by Holly Ryan
Snow has built up in the driveway. It’s at least five or six inches now and already covering the bottoms of my car doors. I clutch the cup tighter. I do not want to drive home in this. Beyond that, I actually don’t know if I can. Call me a wimp if you want to, but I’ve had too many close calls in the snow and ice to not be freaked about it.
That’s what I have to tell him. I look up at Cohen. “I don’t know if I can.”
He appears confused. He looks back out the windows, then back to me once more. “It is a lot of snow. You want to stay here?”
I don’t know what I want. How can I stay here? I have nothing but what I brought with me in my purse, which is only a few of the barest essentials. I don’t even have anything to wear to bed. I might have a toothbrush, which, along with that razor, is one of the essentials of dancing. Still, I think as I watch that evil white fluff fully engulf my car, there’s no way I can do this. Do that. All that’s going on out there? Nope. I can’t do it.
“I don’t know,” I answer, my mouth growing dry. “Can I?”
“Well, I guess if you need to. Of course you can.”
I’m learning a lot about Cohen. For instance, that he can be hard to read. A lot of times he’s honest and playful, almost flirty with me; but other times, when it comes to important things, like our financial arrangement or me staying the night at his place, he keeps himself tucked away, and I can’t tell whether he’s pleased or displeased or completely indifferent. Maybe it’s the businessman in him.
Sensing my hesitation, he repeats, “Of course you can stay here.” He sets his mug down on a nearby side table. He silently offers to take mine, and I hand it over. “Come with me. I’ll get you set up.”
“Thanks,” I say as I follow closely. “You probably think I’m strange, but I’ve just had bad experiences in the snow.”
He gives me a cocky grin over his shoulder. “We’re both strange, then.”
Cohen gives me a mini tour of his home. It’s miniature because there’s no way he could have shown me to every room without it taking about an hour. I count thirteen rooms, each just as elaborately decorated and immaculate as the last, before he stops at a closed door.
He pushes on the brass doorknob and holds the door open for me. “Here we go,” he says.
I walk past him and then stop, my head scanning the beautiful setup. In this room sits a king-sized bed that’s graced by a tall, pillared bedframe. That bed faces a tall, white marble fireplace, and on top of that mantle is a huge flat-screen TV. The floor is dark hardwood, and there’s an oversized rug positioned underneath the bed.
I move to the other end of the room. Cohen follows. In this corner is another door, one that wasn’t visible when we first came in. I open it to find a full bathroom. The shower mimics the bright white marble of the fireplace, and behind the glass are several gigantic shower heads. Everything is squeaky clean.
“Are you serious?”
Cohen comes up behind me, smiling. “It’s all yours.”
I turn around, positive he can spot my look of appreciation.
“For tonight, at least.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Cohen. This really helps me. Like I said, I have this… funny thing with driving in snow.”
“I can tell.” He rocks back on his heels. “Anyway,” he moves away, disappearing out the door for only a moment. When he returns, he’s carrying a pile of crisp, white towels. “Here’s some fresh towels, just in case there aren’t any in the linen closet.” He pauses and I take the towels from him. “I didn’t realize it until just now, but I haven’t had any guests in a long time.”
It feels like he’s waiting for me to say something. I set the towels next to the sink.
He continues, “So I’m sorry if anything’s missing.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I look around, finally noticing the chandelier above me. It’s almost as big as the one in the entryway downstairs. “How could I not be?”
“I’ll bring you some extra clothes, then. A tee shirt or something for you to sleep in.”
I smile at him. “That would be great.”
With that, he leaves me again. I make my way back into the bedroom, and I look up here, too, taking in the incredibly high ceiling. There’s no chandelier here like there was in the bathroom. Instead, there’s a ceiling fan. I walk to the group of switches by the door and flick them up and down, trying them out to see which ones control what. When I find the one that controls the fan, it begins to spin and whir, and its blades move massive, refreshing amounts of cool air.
I take a deep breath as the air spins around me. The breeze invades me and I close my eyes, feeling rejuvenated at the newness of this all already. A free night in a mansion, alone with Cohen Thatcher might just be better than any vacation.
Although truthfully, the biggest reason I feel such a load lifted from me is the fact that I’m no longer attached to that side job of mine. Stripping takes a lot out of you, and I’m just glad I managed to get out before it took everything. Even if that does mean money will be tight for a while.
Cohen reappears, pulling my attention back to reality and to him. “Here you go.” He sets a folded pair of clothes down at the foot of the bed.
I reach out for them, ready to lift them up and examine them superficially. In doing so, my hand brushes against his in the briefest of moments. We both pause. The skin of his hand is warm, much warmer than my always-cold hands, but it’s incredibly rough. I always thought you could tell a lot about people by their hands, and Cohen’s tell me he’s a man who hasn’t always had it so easy in life.
He looks at me as I look at him, our eye locking, and then he pulls away and walks back to the door.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” he says with one of those hands on the doorknob. “I’ll be just down the hall.”
He leaves, pulling the door closed behind him.
