“I don't mean to sound rude or anything, but what are you?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you some crazy, backwoods paranoid type that I should be concerned about?” I ask. “I mean, that's a lot of guns. I don't know anybody who has that many guns.”
He gives me a wry little grin. “No offense, but you don't actually know that you don't right now.”
I feel my cheeks flush. “No, I guess not,” I say. “It just doesn't seem – normal – to me, I guess.”
Grant runs a hand through his beard and laughs. He looks away, then turns back to me with a strange look on his face.
“You're the one being followed by guys in black cars, and you're worried about me?” he asks, a tone of incredulity in his voice. “Maybe I should be asking you who you are?”
“I don't remember, remember?” I say, smiling slightly. “The question still stands though.”
“Former Marine,” he says, as if that explains it all.
Hell, maybe it does. I nod and look down at my hands again.
“Explains the arsenal of weapons, I suppose,” I say. “And your need to double and triple check all of the doors and windows.”
“Can never be too safe,” he says, and then adds pointedly, “especially since we don't know who's out there, or why they're following you.”
“I appreciate that,” I say.
I'm suddenly deeply exhausted. It hit me all at once, crashing down over me like a wave and my head is spinning. Maybe it's the meds, but I've been through a lot and maybe I just need a solid eight or nine hours of sleep in a bed that isn't in a hospital. A bed where I can get some actual rest.
It's just starting to get dark outside. It feels pretty damn early for bed, but I'm not sure what else there is to do. Grant sits down in a chair across from me. He looks at me, his face completely blank and emotionless – like he’s wearing a mask. One that fits so perfectly, you couldn't even catch a glimpse of the real man beneath it.
“What do you do for a living?” I ask, trying to make small talk.
“I'm retired,” he says.
“Retired? How old are you?” I ask, chuckling.
“Thirty-four.”
“And you're already retired?” I ask, arching an eyebrow at him.
His lips pull back into a grin, and he shrugs. “What can I say? I managed to do well and put enough money back to live comfortably out here,” he says. “Decided I no longer needed to deal with the nine-to-five bullshit.”
“What did you do?”
I curl my legs up into me, resting my head on the arm of the couch. My eyes feel heavy with sleep already. I'm fighting it, but I know my weariness is going to win. Probably a lot sooner than later.
His smile falls. “I owned my own business.”
“Doing what?” I ask.
“You sure ask a lot of questions,” he says.
“I just want to know a little bit about the man I'm staying with. Is that so bad?” I ask.
“No, I guess not,” he says, averting his gaze. “I just don't like talking about myself.”
“Well it's not like we can talk about me,” I tease, trying to lighten the sudden thunderhead of tension that's settled over the room.
A moment passes in silence. As I sit there, my eyes feel heavy, and they flutter closed briefly. When I open them, I catch Grant staring at me with an unexpectedly sweet look on his face. He's watching me as I drift off to sleep, his eyes soft and gentle, his entire body relaxed. I wonder how someone as attractive as him can still be single – it's something I want to ask him about. But that feels like too personal of a question, so I bite it back, thinking it’s better to keep it to myself.
“Maybe you should get some sleep,” he says.
The sun has set, and darkness has finally enveloped the world outside, at least. While it's still early, at least it's not daytime. That makes me feel a little better. I can probably go to sleep without too much guilt. My stomach has other ideas though. The silence is pierced by a loud, hungry growl. I laugh it off, feeling my cheeks burn, and Grant shoots me a cockeyed smile.
“I guess dinner then bed, huh?” he says.
“Do you have anything to eat?” I ask shyly. I’ve eaten nothing but hospital food for days. I want something real.
“Of course,” he says, standing up and walking into the kitchen. “I'm not a complete – what was it again? Oh yeah, a crazy backwoods type. I do actually stock food, and not just guns. I'm not a complete savage, you know.”
I look down. “Yeah, I'm sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean to offend you.”
“It's fine,” he says gently. I can almost hear the laughter in his voice. “I'm just teasing you.”
I turn on the couch, so I can watch him head into the kitchen. His jeans hug his ass tightly, and when he bends over to get something out of the fridge, I bite my lip and nearly gasp as I notice, for the first time, just how nice of an ass it is. When he turns back around, I try to pretend I'm not looking, but it's too late. He catches me. He grins and shakes his head, chuckling.
“I can warm up some leftover meatloaf, unless you'd rather have something else,” he says. “I can whip up some eggs, or a pork chop, maybe?”
“Meatloaf sounds perfect,” I say, trying not to blush too much. “Thank you.”
He caught me staring, and I know it. But he's got the decency to not embarrass me by saying anything about it. The grin on his face is bigger than before, though, as he sets everything on plates, and then pops them into the microwave. A few minutes later, he brings out two plates heaped with meatloaf and potatoes and sets them down on the coffee table.
“My mother's old recipe,” he says with a playful wink.
“A man who can cook,” I say, suddenly feeling ravenous, as I take a big bite and pop it into my mouth. “In addition to saving my life, then protecting me from some creep following me, you can cook up a storm. Is there anything you can't do, Grant?”
