Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Nicole

“Oh, pretty car,” I said, leaning back against the old wood column in the front of the house. Deep among the evergreens and removed from everything, my cabin was alive with the sounds of nature, birds calling in the trees around us. It was a beautiful thing—I still regarded it fondly four years in—with solid wood construction and a little herb garden in the front, empty for the winter. The firepit stood in the little patio on the side, and the gabled loft where I slept had one window on the front, close to the brickwork of the chimney.

It was beautiful, and absolutely nothing compared to Brooke Carston, looking as flawless as ever in a down vest over a turtleneck, hair pulled back into an effortlessly gorgeous, loose wavy ponytail. A light flush of mascara made those gorgeous brown eyes stand out, and a nude lip color—did I mention gorgeous? She stepped out of her pristine laser-blue sedan, a sore thumb out here in the mountains, but to me all it felt like was a reflection of how I couldn’t take my eyes off her anywhere she went.

“Thanks,” she said, shutting the car door behind her. “I’m glad I got snow tires, but I’ve been realizing I should have just gotten a pickup truck instead of snow tires. Maybe a Humvee.”

“You’ll get used to it. Well, a bit less glam than you, miss city-slick superstar, but come inside. I made lasagna.”

“One thing I forgot about this place was that people never stop feeding you,” she said, looking over the cabin. “Not that I’m complaining. Your house is beautiful.”

I’d been a little worried she’d go with cute or quaint or something like that. I relaxed. “Mr. and Mrs. Travis helped build it. Well, I say they helped, but really, they did everything, and I brought them coffee. They barely charged me anything above the cost of materials, too.”

“Let’s be honest, the person who brings coffee is the star player.” When a cold wind swept through, she hugged herself. “Okay. Inside, before I freeze. If your lasagna is anything like that Danish, I’m just staying in this cabin, permanently.”

Oh, but wouldn’t Daniel have a field day with that. Same for my parents, who had asked me plenty of innocuous questions after Brooke visited for dinner yesterday—starting with things like have you and Brooke stayed in touch? and moving quickly to things like, you know, we could use another daughter.

I’d told them to have another daughter, then. I didn’t think that was what they were looking for.

The cabin smelled like cedar and mistletoe year-round, but right now, the smell of tomato sauce and basil drifted through the cabin on top of it. It was a little more open and lighter on the inside, light wood floors and plenty of windows on the back, including sliding glass doors onto a balcony over the entire reason I’d wanted a cabin out here: the mile-high view of where the mountains dropped off and rolled down towards the plains, dotted with evergreens the whole way down.

Brooke barely finished getting her shoes off before she breathed out a quiet, oh, heading over to the back door, standing by the Christmas tree right next to it. I allowed myself just a little smugness as I stepped up next to her.

“I like high places,” I said. “Always been as mercurial as a cat. Turns out I like climbing on top of things just to sit up there, too. I sleep upstairs—in the little loft—and I mostly just like to watch the sun rise out the window.”

“Yeah… I can imagine.” She didn’t look away from the view outside, eyes wide. “It’s beautiful.”

Well, clearly I’m just collecting beautiful sights to look at, I thought. Even I was smart enough to not say that out loud. Brooke probably knew everyone who looked at her found her drop-dead gorgeous. She’d probably been battling off suitors of all genders back in Charlotte already, and it would make things weird if I started talking about how beautiful those eyes of hers were.

“Feel free to have a look at the Christmas tree,” I said, stepping back and turning to the oven in my cozy—kind word for small—kitchen, taking my potholders down from the hook on the wall. “I’m sentimental, so everything on it has its own little story.”

“Painted them all yourself?” She turned to the tree, slowly running her hand over one of the ornaments.

“Not all of them. Lots, though. I keep my favorites out year-round. Except my very favorites, because pulling them out when Christmas season comes around is my sentimental time.”

“I can’t imagine how much work it must take.”

I shrugged, pulling open the oven, sliding out the tray of lasagna, breathing in that sweet smell of basil with the warmth of the tomato sauce. “Not really work. It’s relaxing. And I’ve got to keep my hands busy somehow.”

“Yeah, it’s important.” She trailed her fingers reverently over one ornament, a fjord-inspired landscape painting that rolled around the other side into a winter market. “I keep my hands busy in different ways.”

I almost dropped the lasagna on the floor. I cleared my throat, setting it down before turning back to her, trying not to picture the ways she might… use her hands. “Brooke Carston, are you coming into my cabin and making dirty jokes?”

She flinched, turning back to me with her face scrunched up before she broke out laughing, hanging her head. “Not like—I mean with instruments, Nicole. Oh my god.”

That made sense. In fact, that made a lot more sense than me jumping to conclusions about… well. I cleared my throat again, looking back out the window. “I can’t tell with you,” I said. “You could absolutely be the type to be hiding an innuendo in everything.”

She leaned back against the wall of the stairwell, raising an eyebrow at me. “Well. I haven’t not kept my hands busy in that way, too. But I won’t distract from your beautiful home and this food you made by talking about that.”

That was a relief. I’d only be able to take so much more of that. It was increasingly difficult not to think of Brooke like… “Food is good,” I said. “Let’s grab a seat.”

Luckily, the conversation moved on swiftly from there. Brooke was bubbling over with questions about every little aspect of Mountain Crossing as I served her a plate of lasagna and sat down across from her. When she took a forkful and bit in, she closed her eyes, and there was that moan again. I was starting to think she enjoyed food more than most straight women enjoyed sex.

