  He spoke with reluctance, the way you do when you know if you say something out loud it will seem more real. When you keep it to yourself, you can remain in denial. “There was a fire in the cottage where I was staying in the south of France last spring. The entire place burned to the ground. The authorities thought it was intentionally set. I would have been killed if I hadn’t been staying over at a friend’s house that night.” A friend? A woman, I had no doubt. I tried to ignore the pang of jealousy that shot through my middle as he continued. “In New York City last summer, after seeing a play, I stepped onto the crosswalk—it was a green light for pedestrians—and all of a sudden this car pulls out from in front of the theatre, headed straight for me. I froze in the middle of the street, watching like it was slow motion or something. If the person behind me hadn’t grabbed the collar of my jacket and pulled me back, I would have been killed. There have been other incidents I can’t explain, but they weren’t as obvious as the ones I described. At least one a year.”

  “When did you say it started?”

  “It started in my early twenties. I think.”

  “Is this why you’re afraid to make commitments?” I thought of his empty house.

  “Maybe.”

  “Why would you build the house, then? If you think you won’t be here to enjoy it. Why not just stay at your brothers’ homes?”

  “Because it’s ridiculous to live your life like you could die tomorrow.”

  “Who would want to kill you?” I thought immediately of jealous husbands and boyfriends of the women he bedded. “Who have you made angry enough to want you dead?”

  He slipped into the water. The noise of the bubbles seemed louder, more pronounced, in his silence. “I do not sleep with other men’s women, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  How had he known that was what I was thinking? “I didn’t say anything of the sort.”

  Smiling, he picked up his glass and took another sip. “You should not take up professional poker for a second career.”

  Ignoring him, I continued. “Most crimes are crimes of passion, you know.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “That right?”

  “In novels, anyway.” I paused, looking up at the sky. The flakes continued to fall. A few landed in my lashes. “Are there any women you’ve hurt, you know, who’ve fallen in love with you only to be dumped?”

  “I don’t dump women. They know when they get involved with me that I’m not the relationship kind. They know the score before we sleep together. They’re women like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “Yes.” Using his fingers, as if counting off items for a grocery list, he rattled off four qualities. “Independent. Highly intelligent. Don’t need or want a man for anything other than a physical relationship. Purposely stay clear of romantic entanglements.”

  “Is that how you see me?”

  “Am I incorrect?” His eyes glittered, watching me. There was a quality in his voice I hadn’t heard before. What was it exactly? I had a sudden image of a day trip I’d done for an executive retreat. We’d all gone out on a fishing boat in the San Diego bay, and I’d watched as one of my team members pulled in a fish. Was he fishing for something? A confession of sorts? What did he want the answer to be?

  “I suppose,” I said.

  “I understand the first three.” Again he held up his fingers. “But the fourth perplexes me. Why do you stay away from romantic entanglements?”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, thinking. “It wasn’t purposeful, exactly. I wanted a career. I didn’t see how to have a relationship, a husband, and be as ambitious as I wanted to be. I’ve lived in almost a dozen places since I left business school and spent a lot of time on the road. No offense to your gender, but most men couldn’t deal with that. Plus, Blythe and her first marriage certainly confirmed that women have to give up half of who they are in order to accommodate a man. She practically disappeared when she was married to him.”

  “Do you think that’s every marriage? That someone loses themselves to accommodate the stronger personality?”

  I shrugged. “No. I think your brother and my sister are a good match. Evenly matched.”

  “Do you think you’ll feel differently about marriage now? For yourself? In this new chapter?”

  “You mean since I got canned, knocked myself senseless, and decided to come to Idaho?”

  He laughed. “Precisely.”

  I looked up the sky, never tiring of watching the flakes fall, the way they seemed to come down in straight lines until they were right above you. “I like to make my own decisions. I’m not sure I could ever adjust to being someone’s wife. I can’t imagine spending my life with just one person, having to compromise to make it work, not being able to do what I want, when want.”

  “We’ve already established you don’t have fun. What do you do?”

  “Binge-watch Netflix shows, eat salted-caramel ice cream, read, do yoga, spend whatever I want at Nordstrom. Work. I like my independence. Anyway, it’s too late for me now.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m forty next month. Everyone knows women over forty are more likely to get hit by lightening than get married.”

  “That can’t possibly be true. Look at Blythe and Kevan.”

  “Blythe’s special.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” he said.

  I turned my gaze to him. He held his wine glass just above the water, his gaze down, as if studying the b
ottom of the pool. “What about you? What’s your real reason for avoiding romantic entanglements?”

  “I’m unable to commit to anything long-term. But I’m careful not to break anyone’s heart. I did it once. I’ll never do it again.”

  “When?”

  “College. Willa Fletcher.” A look of pain crossed his face.

  Suddenly overheated, I rose from the water to sit on the ledge, steam rising from my body, the T-shirt clinging to me. “What happened?”

  He splashed water on his cheeks, like a little boy washing his face. “I dated her my junior year of college. Pretty shortly into the relationship, I realized she was unbalanced to the point of being obsessive.”

  “Obsessive?”

  “About me, to be precise. We were in college. I wasn’t mature enough to want something serious. Two months in, she started hinting about getting married. I liked her, but I knew I didn’t want to marry her. So I ended things, thinking it would be for the best. But she started following me around campus, waiting for me after classes. One night I came home from a party and she was in my bed at the frat house. Naked.”

  Of course he was in a fraternity. Came home from a party and not the library. “What did you do?”

  “I insisted she get dressed, telling her in no uncertain terms that if she didn’t leave me alone I would report her to the campus authorities. The minute I said it, I realized I had made things worse. She started crying, asking if it was because she was fat.” He made a face like he was perplexed. “I don’t know why women who are not even close to fat think they are. Let me tell you a secret. Men are not nearly as critical of your appearance as you are about yourselves.”