“I'm sure there is,” he teases, “but I've yet to discover it.”
After dinner, my body is somehow even more tired than before. Grant cleans up as I prepare for bed. Without having anything to my name, I'm not sure what to do about clothes. As if understanding the situation and reading my mind, Grant hands me one of his t-shirts, and I shut the door to change. When I’ve got the shirt on, which is dark gray and hangs down to my knees, I open the door and he takes my clothes to toss them in the washing machine. He takes care of everything, says goodnight, and then leaves me alone in his bedroom.
His bedroom is nice. A king-sized bed in what appears to be a handmade wooden bed frame sits against the wall. It's fixed up with red and green flannel sheets and a hunter green down comforter. It looks softer than a cloud. When I lay down in the bed and my head hits the pillow, I'm instantly cozy and warm. Even though I'm in a complete stranger's home, I feel safe.
I close my eyes and try not to think about my memories. It's difficult, as my mind wants to keep reliving the few bits and pieces I do remember, but the feeling of warmth envelops me, and I quickly fall into a deep and peaceful sleep.
Chapter Five
Grant
I stare up at my living room ceiling for what feels like an eternity. At one point I got up and switched Celeste’s clothes to the dryer. If I slept, it wasn't for long. The sun is coming up over the mountains in the distance, so I know it's early before I even look up at the clock. The house is mostly silent, but I hear some movement from the bedroom. Celeste is already up. I'm not sure if she's an early riser, or if she's just up to use the restroom. Hard to tell. I don't want to bother her, thinking she may need some time alone, or may just be going back to sleep.
While I’m lost in thought, the bedroom door opens, and when I sit up, I see that she's in one of my old sweatshirts from college. The sleeves are far too long for her. They fall all the way down her arms and cover her hands. The sweatshirt hangs all the way down to her knees, nearly swallowing up her petite frame whole. She walks over
to retrieve her clothes from the dryer.
I can't help but smile in amusement. Her black hair is damp and falls around her shoulders, and her eyes look wider than usual. They're even more blue than the Colorado skies in September.
After retreating to the room to put her jeans from yesterday back on, she comes back out and walks toward the front door, not even glancing at me, a determined look painted upon on her face.
“Where are you going?” I ask, running a hand through my hair, suddenly overcome by the need to look somewhat presentable.
“I need to go back to where I was found,” she says.
“Why?” I ask.
“To see if I remember anything else,” she says. “I had some flashbacks when we were out there yesterday. Maybe I'll have more.”
“Do you think that's a good idea?” I ask.
“Do you have any better ones?” she says, throwing her hands in the air, exasperation in her tone. “Because I'm tired of not knowing anything about myself or what happened to me out there, Grant.”
I sigh and stand.
“You're not going to convince me otherwise,” she says. “I need to do this.”
“Did I say anything about stopping you?” I ask. “But I'm not letting you go out there on your own.”
“Y – you're not?”
I just stare at her a moment. “You don't even know exactly where I found you,” I say. “If I let you go wandering around out there, you'll get lost forever. Besides, it’s cold out there. You’ll need a coat.”
“Oh,” she says, a sheepish look on her face. “Right.”
I look down at myself and realize I'd slept in my boxers and a t-shirt. My jeans are nearby, and I grab them, throwing them on quickly while she does her very best to not to look at me. It's not like I didn't notice her checking out my ass the night before. If it wasn't for her whole – situation, I'd have taken advantage of that. She's beautiful, and God, it’s been a long time since I've been with someone. Being out here has a lot of advantages, but the dating scene isn't one of them. It's rare that I come across anyone, much less a beautiful woman like her.
Once I'm dressed and ready, I offer Celeste one of my coats. Of course, it’s far too big for her, but it should keep her warm. We head outside, and the air is chillier than it was before. Celeste pulls the coat in tighter to her body. I'm not sure if she's shivering from the cold or because of what we're about to do. I ask if she still wants to do this.
She shakes her head. “I'm okay. Just a little nervous, that's all.”
“I understand,” I say. “It's a little bit of a walk. Are you sure you're feeling up to it?”
She nods. We walk off the safety of the walkway and into the forest surrounding my cabin. Most of the leaves have fallen already. Only a few stubborn ones still cling to the branches. Winter will be here before I know it. The sky is gray and overcast, creating a deeper darkness around us. The silence of the morning is almost eerie. The only sounds are of our footsteps crunching through the undergrowth. Each step smashes leaves, and breaks sticks under our feet, echoing loudly around us.
Celeste stares straight ahead, then encourages me to walk in front of her. “Lead the way,” she says. “If you remember where you found me, that is.”
“Oh, I remember,” I say.
I don't think I'll ever forget, actually.
I don't walk too far in front of her, preferring to keep her next to me where I can see her. I'm not sure why, but I feel safer with her beside me or in front of me. It's almost like I need to keep track of her. Probably because I do feel the need to protect her, even if I have no clue what I'm protecting her from.