I brush my fingertips across what he’s left me – a comfy, oversized gray tee shirt and a pair of workout pants, no doubt both of which are his. I should pick up the pants in this moment, hold them against me to see if there’s any chance that they might fit, but I don’t.
I didn’t even have a chance to thank him one more time.
I get over it pretty quickly.
I’m spending the night in the guy’s house, after all – sorry, not house… mansion – and he’ll be here when I wake up in the morning.
At least, he should be. That would be the case with any other normal person, but we’re talking about Cohen Thatcher here, a man of many mysteries, and we’re also talking about me. And by now, I know better than to assume.
I try not to assume things about anyone to lessen my chances of being taken by surprise. Cohen is a multi-millionaire businessman, I’m sure he could have super important work to attend to. Maybe he’ll be called in and won’t be here in the morning. It’s possible.
In the bathroom, I pull off my clothes and undo my bra. I’ve moved my Uggs to the side, lining them up against the wall, and I uncurl my fingers. I look into my hand at the shiny silver switchblade that I just pulled out of my sock. I unfold it and carefully touch my finger to the blade, testing its sharpness. It’s sharp alright. I’m pretty sure I could use this as a razor right now, if I really wanted to. The fact that it’s sharp as a razor doesn’t surprise me, either; I’m good about taking care of it and keeping it in its best shape.
I snap the blade closed and then slip it down into my Uggs, making sure it’s pushed all the way in at the toe so it’s completely concealed.
Then I run some water over my face and slip on Cohen’s tee shirt. The henley fabric is cool and soft, and I give myself a soothing hug before climbing into bed.
This is the life, I think as the cold silk sheets slide over my bare legs, eventually covering my panties and lower back in similar coolness when I roll onto my stomach.
The bed is so comfortable that before I even know what hit me, I’m fast asleep.
<
br /> It isn’t long after I’ve drifted off that I’m awakened by a noise.
I sit up, the now-warm silk sheets sliding off the top half of me. I hold my breath so I can listen into the darkness. I could have sworn I heard something in my sleep – and surely something must have woken me, right? – but now I’m not so sure it was anything real. Maybe it was a dream.
I’m about to settle back into the comfort of sleep when I hear something again. It’s a loud moan, deep and nonsensical, and it only lasts for a split second before it’s gone.
I sit up again, this time quickly with my hands holding the bed on either side of me.
What the hell was that? It sounded like it came from outside my door, from somewhere in the hall.
I grab my phone off the bedside table. I don’t have my charger with me, so it only has forty percent left, but so be it. I need this thing right now.
I click on the phone’s flashlight and the room is instantly lit up. I take a quick swipe around with the phone. Nothing is out of the ordinary in here, so that means I was right. It must have come from out there, somewhere in the hall.
I pull down on the doorknob and peer out into the hall. I look both ways but see nothing. It’s empty, but I’m surprised to find that it’s not pitch black. It’s very lightly lit by a few small lights here and there that Cohen must have left on.
Still needing the light from my phone, I venture out. I wrap one arm around myself. It’s chilly out here, almost as if there’s a window open somewhere nearby, but I can’t see one.
I think I hear another sound, this time coming from opposite the direction I’m heading. It was a creaking sound. I turn, flashing my light in the general direction, but there’s nothing there.
Great. Just great. Moans and creaks in the middle of the night in this dim, chilly, old unfamiliar mansion. What the fuck is next?
Whether or not that creak was just my mind playing tricks on me, there’s no way I can go back to sleep now without discovering the source of those moans, which I now know for a fact that I heard.
Quickly, I try to remember – did Cohen say anyone else was staying here? No, he simply said he hasn’t had guests in a long time. Still, does that mean he lives alone? Just because he didn’t introduce me to anyone, doesn’t mean no one else is here. I should have asked. Damn.
I’ll be down the hall, he’d said.
That seems like the most worthwhile direction to take, then. It just sucks that down the hall happens to be a long, dark, and creepy path to take. I start walking, my phone held out in front of me, illuminating the way. I wish I knew where the light switches were in this place.
After braving it a few tentative feet, another moan cries out. This time it’s strained, as though the person is trying to say something, but can’t, and is in some kind of battle to get the words out.
Oh, God. Maybe someone is being hurt.
That thought drives me on, and I hurry now, eventually making it to the end of the hall, where I find a door straight in front of me.
This must be the master bedroom.
I slowly lean close until my ear is pressed against the thick, mahogany-scented wood.
I don’t hear anything.
I lightly tap on the door, my knuckles making a deep, echoing thud. “Cohen?”
There’s no answer. I take hold of the doorknob and test it, expecting it to be locked. I’m surprised to find that it isn’t; it pops open with only the slightest amount of pressure.
I poke my head through the crack of the door. “Cohen?” I say again, this time a little louder.
Still, there’s no response.
It’s darker in here than it was in the hall, but it’s obvious now where that cold draft was coming from. One of the panels of the window next to his bed has blown open, and it’s swinging freely, a small amount of snow already gathering inside the room.
Still not having identified the dark figure who’s laying in the bed, I rush over to the window and push it closed, securing it with a latch in the middle.
