Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

EMMA

R usty barks loudly at the door as the wind whips at the cabin. Jacob marches around the house, slamming the shutters closed. I can see his figure moving past the windows, then disappearing when he closes them.

I walk down the hallway. The blizzard came on so fast. I was almost asleep, slipping into a dream where Jacob was holding me, loving me—so far from reality—when a gust of wind hammered against my window.

"Dad?" I knock on his door. No answer. How is he sleeping through this? Dad has always been a hard sleeper, so it wouldn't be surprising. There's no way I'll be sleeping if this carries on. I knock again. "Dad?"

Rusty stops barking when Jacob comes back into the house. Even after being out there for only ten minutes, he's covered in snow from head to foot. He shakes himself off in the entranceway, his heavy coat sending snow into the air. Rusty grins and leaps up, trying to catch it.

"Is he still asleep?" Jacob asks, taking off his coat.

I turn away. Why does he have to be so rugged and handsome all the time? "Yeah."

"He could always sleep through anything."

"I'll wake him for dinner," I say. "What do we do now?"

"This blizzard is our friend," he replies. "If those assholes want to get to us, they'd have a hell of a time now. The only downside is I've lost the internet and my cell signal."

"Me too," I tell him. "But that's okay, right? It's not like we need to call anyone."

"No," he says, walking into the kitchen and glancing at the table. "Is this for me?"

I made him a coffee when he was outside. "Yeah, I set it there to cool. I hope it's not too cold."

He raises the mug and takes a sip. The smile that touches his face is enough to melt parts of me. It makes me forget about the wind hammering and snow flurrying outside. "It's perfect."

"It's just coffee."

He takes an exaggerated sip. I laugh. He's so much more playful than I ever imagined he'd be. "It's perfect coffee."

"I guess I'll go do some reading."

"What are you reading?" he asks.

"It's nothing."

Another smirk. I wonder if he's intentionally doing this, messing with my head. Surely, he knows how much these smiles mean to me. Surely, he knows how much they make my heart sparkle. Or maybe he doesn't. Perhaps he's trying to be distant, too, but he can't.

"You're reading nothing?"

"It's a thriller. About a woman who steals another man's husband."

"That's… interesting."

"What's… interesting about it?"

"Is she the hero or the villain?" he asks.

"Are we starting a book club?"

He sits on the armchair and folds a leg. Rusty comes and sits at his feet. The fire rages, crackling, sending warmth throughout the living room. With the shutters closed, it's like we're in our own world. Somehow, we can forget everything and everybody else.

"Why not? It's not like we have anything else to do."

I sit opposite him on the couch. It feels so homely—so us . If we were a married couple or dating, I imagine the atmosphere would be just like this. "She's the hero… at first. You think she's stealing this man to get back at him for something he did to her in the prologue. Now they've introduced another point of view—the current wife. She's showing a whole new side to her husband. It's complicated."

"Nothing complicated about cheating," he says, staring at me like it's a challenge.

"Maybe not in real life, but books are more complicated."

"Most people have it the other way around."

"Cheating is wrong, plain and simple," I tell him, unable to keep the note of anger out of my voice. "It's just… it's not something people should do. Ever ."

"You don't have to tell me that," he says. "If I ever found a lady, she'd be my one and only, and I'd expect the same from her."

"I'm sure she'd give you what you want," I tell him.

He leans forward, his shoulders almost tearing out of his shirt. He's got such a savage look on his face. It comes and goes like the beast inside him is rising above and plunging beneath the surface. "Are you?"

"Yes," I tell him, my heart suddenly pounding hard. "Your lady won't cheat on you. She won't want anyone else except for you. I'm sure your relationship won't be as messed up as the book's."

"Messed up, how?"

"There's this one scene where he's caught having a folder on his computer. His wife's friend's photos are inside, taken from social media—bikini pics, stuff like that. He tries to argue it's not a big deal because they're all available online."

"But saving them, even looking at them, is fucked," he snaps. "Why would a woman even post a photo like that online? Call me an ass, but all those curves belong to her man. Nobody else."

"That's very… old-fashioned."

"I'm an old-fashioned man, then," he says. "My future lady, hell, she won't be showing the world her curves, her voluptuous body."

