Gone Too Deep (24 page)

“Perfect! Thank you! And what time do you work tomorrow? Or do you work tomorrow?”

“I do.” She was starting to fear for Lou's mental health. Armstrong was working out well for her dad so far. Maybe she'd recommend it to Lou. “Ten to six.”

“Wonderful! Fantastic! Hey, I have to go. Talk to you later!”

The call ended as abruptly and oddly as it had begun, and Ellie held out her phone so she could stare at it again. “Weird.”

* * *

At four the next morning, she officially gave up trying to sleep and made a cup of coffee. Her vision had a strange, too-bright, halo-y thing happening that she was pretty sure was related to not sleeping for a week. When she did manage to doze, the nightmares were waiting.

Her dreams didn't feature what she'd expected, though. Instead of explosions and avalanches and gunfire and charging moose, it was little details, like orange blood in the snow and a broken window. Despite their quietness, those images were no less terrifying.

The worst, though, was the overlying feeling of her nightmares, a complete and utter loneliness that made her wake up crying more than once. As she stared at her slowly filling mug, she absently rubbed the center of her chest, feeling the memory of that terrible ache.

Once her coffee had brewed, she took her mug to the cute, whimsical chair she'd found at a downtown furniture store. It had cost more than the rest of her furniture combined, but the chair had shouted at her from the window display, and she'd returned over and over until she'd given in and bought it.

Tucking her feet underneath her, she looked out the window at the city lights and tried not to think about George. As usual, she failed.

* * *

“I hate sales,” Ellie muttered under her breath as she straightened a rack of clearance tops, moving a size-two blouse out of the size-twelve section. It was midafternoon and the first chance she'd had to breathe since she'd unlocked the door at ten that morning. Chelsea had run down the block to grab salads for a belated lunch. One nice thing about the rush had been that Chelsea hadn't had a second to quiz Ellie about George, and her roommate had been out late the night before, so she hadn't had time to restart her interrogation then, either.

The bell on the door rang, and Ellie's shoulders fell. The sound marked the end of her full three minutes of quiet time. Pasting on a smile, she turned toward the arriving customer.

“Welcome to Chel—oh!” Her standard greeting cut off in the middle, leaving her mouth hanging open as she stared at the bearded man standing in the boutique, looking enormous and incongruous in the girly fluff of a shop. “George?”

He nodded, as if she'd truly been confused about who stood a few feet in front of her. Actually, she'd just been checking if he was a longing-induced hallucination. After squeezing her eyes closed and opening them again, he was still there, and her shock was starting to shift to pure, unadulterated joy.

Her first couple of steps were slow, and then she launched herself at him even as he reached for her. Her cheek hit his chest with almost painful force, but she didn't mind. It was just more proof that he was real—flesh and blood and beard and flannel. Her arms wrapped around his middle, and she squeezed.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, leaning back so she could see his face. She'd missed him. Ellie hadn't realized how much she could miss someone she'd known for such a short time.

Color darkened his cheekbones before he answered. “Wanted to see you.”

Ellie couldn't have stopped her huge grin from spreading across her face even if she'd wanted to. Her cheeks were already hurting from the force of it. “Good. I wanted to see you, too.”

He frowned, but his eyes were happy. “Why didn't you, then?”

“Come to Simpson?” When he shrugged affirmatively, it was her turn to blush. “I figured I'd chased you enough. I thought I was probably just a client to you.”

His eyebrows rose. “Didn't you get the check?”

She had. The check she'd written and sent to his home via a delivery company, since she figured he would have a post office box for mail, had been returned to her. When she'd opened the envelope, her heart pounding with excitement at receiving something from George, all she'd found was torn pieces of the check.

Her smile faded. “Yes. You could've included a note.”

He gave her a look.

“How was I supposed to know what it meant?” she said defensively. “I thought you felt bad about me almost getting killed a few times, and that's why you returned the money. I didn't know.” She'd
hoped
, but she didn't know.

When he rolled his eyes at her, she laughed. The typically teenage gesture looked strange on his bearded face.

“Oh!” Her brain had belatedly started working again. “That's why Lou was acting all weird on the phone yesterday. Did you ask her to find out where I worked?”

