Gone Too Deep (23 page)

Ellie grudgingly admitted to herself that what Coughlin said made sense. “The on-call psychiatrist is Dr. Kruger.”

“Thanks.”

She watched the sheriff approach the admittance desk and then turned to George. “Sit,” she said, patting the seat next to her. There were no armrests separating them, so it was like an institutional, uncomfortable sofa. Although he eased his large form into the spot she'd indicated, he moved stiffly. “What's wrong?”

His one-shoulder half shrug was so familiar after their time in the mountains that nonsensical tears filled her eyes. “Too many people, too…” He glared around the waiting area. “Too enclosed.” When he glanced at her then, his scowl morphed into panic. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.” Swiping at the wetness under her eyes, she was annoyed that she'd let a few tears escape. “Just tired and being silly.”

To her shock, he reached over and caught hold of her arm, maneuvering her into his lap. Her heart was thumping so rapidly that the beats seemed to merge into each other. Resting one hand on her waist, George cupped her head with his other and tugged until her cheek rested on his chest.

After a frozen moment, his warmth and scent and the softness of his shirt and his total…
George-
ness overwhelmed her, and she relaxed against him, closing her eyes. “Glad you're okay,” she sighed.

“Me too.”

That made her grin without opening her eyes. “You're glad you're okay, too?”

He squeezed her waist. “Funny.”

“Sorry.” A huge yawn overtook her, and she had to wait until it had passed before she could speak again. “I know I'm more punchy than clever right now.”

“You're fine.” He petted her hair like she was a cat. Although she wondered if she should object, it felt too nice to interrupt. Questions niggled at her brain, mainly about his hike to get help, but it didn't seem necessary to share information at that moment. Instead, she just enjoyed the thump of his slow, steady heartbeat against her cheek, the slide of his fingers over her head, and the heat that radiated from him.

It just seemed like seconds later when George's chest moved in a deep sigh that she both felt and heard. When she lifted her head and opened her eyes, she saw the sheriff was returning. She tried to scoot off George's lap, but the hand at her waist tightened, holding her in place. Ellie subsided against his chest again.

“Any luck?” she asked the sheriff once he was close to them.

Lips drawn down in disappointment, Coughlin shook his head, and Ellie successfully resisted saying, “I told you so.”

“Ready, George?”

That time, George's sigh was silent. Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, he lifted her off his lap as he stood. She was impressed by how easily he moved her. Even though she was relatively small, that was still a hundred-plus pounds he was shuffling around like she was five pounds of feathers.

With a final press of his hand on Ellie's shoulder, he accompanied the sheriff toward the exit.

“Bye.” Ellie watched them go, her shoulders sagging. It had been only a few days in the mountains and a couple of kisses, but she hadn't expected it to end so abruptly or so…soon. As she watched her mountain of a man disappear through the automatic doors, her insides collapsed in on themselves. How was she supposed to return to her life in Chicago when it was over a thousand miles away from him? The thought of home now seemed flat and gray and sadly George-less.

With a huge effort, she straightened her spine. There was nothing to be done. She belonged in the city, and George belonged in the mountains. They never would've worked together.

And yet as she turned to find the fairy godfather masquerading as a psychiatrist, she couldn't silence the tiny internal voice that was wishing they could've at least
tried
.

George slammed the door to his cabin so hard that it bounced against the frame and flew open again. He stared at the gaping door, fighting the urge to rip it off its hinges. This raging temper was unusual for him, making him feel like a stranger was occupying his body. Nothing George had done lately had gone right. Ever since he'd gotten back from Denver, ever since she'd left—

He cut off that thought immediately as he shut the door. Everything was bad enough without dwelling on El.

After shedding his outerwear, he stomped into the kitchen and stared moodily at the refrigerator. It was late afternoon, and he hadn't eaten since early that morning. The missing hiker they'd been trying to find all day turned out not to be missing after all. After the man and his girlfriend had argued while hiking, he'd walked to the trailhead and called a friend to pick him up. When his girlfriend had returned to her car and saw that he wasn't there, she'd panicked, thinking he'd gotten lost—or worse. All day, while George and the other search and rescue members had trudged around the Wyatt Wilderness Area, fighting a biting wind as they'd tried to find the missing man, the guy had been holed up at his buddy's house, playing video games and ignoring the many frantic incoming phone calls and texts.

After such a long, strenuous day, George should've been starving. Lately, though, he'd not been able to dredge up interest in anything—welding, working, playing music. He'd forced himself to eat, but nothing had tasted right. It had just made him think about how he'd finish El's leftovers.

And now he was thinking about her again. With an impatient huff, he left the kitchen. The living room wasn't any better. The mantel clock ticked too loudly, emphasizing how quiet the house was. For the first time ever, George wished he had a TV so he could turn it on and drown out the lonely silence.

His house, his
life
, seemed so…empty now.

Unable to stand the quiet any longer, he pivoted around and strode back to the front entry. If he was just going to wander the house and try—and fail—not to think about her, then he might as well do something productive. George figured he could stop by his neighbor's place and see if she needed any plowing done. Although it hadn't snowed in a few days, the wind might have caused some drifts to fill her driveway.

