Читать книгу Reunited In The Snow - Amalie Berlin - Страница 13

WEST STOOD AT the door of his cabin, a rigged heater in his arms, ready to take it next door to Lia.

She didn’t know he was coming. Probably wouldn’t want to see him at her door for the second night in a row, but he had to do something.

No matter how sound his reasoning, West knew he’d abandoned her. And he knew how bad that felt. How it wormed down into places you didn’t even realize were there, and came out when you least wanted. Over the years he’d seen it from every angle—from the slow-motion abandonment of his mother, to Charlie’s withdrawal into substance abuse, and even from the other side and the many times he’d walked away from friendships or half-formed relationships to outrun Charlie’s problems.

Until Lia.

Until West had met Lia and was no longer willing to start over anywhere she wasn’t. And in his fear of losing her, he’d hidden his biggest weakness from her—his addict brother. She knew he had a little brother, but he’d hidden the bad parts. To keep her from asking to meet Charlie, West had concocted a story about an adventure in the States, working his way across the continent, like some romanticized vagabond.

That was the first in a string of unforgivable sins that led him here.

If he’d told her the truth back then, he might have never felt the need to make Charlie choose. Or maybe he would’ve done it gentler, and actually listened to the words his brother said. West had heard “Have a nice life” as another passive-aggressive jab of guilt. It wasn’t until much later that he’d understood it to have been a more final goodbye.

He needed to pay attention to Lia right now. Make sure she didn’t have a Charlie reaction to his choices. She was still his responsibility, and if anything happened to her…

Not that he thought Lia suicidal, but he’d once thought her made of iron, stronger than anyone else he’d ever known. Strong or not, she’d still cried herself to sleep last night, and he’d heard every sniff and hiccup through the paper-thin cabin walls. He’d seen the evidence of it all day in her still-puffy eyes, and it ate at him.

He stepped out of his cabin, closed the door and took the two steps separating them to lightly knock on hers. Unlike last night, she didn’t take long to respond.

With the door held half-open in front of her like a shield of protection, she met his gaze and some of the burning in his chest eased when she didn’t flinch or look away. Of course, that meant he could see fresh redness in her eyebrows that contradicted the flash of strength. And still wearing the pink pajamas, but she hadn’t been sleeping, at least not yet.

No greeting, no deep longing looks and no hope in her voice, she glanced at what he carried and back up. “Flower pots?”

“Heater,” he said softly, tapping the terra-cotta pots with one finger. If the promise of heat didn’t buy him admittance, he had no words to ask. No words for anything. There was a time when he’d always had something to say to her. Waited, saving up thoughts throughout the day to tell her at night. Stupid things to make her smile, or things to spark debate. Teasing. Challenging. Playful. But now, every word he uttered could give him away. He couldn’t afford to overshare.

“How?”

“I’ll show you. It’ll warm the cabin, those at the end of the pods are exposed to more outside walls than those stacked side by side. They don’t retain the heat as well.”

She considered the pots for another several seconds, door still in place, then simply let go of the door and moved back inside.

He closed the door behind him, then wordlessly stepped to the bedside table to clear it off while she burrowed back into a mountain of blankets on the bed.

Explaining how the pots functioned as a heater while he assembled it was easy at least. He lit four tea-light candles for the bottom layer and stepped back to mention safety; even if she didn’t need to hear not to touch hot things, it was easier.

“But I guess you don’t need to be warned about the danger of fire.”

“Not really,” she muttered. “Things I need to be warned about never come with a warning. Or I’m just really bad at picking up on hints.”

So was he. Charlie had proven that.

And she didn’t need to know that. “Hints?”

“Do you really want to know?” she asked, pushing down the blankets to her lap so she could sit up straighter, but stayed tucked into the bed.

He was suddenly sure he didn’t want to know, but he said, anyway, “Tell me.”

One purposeful nod, and she asked, “When did you know you didn’t love me? Because I’ve had months of wondering what happened while I was gone. The last thing you said to me at the airport that day was ‘I love you.’ Did I miss something? Did you know then?”

Hell.