It's a pretty long walk, but Celeste manages to keep up just fine. We don't make much small talk since she seems focused on paying attention to her surroundings. Her gaze is determined and steely, and I can see her racking her brain. I keep my attention on where we're going, watching for any clues myself. The police had already scoured the area, but in case they missed something, I figure it can't hurt to look anyway. Better safe than sorry. It's not like they don't miss things.
Celeste says she remembers driving, but no car was ever found. Nothing was found. Even the best criminals often left some trace. Not these guys, at least not yet. One good thing about going back to the scene: it allows me to take a look. Maybe I can find something that was missed. One can hope, right?
“How much further?” she asks.
“Not too much,” I say, motioning to the right, where there's a steep hill alongside the road. “This is about where I called for help.”
She looks up to the top of the hill, stopping and staring for a long moment. Her brow is furrowed as she takes everything in carefully, and I watch her study the environment for a long second, obviously contemplating something.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she sighs, frustrated. “Absolutely nothing.”
“It's okay. Let's keep going,” I say softly.
She walks a few steps behind me, and I make sure to walk slowly enough that she doesn't feel rushed. She stops again, this time within a few feet of where I actually found her. I turn and see her standing there, staring at the ground, her blue eyes impossibly wide.
“What?” I ask.
“I –” she stutters and then bites off her words.
Celeste looks frantically around the area before taking off, running up toward the road. Hot on her heels, I follow her. She can't run faster than me, thankfully. She stops just as she gets to the road itself. I reach my hand out softly to touch her arm. She turns around.
“What is it, Celeste?” I ask. “Do you remember something?”
Tears well up in her eyes and her lower lip trembles. I wrap my arms around her and pull her close, letting her sob into my shoulder. She doesn't say anything. She just sobs, her entire body shaking in fear. I hold her up as her legs begin to give out.
I have my answer. She remembers something. I'm not sure what, but it’s almost certainly something bad. Something traumatic. Whatever it is, it must scare her to death.
* * *
We're back at the cabin, and she still hasn't said a word. And I haven't forced her to. I want her to take her time to process it all before she opens up. This is her story to tell, and I want her to do it in her way, on her time.
I hand her a mug of hot tea. She takes it in her hands gingerly and takes a sip before putting it down on the coffee table in front of her. We’re sitting so close to each other that our legs touch. She leans into me, seeking comfort, and I put an arm around her. She reminds me of a scared child, and while I'd never had children, I can't help but feel the need to protect her like a parent would do for their own.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
She doesn't say anything at first, but eventually she shakes her head.
“There's not much to talk about. I just can't put it into words yet,” she says.
She closes her eyes, still pressed up against me, and remains quiet for a while. She's so quiet and still, I suspect maybe she's fallen asleep. Then she sighs and continues talking.
“Someone pushed me, that's all I know,” she says softly. “A man. I saw him briefly before I went falling down the hill. I remember my body hitting rocks and trees and my shoes coming off. I remember crying out in pain. Every part of me hurt. I was sure I was going to die. After that – he came after me. He cleaned out my pockets as I lay there, begging him for help. At least that's what I think happened – that's the memory I see when I close my eyes.”
“Do you recognize the man?”
She shakes her head. “He knew me though,” she says. “I heard him say he was sorry, but that's it – and I don't think he was alone.”
“Did you see anyone else with him?”
She hesitates, but then says, “No. That's all I remember,” she says through gritted teeth. “I can't remember anything else.”
“It's a good sign though,” I say encouragingly. “It means your memories are still there,
that they may return over time.”
“Maybe so,” she says. “But until then, what am I supposed to do?”
She lifts her head and stares deep into my eyes. A searing pain shoots through my heart at the look on her face. Her blue eyes are so clear. Even red and puffy, and with tears still falling from them, they're piercing. Beautiful. Her smooth, cool skin is as pale as the snow on the Rockies, and I know it's not just from her being sick or hurt. Celeste's dark hair only makes her look paler, more fragile. More delicate. She bites her lower lip, and I watch every movement of her face as if trying to memorize her features.
She's just so beautiful. I'm stunned to find that it hurts me to see her like this. As I stare into those bottomless blue eyes, I find that I want to comfort her. I want to know more about her. Who is she? Where is she from? She seems so kind, so sweet, and I want to get to know the woman she is – but Celeste doesn't even know who she is.
This is everything I've wanted to avoid – and yet, I’ve found myself embracing it anyway.
“Thank you, Grant,” she says, leaning so close to my face that her lips brush my cheek gently. “Thank you for everything.”
She tilts her face back, staring deep into my eyes. Her pouty, pink lips are just begging to be kissed, and I get the feeling that's exactly what she wants me to do. What I wouldn't do to make this woman happy – but I stop myself from acting on my carnal impulses. She's vulnerable. She's not in a good place, and the last thing she needs is me making a move on her.
Celeste leans closer to me, and this time, instead of my cheek, her lips brush against mine. She kisses me softly, sending a jolt of electricity shooting through my body. The taste of her lips brings out something in me, and my hands move toward the back of her head. I gently pull her closer to me, pressing her lips harder to mine, and kiss her deeply. Her mouth opens as she gasps, accepting my tongue between her lips. For a second, we are both lost in the moment, and nothing else matters but her mouth on mine.
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