My hands are wet from the snow that’s come in and iced around the window, so I rub them dry against my shirt. Then I turn around. The body in the bed hasn’t moved since I’ve been in here.
I try to hide my light from whoever it is. If the sounds did come from this room, they’ve stopped now. At least I closed the window.
Before I can sneak back out the door, another moan comes from the direction of the bed. I snap my head around. Now the body is moving, slightly twisting under the covers.
I turn off my light and approach the bed, setting my phone down on the nightstand next to the bed. From here, I can see dark hair resting against a pillow. I move to the other side, and that’s when I see that it’s definitely Cohen.
He appears to be in a deep sleep, but his face is pained, his brows knitted together as though he’s in some kind of deep thought. His legs randomly twitch every few seconds. It’s pretty obvious that he’s having a nightmare.
I place a hand on his shoulder and give him a gentle shake. “Cohen.”
Nothing but another moan. Then more struggling. Despite how cold it still is in here, beads of sweat appear on his forehead.
“Cohen. Wake up.” I shake him a little harder.
Suddenly, my shakes produce the desired result. He shoots up, panting and drenched in sweat. We connect for a moment, but his eyes are glassy and I can see that he’s only half there. I freeze, moving my hands away. He grabs me by my shoulders and throws me down on the bed. He clutches me a little too hard, pinning me down against the mattress.
I scream. I instinctively reach down to my ankle, grasping for a blade that isn’t there.
The sound of my scream seems to snap him back to reality. I watch as his breathing continues to pulse, his bare chest expanding in and out. He looks me over. Until just now, when I reached for my weapon and found it to be missing, I didn’t realize that I’d forgotten to put on the pair of sweatpants he gave me, not to mention my socks and Uggs, which would have enabled me to hide it.
I look down at my body. I’m wearing nothing more than the tee shirt that he gave me, which doesn’t provide much coverage for anything down below.
He releases me. “Stella?” he says, moving back. He looks confused and exhausted, both mentally and physically. He’s wearing nothing but a loose pair of sweat pants, and standing in front of me now, his fit, sweaty body heaves up and down as he tries to catch his breath. Then he looks down at those sweatpants, as though he’s examining them, and runs his palms over the fabric.
He’s even more fit than I thought he’d be. His entire body is toned, and as his ribs expand and contract the muscles of his six pack ripple in the light breaking through the window.
“What are you doing in here?” he asks, still in the process of catching his breath. “The room is almost pitch black. I had no idea who you were. I could have–”
I shake my head, still in shock about what just happened. “What?”
He almost yells, “I’m trying to say I could have seriously hurt you.”
I bite my lower lip. “I heard something when I was in bed. It woke me up, and I thought it was coming from your room. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I look up at him, but he’s waiting for me to continue.
“It turns out I was right. You were… moaning and making noise and tossing around. And,” I lift my arm, pointing to the window, “your window was wide open. It was freezing in here. I’m surprised you’re not showing symptoms of hypothermia or something.”
He looks down, moving his feet away from a small amount of snow. He nods. “Yeah. I keep that window open on purpose.”
I stare at him, confused.
He sighs. “Although usually when I leave it open it’s not snowing out. I guess that wasn’t such a good idea.” He gets a hand towel from his bathroom and wipes the melting snow off the floor and windowsill.
“Can I ask why?”
“Why what?” He’s not looking at me. He must st
ill be a little thrown by everything.
“Why you leave the window open in the middle of winter.”
He tosses the wet towel in the direction of a laundry basket. It lands on the side of the basket and stays there, barely hanging on.
“It keeps me cool.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Cool or cold?”
Cohen just looks at me.
“I mean, it’s about forty degrees in here.” Speaking of, I look around for something to keep me warm. The only thing I find is the comforter from Cohen’s bed. It’s under me, so I rise and pull it around my shoulders, then sit back down.
“Yeah, well. When you toss and turn all night it can feel pretty good.”
I don’t say anything. I allow Cohen the time to collect his thoughts. After a while, though, I feel it might be better to leave, so I let the comforter slip from my shoulders. I’m about to stand when he takes a seat next to me on the bed.
“It was a nightmare.” He clears his throat and says again, more confidently, “What you saw? That was a nightmare. One of many.”
“I figured, but it must have been some nightmare. What was it about?”
He doesn’t answer, so it’s pretty obvious that he has something to hide. I don’t read into it any further, though. So far, Cohen has been nothing but honest with me, and if he has a reason to not be totally straightforward right now, I’m sure it’s a good one.
I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them up to my chest. “I’m pretty sure nightmares are normal.”
He looks into the distance and replies, “Yeah. They can be.”
I place a hand on his shoulder, my intention for it to be nothing more than a reassuring gesture. But when I feel him, it brings me back to when he touched me for the very first time, that night in the cold alley with the fire alarm blaring in the distance. Me, surrounded by danger, and Cohen, the only one who I can now trust to step in and pull me away from it. From now on, I’ll always associate that touch of his with a feeling of raw male protection and strength. And that intoxicates me.
He notices my reaction to the touch. Of course he does.