He automatically reached for his coat and then froze, his hand hovering in midair. The last time he'd worn that particular jacket had been to take El to the cabin. When he started to shift toward another coat, he stopped, his jaw tightening. It was stupid to turn his jacket into a shrine to Ellie. He'd been with her for less than a week; why did he feel so shattered?

Grabbing the first coat, he yanked it on, resisting the urge to tuck his nose into the collar to see if her scent lingered. Sticking his hands into the roomy pockets, he rooted around in search of gloves. Instead, he felt something so soft that he knew it was out of place. Pulling it out, he felt like he'd been punched in the chest.

It was El's hat, the purple one she'd put on him after bandaging his head. He turned the silly flowered thing over in his hands, his rough fingers snagging the fine knit. There was an almost-black stain from his blood, and he stared at it as he remembered stuffing the hat in his coat pocket while the EMT examined the bullet graze on his head.

He couldn't do this anymore.

Crumpling the hat in his fist, he stomped to the door of his cabin and wrenched it open. His neighbor's driveway was going to have to wait. He had shopping to do.

* * *

“Someone's here to see you.”

Chelsea's glee was evident, which piqued Ellie's curiosity. That suggestive expression meant it was a man, and that meant it was…

A burst of excitement spread warmth through her entire body. “George?”

“What?” Chelsea's excitement turned to confusion. “No. And who's George?”

As quickly as it had hit, Ellie's jubilation died. “No one. Never mind.”

“Nuh-uh.” The taller woman crossed her arms over her chest. “Spill.”

“Now's not really the time,” Ellie hissed, sending a meaningful glance at the occupied dressing room in front of them. Several different sizes of the same two dresses were draped over her arm. “Are you okay in there, Mrs. Oakly? Do you need a different size?”

“I'm fine, dear,” the woman in the changing room responded, to Ellie's disappointment. She could've used a way to escape her friend's interrogation.

“Start talking,” Chelsea demanded.

With a sigh, Ellie admitted, “It's really nothing. He was my guide when I was in the mountains. That's it.”

“But you want it to be more.” It wasn't a question.

“What I want doesn't matter.” She'd come to that realization several days ago around two a.m. “He went back to Simpson, I flew back here, and I haven't heard from him since.”

“Hi.” The male voice made both women turn toward the source.

“Dylan.” Immediately feeling bad about her flat tone, Ellie forced a smile. “Good to see you.”

“You too.” He looked at Chelsea and then at the closed dressing room door. “Could we maybe talk somewhere else a little more private?”

Ellie shook her head. “I'm working.”

“Right.” He gave his surroundings another discomforted glance. “I was hoping we could grab some drinks again, since our last date ended so quickly.”

“You came here to ask me that?”

“Well, yeah.” He shifted his weight. “You weren't answering your phone.”

“Sorry.” Her voice was flat again, but she couldn't bring herself to apologize for the lack of sincerity. “I don't think so. But thank you for offering.”

He blinked, looking a little stunned. Ellie got the impression that he wasn't turned down very often. “Oh. Okay. You sure?”

Very.
She couldn't bring herself to be quite that rude, though. “Yes.”

His nod was short, as his expression changed from surprise to hostility. “Fine then. Bye. See you, Chelsea.”

Chelsea made a sound that could have been a response to his good-bye. They waited until the outside door jangled, indicating that he'd left. Ellie didn't want to look at Chelsea, worried that her abrupt dismissal of Dylan would bring a round of recriminations. Instead, she fussed with the dresses hanging over her arm.

“Still okay, Mrs. Oakly?” She wondered what the woman was doing in there. She had to be done trying on the two dresses she'd originally brought in with her.

“Just wonderful, dear!” There was a gleeful note in the older woman's voice that made Ellie frown.

The silence stretched until Ellie was forced to meet Chelsea's gaze. “What?”

“You just turned down Dylan. In, like, two words.”

And there it was. Her nose wanted to wrinkle, but she smoothed her expression. “I'm sorry, Chels, but I just don't want to go out with Dylan again. He's so…little.”

“He's six feet.”

“Exactly. And he's scrawny.”

“He's a triathlete. He works out a bazillion times a day.”

“I know.” She lost the battle with her expression, and her face scrunched. “He told me in excruciating detail.”

“He's not
scrawny
.”

Ignoring Chelsea's incredulous screech, Ellie just shrugged. “Plus, his face is too naked. And he probably doesn't know what to do when faced by an angry moose.”

“A what?” Giving her head a shake, Chelsea visibly refocused. “I can't believe you just turned him down like that. You never turn down guys directly. You just run into the bathroom and hide until they leave.”

“Once. I did that
once
.”

“This is about your mountain dude, isn't it?”

“Of course not.” Her blush flamed, calling her a liar.

“So he's really tall.”

A small, besotted smile tilted up the corners of her mouth. She couldn't seem to force it down. “So tall.”

“And muscle-y.”

“Yeah.” It came out as more of a dreamy sigh than a word.

“And…bearded?”