"You think…" My chest aches with my racing heartbeat. I glance toward the hallway to ensure Dad hasn't woken up yet. "Your, uh, future lady will have a voluptuous body?"

He leans forward even more. His jeans are all wrinkled around the crotch, making it impossible for me to know if he's as excited as he's making me. "I know she does."

"Does?"

He smirks. " Will ."

If I had any doubts before, that clears them up. He's talking about me. He thinks my curves are voluptuous .

"What else will she have?" I ask.

"A nervous but also somehow confident smile. Her cheeks will get flushed when she's excited and…" Horny . "She'll get this cute-as-hell look in her eyes whenever she's painting."

He suddenly stops, looking at the hallway. I turn, thinking Dad has caught us, but again, nobody's there. It's like he's seeing an image of Dad in his mind, like the specter of the guilt is haunting us. We're playing so many messed-up games to keep indulging in this.

"She sounds like quite the lady," I murmur.

"Yeah." He picks up his coffee. "She is. Why don't you put on a DVD or something?"

"A DVD… so hipster ."

"That was cutting-edge technology once."

He says this almost sadly. It's like he's emphasizing our age gap again. I know it bothers him more than it bothers me. He probably thinks I don't know what I want yet, and maybe he's right. What I want will change. Perhaps I won't always want to paint. Maybe I'll decide I don't want to go to college.

However, what I need will never change. I need him, plain and simple. I'm never going to stop.

We say nothing during the movie. After a while, I get my Kindle. Jacob looks at the screen, but I can tell he's not seeing it. He's thinking of something else, probably the guilt. When it's over, he stands up.

"I'll wake Mike," he says. "It'll be something tinned for dinner. Should've gone to Little Hope before the blizzard."

"Tinned is better than nothing," I tell him.

"You deserve more," he says, and I know he's talking about more than the tins.

Rusty follows him. A few minutes later, Jacob walks back into the room clutching a note.

"What's that?" I ask, but I already know. It's like reality is crashing into me slowly, making the anxiety pulse. "Where's Dad?"

Jacob hands me the note. Even now, when our fingertips brush, a spark of electricity moves between us. It's so out of place, especially when I read the note. I've taken a trip to Little Hope. I'm sorry, but I can't tell you the reason. I'll be back soon.

"What the hell is he doing?" I yell, causing Rusty to bark. "What's in Little Hope for him?"

"I don't know," Jacob grunts. "This is just a safe house. He's never been here before, as far as I know. I don't understand."

"We have to go after him."

Jacob shakes his head. "The snow's too thick now. Your dad's a capable man. If he's got a destination in mind, he'll get there. I'm not worried about his safety."

"What about if the Cartel have found us? What if they get him?"

"They won't," Jacob snaps.

"You don't know that."

He turns away, hands on his hips, his back rising and falling. He even takes a small step toward the door like he wants to charge from here and go after Dad now, but he knows we can't. He knows he has to keep us safe.

"There's nothing to do now except wait for the weather to clear," he says. "I don't like it any more than you do, but Mike probably left hours ago. That's why he said he was having a nap."

"He lied to us."

Jacob turns to me swiftly, a disbelieving look on his face. " He lied to us? "

"Not everything is about you and me," I say. I lie because it doesn't feel that way. Dad's missing. That's all I should be thinking about. Instead, there's a little voice in my mind whispering that we'll be alone now, just Rusty, him, and me, with no Dad to walk in on us.

"Maybe we'll get a phone signal soon," I go on when he doesn't reply.

"Hopefully. If not, Mike will be okay. Like I said, your dad is a?—"

"Your best friend is a capable man."

Like a petty brat, I throw the best friend thing in his face and leave the room. If Dad goes out there and gets hurt, I'll never be able to forgive myself. What sort of daughter spends her dad's final days obsessing over his friend? Rusty follows me into the bedroom, hopping onto my bed when I lie down. I think Jacob must've bathed him. He smells fresh.

He whines and curls up next to me, squashing his body flush up against mine like he's trying to comfort me. I bury my hands in his fur, praying Dad is okay and Mom isn't too freaked by the lack of signal and communication. Jacob and I can resist each other, or can we?