Looking pained, he shook his head. “I asked her for your phone number.”

“You got a phone?” It was almost as shocking as him showing up at the shop.

With a nod, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an inexpensive prepaid phone, still in its packaging. “Lou thought it'd be better if I just came here, though.”

She hugged him again. “Definitely. Much better. I like that you're in touching distance.” Her face grew hot again as one corner of his mouth curled in a smile. “Um…anyway. Why here? I know you have my home address, since you mailed the shredded check there.”

“It's a secured building.” When she stayed silent, not sure what that had to do with anything, he continued. “Didn't know when you'd be home, and I didn't want to hang out in front.”

“Right,” she said as realization dawned. “My neighbors would definitely have called the cops if a hot lumberjack was lurking by the door.”

His smile went from a half to a whole. “Hot?”

Her earlier blush was nothing compared to the heat that suffused her skin that time. “Uh…right. So, how long can you stay?”

His gaze dropped, and he paused before answering. “A while.”

“Really?” She bounced a little on her toes in excitement. Her arms were still looped around his waist, since she hadn't let him go yet. Ellie didn't ever want to let him go. “Does that mean a few days or a few weeks? When's your flight home?”

He raised his shoulder in his typical half shrug, and she grinned, so happy to see that familiar gesture again. “No flight. I drove.”

She blinked at him. “Drove? Your truck? Here?”

His one-sided smile was back, almost distracting her from her line of questioning.

“It's a fifteen-hour drive,” she said. “Without any breaks.”

“Made it in fourteen.” The other side of his mouth followed the first.

“Wow.” She wasn't sure if she was talking about his impressive speed or just her ecstatic amazement that he was actually here. “Why didn't you fly?”

His smile turned to a grimace. “Hate planes.”

“Wow,” she said again. “I still can't believe you drove all the way here.”
To see me.

Changing the subject, he asked, “How's Baxter?”

“Better. I video chat with him every day. The doctors are still trying to figure out the best mix of meds for him, so sometimes he seems”—she tilted her head to the side, searching for the right description—“I don't know, dull and flat. Not like his usual self.”

George opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the jingle of the doorbell. He turned toward the sound, tucking her behind him in the same movement. Ellie peeked around his arm to see who'd entered the store.

“Ho-ly mountain man,” Chelsea said slowly, checking out George from his boots to the top of his head. “You are George, and you look like the guy on the paper towels. I see why El sent Dylan packing so fast.”

His head swiveled around until he was glaring at Ellie.

“What? Oh, Dylan?” She waved her hand. “We'd gone on one date—a half date, really, since my dad called that night.”

George's scowl lightened, but not by much.

Giving his ridiculously large biceps a reassuring pat, she said, “He's short.”

“Not really,” Chelsea contradicted, looking amused.

Ignoring her, Ellie continued, “And he has little chicken arms.” Her arm-patting turned to petting.

Chelsea coughed, which might have been hiding a laugh. “Triathlete.”

“And his face is all”—Ellie wrinkled her nose—“naked.”

George had been looking less and less upset as she'd listed Dylan's imperfections, and he grinned at the last one.

“Holy moly,” Chelsea breathed, no longer appearing like she was about to laugh. “I want one. I want a George. Are there more like him in the mountains? Because we can close the store, fly to Colorado, and go George shopping, only for me this time.”

By the end of the monologue, Ellie had moved in front of George, creating a human wall between him and a hungry-looking Chelsea. “Down, Chels. And no. There are no George clones in the mountains. I didn't run across any, at least. Although”—she thought back to her first night in Simpson—“there does seem to be an excessive number of hot firemen. Oh, and the sheriff's pretty fine, too. Plus, you know…handcuffs.”

Chelsea made a whimpering sound.

“Tell you what,” Ellie said. “If I can have the rest of today off to hang out with George, then you can come with me next time I go to Colorado.”

“But it's the first day of our big sale.” Chelsea looked terrified. “They'll trample me and then complain about how my guts are splattered all over the fifty-percent-off rack.”

Ellie still had an ace in her pocket, though. “I know where the Simpson fire station is.”