No more circling the problem. This was more like the Lia he knew than the sad-eyed woman he’d seen every time he’d looked at her since she’d arrived.

And he didn’t have an answer. He never considered that he’d need to have more of an answer.

“I figured it out after,” he said. “Probably good you didn’t want me to come to Portugal with you.”

“What does that mean?”

“You didn’t want me to go.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why would I invite you to Portugal when you had no idea what you were going to be walking into? Because what is going on there? It’s a mess, above what you’ve probably realized.”

“Mess how?” he asked. “What’s going on at Monterrosa now? Are you avoiding going there?”

“That seems to be your MO, not mine. I don’t run away from pain—apparently I run toward it.” She nodded once to him, then pointed to the door. “I think we’re done. I understand exactly where you’re coming from. You didn’t love me, you figured it out as soon as I was out of sight because something mysterious happened. I’m guessing she had red hair.”

“Lia.”

“I don’t suppose I need more details.” She waved a hand toward the door.

He didn’t move. He was finally starting to feel a little hopeful that she would get over him, that he wouldn’t ruin her, too. “Are you finally getting angry?”

“Is that good, too?”

“Yes,” he immediately answered, maybe a little too loudly.

“Why?”

He lowered his voice a little and shook his head. “Because I hate seeing you with red eyes.”

“Sorry I’m disappointing you by being human.”

“The Lia Monterrosa I know wouldn’t let—”

“Maybe that’s the problem, then.” She cut him off. “You don’t know me. And I’m tired of cleaning up messes of the men who should’ve loved me, but didn’t. You left me to call off the wedding, after I figured out you weren’t coming back, and I waited up until the last minute. Nine days after my father burned down half of the estate and dropped off the face of the earth so I’ve had to clean it up for the hundreds of people who rely on the vineyard for their livelihoods. Then I had to cancel my wedding because my fiancé disappeared, too. It was a great week.”

He hadn’t thought about the timing back then, but now seemed a good time to ask, since all information about her emotional state was of value. “Did you get it repaired?”

“Does it matter?” she asked, then stretched out in the bed, rolling to face the wall. “Thanks for the heater. You’re still a babaca.”

Final words if he’d ever heard them; even if he didn’t understand the actual last one, he could read between the lines. Jerk. Ass. Something like that. And a little bit angrier, thank God. Anger was fire, and fire meant the will to fight. That was better than just curling up and taking whatever life had thrown at her.

But staying out of her way as much as possible until it was time to go was the right call. He definitely should go on that day trip into the field tomorrow. Even one day of distance had to help.

“What’re you doin’?”

The familiar cadence of West’s nearly tamed brogue stopped Lia midstick.

She lifted her gaze from the butterfly needle she’d been fishing for a vein with at the crook of her elbow to see him in the doorway, leaning, rough from a prolonged field mission, still wearing the thick red thermal suit, large duffel bag hanging on his shoulder.

It had been three days since she’d last seen him. Three days since their really awesome and definitely not soul-crushing discussion. Of course he’d be the one to find her performing a sneaky blood draw on herself.

“Trying and failing to get some blood.”

He dropped the bag outside the door and meandered into the small exam room. “Maybe because you’re right-handed and trying with your left.”

“I have tiny veins, they’re hard to hit, and the best one is on the right elbow crook.” She halfway withdrew the tiny butterfly needle again, tilted it slightly and pushed forward again, gritting her teeth. Somehow it hurt more having to watch the needle, and when she was doing the steering, she definitely had to watch.

He headed for the sink, washed his hands and stepped to her side. “Stop.”

He didn’t swat her hand, but she heard the reprimand coming as he pinched the butterfly above where she’d held it, and she let go.

“You just had panels run six days ago.” Dr. Obvious held the needle still and used his free hand to lightly palpate the vein above, considering his next move.

“I know. I was there.”

“You could’ve had Tony do this for you, or anyone else in the department.”

“I know that, too.”

He didn’t try to press the needle into the vein again, just took it out and watched as absolutely nothing happened. No blood. No extra firmness when he prodded the vein, which would indicate she’d at least perforated it and would have an unholy bruise. Nothing.