Frowning at Chelsea's judgmental tone, Ellie said defensively, “It's still cold there. I think he has it to keep his face warm.” The smitten tone returned to her voice. “It's a really good beard, though. Thick and such a nice color, and it's soft. I thought it'd be scratchy.”

“How do you know it's soft?” Chelsea demanded, and then her eyes widened. “Did you kiss him? OMG, you kissed him! You slut!”

“Hush!” Sending a frantic glance toward the dressing room, Ellie whispered, “Just a peck. Maybe two pecks. And Mrs. Oakly doesn't need to know about it.”

“Don't mind me, ladies!” Mrs. Oakly trilled from her dressing room. “Just carry on and pretend I'm not here.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. That was why the woman was taking forever to try on two dresses. She was listening to the soap opera going on outside the dressing room.

“Well, that explains a lot.” Chelsea clapped her hands together. “No wonder you've been as much fun as a constipated turtle lately. You're useless to me like this. You need to go find your lumberjack, hit him over the head with your club, and drag him to Chicago by his beard. I'll even give you the rest of the day off to go accomplish that.”

Ellie blinked at her and then glanced at the clock. “My shift is over in five minutes.”

“And I'll give you those five minutes if you go get your man and quit moping.”

“I'm not moping.”

“Ha!” Chelsea pointed one perfectly manicured fingernail at her. “You are so moping. You've been moping for a week, ever since you got back from your mountain adventure. I'm getting depressed just being around you and your heavy sighs. I've had to up my visits to my therapist to twice a week because of you.”

Rolling her eyes, Ellie said insincerely, “Sorry.”

“You should be. I'm going to take the cost of that extra weekly visit out of your paycheck.” The scary thing was that Ellie wasn't sure whether or not Chelsea was joking about that. “So, what's the problem? Why don't you call him?”

“He doesn't have a phone.”

Chelsea stared at her, mouth open, for almost a full minute. “I'm sorry, what? I thought you said he didn't have a phone.”

“He doesn't. No cell, no landline, nothing.”

“But…” Chels looked bewildered. “It's not even possible not to own a phone, is it? I mean, how does he text? Or check his emails when he's not at home? Or take selfies?”

The thought of George taking a selfie almost made her smile. “I don't know how he does it, but he manages to survive phoneless.”

“Okay.” Chelsea tapped her lips with her finger. “We can work around the whole crazy no-phone thing. You'll just need to go there in person.”

Ellie cringed. “That seems so…desperate. I mean, I didn't even know him a week. Plus, I hired him to be my guide. It wasn't like he wanted to spend time with me. It was just a job for him.”

“It's not desperate.” She hurried over to a rack of dresses and started flipping through them. “It's proactively going after what you want. And if a hairy man who shops at the Big and Tall Store is what you want, then get him you shall.” Pulling out a dress, she held it up for Ellie's inspection. “We'll have you looking beautiful and then drop you on his doorstep. He won't be able to resist, especially since I imagine he doesn't see many women up there in the mountains.”

Shaking her head, Ellie wasn't sure where to start refuting Chelsea's entire ridiculous plan. “First of all, there are plenty of women—
beautiful
women—in Simpson. I'm friends with one of them.” She and Lou had been calling and texting since her return to Chicago. “It's a plane trip and a three-hour drive just to get there.
And
I'm not going to throw myself at George and risk being rejected. If he's interested, he knows where to find me.” She paused, not sure if that was true, but then she shook her head. It was better this way. She barely knew the guy. Besides, ever since she'd left the mountains, she'd been a neurotic, jumpy freak. It would be rude to dump the shaky, nightmare-ridden mess she'd become into George's lap.

“C'mon, El.” Chelsea held up a blue dress to Ellie's chin and regarded it thoughtfully. “Don't you want to see this guy?”

Gently pushing the dress aside, Ellie handed Chelsea the clothes draped over her arm before hurrying behind the counter to grab her purse. “I'm not going to hunt him down,” she said, not really answering the question. “I have to run some errands. Would you mind helping Mrs. Oakly finish up?” Without giving Chelsea a chance to reply, Ellie darted out the door and almost ran to the small lot next door where her car was parked.

Climbing into her Prius, she laid her head back against the seat and sighed. It was hard enough keeping thoughts of George at bay without Chelsea interrogating her about the man.

Her phone rang, startling her. Once she dug it out of her purse, she peered at the caller ID, fully expecting Chelsea to be calling to continue their conversation—the one Ellie had run out of the shop to avoid. It was Lou, instead, and Ellie tapped the talk button in relief.

“Hi, Lou.”

“Ellie!” Even for her, Lou was talking fast—and loudly. Ellie held the phone away from her ear, wincing. “How are you? I'm just calling to chat. Hey, by the way, what's the name of the store where you work? I'm thinking of…uh, getting some new clothes. Cuter, less Simpson-y clothes.”

“Chelsea's?”

“That's it! I knew it was some chick's name. So, does the shop have a website?”

The conversation was just getting stranger and stranger. “Yes,” Ellie said slowly, then gave her the boutique's website address. Lou needed to lay off the coffee—or the crack.