“Fine! But you're working tomorrow,
and
we're going to sexy fireman land the second we both can take a week off.” Chelsea stomped toward the checkout counter. “In fact, as soon as I drag my crumpled, mangled body off the floor after the next sale rush eases, I'm going to rearrange the schedule.” She grabbed the printout of the schedule and ran her fingernail across the upcoming weeks. “When is the prime time? I want to maximize my firemen exposure.”

“Wednesdays at seven.”

Ellie looked at George, surprised he'd volunteered the information. She wouldn't have thought he'd participate in hooking up Chelsea with a fireman. He caught her startled glance and leaned close to her ear.

“The sooner you're back in Simpson,” he rumbled, making her warm and shivery at the same time, “the better.”

She felt her eyes widen as she stared at him. “Okay” was all she managed to utter.

His smile was thick with smugness and male satisfaction. Ellie was too smitten to care.

She smiled as he folded himself into the front passenger seat of her Prius. When George caught her look and lifted his eyebrows in question, she just shook her head. There was no way she was about to explain how happy she was that her car would smell like George for days after he left. Since he'd found a parking spot for his truck a few streets over from the shop that didn't have any time restrictions, she suggested he leave his vehicle parked there for the night. Finding an open spot around her condo building was brutal.

As she started the engine, she shook off her dopey grin and tried to focus on being a good hostess. “Anything special you want to do today?” When he gave a half shrug, she ran over some options in her head. There was the zoo, but George lived where elk and bears hung out in his front yard. The zoo seemed like a pale imitation of that. She liked Millennium Park, but the wind had a sharp edge to it—not as sharp as it had been in the mountains, but cold enough to discourage outdoor play. She remembered his reaction to the enclosed waiting room at the hospital, and she mentally canceled the Art Institute and several other indoor options as being too crowded, too claustrophobic, and too not-George.

It made her stomach squirm with nervousness, but she asked the question anyway. “Want to see where I live?”

At his immediate nod, she took a deep breath and backed out of her parking space.

* * *

Her nerves reappeared when she unlocked the door to her condo. She was discomforted by the realization that she really wanted George to like her place.

Although Chelsea had been her roommate for over a year, Ellie had been the one who'd picked it out and decorated it, and it felt like George was looking inside of
her
when he turned in a circle, scanning the open living and kitchen areas of her home.

While George examined her space, Ellie tried to view the place with an outsider's eye. She hadn't had a specific decorating theme in mind when she'd first moved into the condo four years ago. Instead, she'd just picked paint colors and furniture and wall art she'd liked, which created a slightly haphazard feel, especially when Chelsea had added her things to the mix.

“Well?” she asked, unable to take the silent appraisal any longer. “What do you think?”

Turning toward her, George gave a slow nod. “It fits you.”

That wasn't quite the reassurance she'd been hoping to get. “Is that good?”

One corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Yes.” She thought that was all she was going to get until he spoke again a few moments later. “It's happy and bright and warm. I like that color.” He gestured toward the dark orange accent wall.

“Thanks.” She beamed. He'd picked out one of the aspects of her decorating that she'd never regretted. “It looks really nice when the late-afternoon light hits it. It makes it feel like the sunset is actually happening in my living room.”

He smiled at her, a complete, two-sided grin, and they locked gazes for a long minute. Warmth filled her chest, pressing on her lungs and making it hard to breathe, until she dropped her gaze and cleared her throat.

“Did you want to see the rest?” When he didn't answer out loud, she looked at him just in time to catch the tail end of his nod.

As she led the way to the short hallway, she wondered what had possessed her to invite George into her bedroom. It was like she was just asking for awkwardness.

“This is the guest room.” She stepped through the doorway, gesturing like a game-show hostess. “Not much to see.” The room was small, just large enough for the double bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. When George entered, it felt like the already-tiny space shrank even more.

The path to the door was completely blocked by his massive form. She felt a twinge of…not nervousness, exactly, but something more along the lines of uncertain excitement. When she took a quarter step toward him, he backed against the wall, opening the space between her and the doorway. Blushing for some unknown reason, she darted back into the hall.