“You are something else,” she sighed. “This is incredible.”

“Well, I have to make myself useful for something around a house,” I said.

“You mean aside from baking pastries to die for, painting a whole tree’s worth of beautiful ornaments, and getting a house built in the first place?” She shook her head, grinning. “You are a professional at selling yourself short, Nicole.”

“Oh, don’t flatter me,” I laughed, waving her off. “I’ll turn on your Christmas album in retaliation.”

She smirked. “Listen to it a lot?”

I met her challenging gaze with an eyebrow raise. “Only constantly, Brooke. Who wouldn’t want to spend their nights listening to the dulcet tones of Brooke Carston’s voice?”

She laughed, picking up another forkful, still holding my gaze. Was eye contact always this fiery? Had things always felt like this between me and Brooke? We’d been best friends, but I didn’t think best friends encapsulated all of the pleasant stomach-swooping sensations when she looked at me like this.

“Well,” she said, finally, “I’m glad I get to keep you company.”

Dammit. Did I blush? I wasn’t a blusher. I was just caught off-guard. I put on my most serene smile. “You make for the best company. What’s it like, anyway?” I said, effortlessly changing the subject. “You know—famous musician life, and all that.”

She set down her fork, scratching the back of her head. “You say that like I’m some A-list celeb. I’m one of countless people just with one record label, all vying to be hot and trendy.”

“You are hot and trendy. In case I didn’t mention, Brooke Carston fever is everything here.”

“You’re all a bit biased,” she said, but she smiled, giving me a big shrug. “I don’t know. It’s normal, I guess? People get used to anything. It gets frustrating sometimes, having ideas for my music but having the label change it, squeeze me into their country-pop box. But they know what makes music sell, and I want my music to sell.”

“I’m sure you’d be able to sell music without their help.”

“Doubtful. I’m no producer.” She shrugged again, and the way she looked just slightly past me said she didn’t want to talk about this.

“You can crash here to just relax somewhere quiet and write lyrics or play music anytime you like,” I said.

“It is amazing how quiet it is here,” she said, looking around the cabin, her whole demeanor instantly brighter. “Thanks for inviting me. And for the food. I need to have you kidnap me more often.”

“Well, we’re only just getting started,” I said. “After the food, it’s my specialty hot chocolate, and we’re going to paint that ornament together.”

She laughed. “Both of us? Nicole. I’m going to ruin it.”

“Hey, where’s all the confidence? You were always my point girl.”

“Yeah, when we were sneaking into places and had to listen for anyone else, and only because I’m sensitive to sound. That does not translate to painting skill.”

“Confidence is everything, glam girl,” I said. “You’ll do great. Or more accurately, we’re going to collaborate badly and make something ugly, and that ugliness is going to stay on my tree and hold a special place in my heart forever.”

She shrugged, taking another forkful of food. “Should have just said so. You want ugly, just say the word.”

Somehow, it was hard to think Brooke even knew anything other than perfectly beautiful. I wondered what it was like to look in the mirror and see someone that pretty.

After food, I sent Brooke off to the den while I made hot chocolate, telling her she wasn’t allowed to see my secret recipe in action. It was mostly because my secret recipe was a packet of Swiss Miss, but when I unwrapped two peppermint sticks for the two mugs and stirred the chocolate in with them, it smelled like I had a secret recipe. I headed into the den and handed one to Brooke, who took it and sipped gratefully, looking around the room while I knelt at the fireplace to start a fire.

“I know it’s not much, but it’s home,” I said.

“You’re joking, right? It’s a perfect hideout in the woods for a little crime lord.”

I laughed, but she just sank back in the worn old sofa, melting into the blankets and pillows as she looked back to the window.

“I was just thinking this place is perfect. Quiet, beautiful—personal. There’s a million little touches around the house that are so perfectly… you. I could see why someone would want to build a life here.”

I watched her carefully for a minute, studying the outlines of her face in profile as she stared out the window—the soft slope of her nose and then the rounded tip, turned up just slightly, the gentle pout of her lips—before I finished lighting the fire. I dropped down onto the sofa next to her, picking up my cocoa and taking a drink from it before I said, “Do you miss it? Mountain Crossing, I mean.”

She shrugged. “I miss some things. Charlotte’s nice, but… well. This isn’t bad, either.”

The things Daniel would say if he saw us like this. She clearly needs to move back to Mountain Crossing and settle down with some nice woman… don’t you think?

No, Daniel, I did not think. But I had to admit, having Brooke back felt like a big piece of the life I’d been chasing clicked right into place. She wasn’t just a childhood friend I’d had a blast causing trouble with—she was the person I felt safest being around, that one person where I could be with her and have it be as comfortable as being alone. It was stirring up a lot of feelings finding she was just as natural to be around as ever.

“You should visit more often,” I said, quietly. “I really like having you back.”

She gave me a sidelong grin. “That’s what kidnapping is for, isn’t it?”

I nudged her side. “Don’t tempt me, woman. I’ll come down to Charlotte just to take you myself once I’ve gotten fed up with listening to Daniel complain about his book not writing itself.”

“Well, if you want ugly ornaments, I’ll come up and paint them with you as often as you like,” she said, setting down the cocoa. “Let’s get to work.”

I figured I could have used a whole tree of ugly ornaments, if they were for me and Brooke.