“Chelsea's room.” She waved a hand at the next closed door. Her steps slowed as she neared her own bedroom, but she forced her feet to cross the threshold and carry her into the room. A sting next to her index finger's nail made her realize that she was chewing on her hangnail again. In the past week of sleepless nights and jumpy days, her bad habit had returned with a vengeance, and the skin around her fingernails was raw and sore. She jerked down her hand and grabbed it with her left one.

While she'd been fighting with her appendages, George had entered her bedroom and was giving it the same slow appraisal that he'd given the rest of her apartment. Her flush returned, and she felt exposed.

The guest room, although pretty with its pearl-gray and blue accents, was fairly impersonal. Her bedroom was anything but. She'd used the same dark orange color on one wall, and the room glowed with reds and oranges, as if it were the smoldering coal bed of her home. It made her happy to wake up in that visual warmth. If George didn't like it or if he made a joke about her bright color scheme, it would hurt.

When she finally got the nerve to look at his face, he was smiling. “I like it.”

A rush of relief flowed through her, and she sat on the edge of the bed as her knees wobbled a little. “Good.”

He gave her a curious glance, and her blush matched the red accents in the room.

Unable to explain how important it was for him to share the feeling of warmth and comfort she'd tried to create, especially in her bedroom, she stole a gesture from him and shrugged. “I like that you like my home.”

He took a couple of steps toward her, hovering over her until she patted the bed next to her. After a short hesitation, he sat, making the mattress sink and toppling her toward him.

“Whoa!” Ellie laughed, putting out her hand to steady herself before she ended up sprawled across George's lap. Instead of landing on the mattress, her fingers clutched his thigh. She stared at it for a shocked second, as if her hand didn't belong to her, and then tried to snatch it back. Before she could, George's fingers settled on hers and held it in place.

She stared at him, unable to even form an apology. He started leaning toward her, advancing so slowly that it took her a long time to realize he was in motion. Once she did figure it out, Ellie didn't move.

It seemed to take forever and no time at all before his mouth was a fraction of an inch away from hers. She studied his eyes, remembering the time in the tent, in the cave, clinging to him after escaping the charging moose, seeing his frantic face after he'd freed her from her body cast of hardened snow after the avalanche, his kiss at the cabin before he'd left to get help. It felt like she'd known him for such a long time, and he'd become so precious to her, so vital to her happiness.

Her hand crept up to stroke his cheek, smoothing over skin and beard until she found the line of his jaw under the dark hair. It was firm and square, and she smiled.

“I bet you're handsome, even without this.” She gave a tug on his beard.

Instead of returning her smile, he raised his hand and mirrored her gesture, stroking her cheek with warm fingers. “You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen.”

Then he kissed her. It started as a gentle press of his lips against hers, similar to but longer than their first two brief pecks. Then the pressure increased, and he started exploring, kissing her upper lip and then her lower, each corner of her mouth and then back to the center.

The buzzing feeling she'd gotten from his earlier kisses was nothing compared to that, and she gasped, her lips parting a little beneath his. He froze for a moment and then latched his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her more tightly into him. Ellie went willingly.

Although the kiss was already more intense than anything she'd ever felt before, it stayed almost chaste, just lips to lips. The excitement building in her belly bubbled into impatience as his mouth touched and then lightened, never deepening into a full kiss. Finally, with a growl of frustration, she nipped his bottom lip. George went still.

Realizing what she'd done, Ellie opened her eyes wide. She'd felt the give of his flesh beneath her teeth, and she knew she'd bitten hard enough for it to have stung.

“I'm sor—” Before she could get the whole apology out, he was on her, using his weight to push her back until her shoulder blades met the bed. His chest pressed against hers, flattening her against the mattress in a way that felt both exciting and secure. His kisses were the same but different, closemouthed until he would tug at her bottom lip with his teeth in a more gentle, teasing imitation of what she'd done.

This was the oddest—and hottest—make-out session she'd ever had. As he kissed and nipped at her mouth, she parted her lips and touched the place where she'd bitten him with her tongue, silently giving the apology she'd not been able to say.

He made a sound she'd never heard from him before, a quiet groaning gasp as his body jerked against hers. It was arousing and heady to make him react in that way with barely a touch. Ellie licked that spot again, and he imitated her, his tongue joining his teeth and lips in his campaign to drive her insane with frustration and desire.

A thought fought its way through her cloudy brain, and it was startling enough that she pulled back from him, breathing hard.

“Have you done this before?” He didn't have the sloppy, unskilled manner of a beginner, but she got the impression he was blindly feeling his way through the experience. Each time she introduced something—teeth or tongue—he enthusiastically followed her lead. It felt as if he were learning as he went, picking up cues from her on what was next.

He reacted like she'd slapped him, jerking back and twisting to sit up. Ellie grabbed his shoulders and was pulled up with him. As she eyed the red burning his skin above the line of his beard, she knew he was about to bolt. The memory of the miserable past week flashed through her mind, and she quickly threw a leg over his lap, straddling him.

That startled him enough to keep him sitting for an extra few seconds. When he moved as if to pull her off him, she wrapped her legs and arms around him like a needy monkey.

“Sorry!” She talked fast, trying to get the words out before he peeled her off of him and left. Ellie had no illusions about George's strength—the only reason she was still on his lap was because he allowed it. “I didn't mean it like it's a bad thing. When you kiss me, it's like…whoa. My brain explodes, which partially explains why I just blurted that out like I did. Just ignore it. Pretend I never said anything. Everything was amazing and wonderful and perfect until I opened my stupid mouth.” Squeezing his rigid body tighter, she pressed her face into his neck. “Please don't go.”

An endless silence followed. When George finally sighed, his breath ruffling her hair, and his arms went around her, Ellie fought back relieved tears.

“Sorry.” Her words were still muffled by his neck. The position reminded her of sleeping in the cold, keeping her face buried in just that spot to steal his warmth.

“It's okay.” He stroked her hair, the rough skin on his hands catching a few strands. “You're right.”

In her panic to stop him from leaving, her original question had lost its importance. Now, curiosity kept her quiet and waiting for more information as she melted under his gentle petting.

“I've never…” He stopped and made a frustrated sound.

“Had a girlfriend?” Ellie offered, still keeping her face hidden. She knew from experience that it was sometimes easier to talk without direct eye contact. Besides, she was enjoying the stroke of his hand too much to move. It made her want to purr like a cat.

He nodded, and she felt the motion of his chin.

“Good,” she said with honest satisfaction. When he went still, she sat back so he could see the sincerity in her expression. “The idea of you with someone else is…” Her nose wrinkled as she tried to come up with a word that fully expressed the scorching jealousy that streaked through her at the thought. “Bad. Just really, really bad.”

The grim set to his mouth lightened but didn't fully dissipate. Ellie tried out another one of his gestures and lifted her eyebrows in a silent question. “You could tell,” he said shortly, his gaze moving until he was looking over her shoulder.

Ellie knew she was going to have to be completely, baldly honest with him, no matter how hot her blush burned in embarrassment. “When you kiss me, even just the short one at the cabin, I feel…” Her cheeks were almost painfully hot already, but he'd returned his gaze to hers, so she continued. “It's amazing. I love kissing you, and I just asked what I did because you're so take charge with everything else.” She lowered her voice in a bad imitation of his. “Eat this. Don't tie your boots like that. Sit there. Tell me if you're sweating. Put that on. Take that off.” By the time she finished, he was almost smiling. “With this, it felt like you were letting me lead. It just felt out of character. It was good, though. Very, very,
very
good.”

After studying her for a long moment, he gave a short nod. She felt confident enough that he wasn't going to leave that she loosened her grip around his neck and let her fingers play with his hair.

“How'd that happen, though?”

He cocked his head, his eyes questioning.

“Why hasn't some harpy gotten her claws into you yet?” she clarified and then grinned, lightly scratching at his scalp with her nails. “Except for this harpy, of course.”

His eyes went dark and heavy-lidded as he tilted his head. “Mmm?”

“Never mind,” she laughed. “I can tell I've lost you to the scalp massage. You can tell me later how you escaped the clutches of the Simpson women. I mean, even Chelsea wants to kidnap and clone you.”

His mouth kicked up in a half smile as he leaned into her touch. The enjoyment on his face made her want to kiss him again, but she was worried it would become stiff and awkward with their recent conversation hanging in the air. Instead, she leaned in close and asked, “You hungry?”