A Photo Finish: Chapter 6

HOLY SHIT. This is a lot of messages. I scroll through them, blushing as I go, feeling glad I already promised myself I wouldn’t respond to anyone. I’m only here to look.

Hey, baby . . . Hey, honey . . . I’d like to suck on . . . Don’t be nervous . . . Jesus. Who knew there were so many pervs in the world? I can’t even read them all. It’s too . . . much.

I spent all day busting my butt at the ranch, trying to forget the fact I put a naked picture of myself, entitled “(25F) New and nervous,” on the internet. Since I’ve finished, I’ve come up to my little apartment, made myself some macaroni, and pretended my laptop doesn’t exist. I even watched an episode of Gilmore Girls—that I could barely focus on—before I finally caved and opened the browser.

This forum has tens of thousands of subscribers. How forty-seven of them found me and sent a message is beyond my comprehension. I wring my hands as I imagine what these men have been doing while they look at my picture. This was a bad idea. Very poorly thought out.

A notification for my forty-eighth message pings in the top right corner of my screen. And out of morbid curiosity, I click it.

I nibble at my lip. This message isn’t like the other ones. What’s just one message? It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

Plus, I’m too snoopy to walk away from an open-ended statement like that. What would the proposition be? I flex and release my fingers over the keyboard, itching to type back. If the person says something terrible, it’s not like I’m obligated to respond.

Ah, fuck it. I’m going for it.

I see the dots pulsing on the screen, showing that they’re typing. My knee jiggles rapidly, tapping into the wooden bottom of my too-small table. Is this person writing me a novel?

I rear back. Daaammnnn. What the hell? What a bizarre and clinical proposition. As good as an extra four thousand dollars a month sounds, there’s no way I would do this. It’s not that I consider myself above it, it’s more that the whole thing completely defeats my goal of not living under another person’s thumb. I don’t want to follow another person’s directions. Even as I try to do the conversion to Canadian dollars in my head.

My cheeks heat. I should just say no. But now I’m intrigued. I have questions.

I think about walking away right now. I don’t owe this guy an explanation. But being forward and direct with someone I don’t know from Adam just feels easier.

I feel my cheeks pink a bit at the compliment. The man may be a total stranger, but his words still land in a way that makes me feel soft and gooey. It’s been too long since you last had sex, Vi.

He doesn’t respond after that.

I WANT to open my eyes. But they feel so heavy that it’s borderline not worth it. I try to pry them open; I really do. But they’re just so. Damn. Heavy. I give up, sigh, and roll over.

Pain lances through my body. From my toes all the way to the tops of my ears. I’m like one big ball of pain. My eyes shoot open easily now as I gasp, “Ah! Shit!” And opt to stay exactly where I am, flat on my back.

I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on breathing through my nose. If I don’t move at all, nothing hurts. The perfect solution. Except, with my eyes closed, images flash through my mind. Patrick Cassel. The mud. DD. Oh god, DD.

The stream of consciousness won’t stop. We went down. My leg. The hospital. The drive back to the . . . My eyes snap open, and I look around the unfamiliar room. “Mothereffer.”

Cole Harding.

I groan and pull the covers up over my face as I sift through my hazy memories, dying a little inside when I get to the one where I openly commented on his biceps. How am I going to face him after that? We were doing so well at pretending the other doesn’t exist. It was the perfect solution. That strategy has been an absolute success for a year now. I had hoped we could just continue it, even though he was going to be living out here. That was my plan. I like having a plan.

But now it’s trash. Because I’m sleeping in his house, and my season is down the toilet.

I’m pretty much living my nightmare.

I shake my head at my misfortune and click my tongue against the top of my mouth, trying to get some saliva happening in place of the dry, cottony feeling. I need a drink, and I need to brush my teeth. Looking over at my bedside table, I see a full glass of water. I want it so badly that I decide it’s worth moving. Even though I feel like one huge bruise, I shift myself over and up to lean against the headboard. It almost takes my breath away, the weight of the pain pressing in on me. It’s everywhere, and it throbs.

But when I put that glass against my lips and taste that first drop of water, I know it was worth it. No pain, no gain. But seriously, where are my painkillers?

I want to stay in hiding. I don’t want to face Cole with his stupid, handsome scowl and big biceps that do funny things to my stomach. It’s not fair. I’m all broken, and now I’m supposed to face off with the man I’ve been avoiding for a year.

The universe is cruel, but this full body ache I have going on is worse.

The allure of painkillers is stronger than my desire to hide out in the bedroom all day to avoid Cole, so I slowly flip my legs over the side of the bed, gasping a little as I go, and then hobble out into the main living space on my walking cast, wincing with every step.

I limp to the kitchen island, hoping to see a bottle of painkillers somewhere. It doesn’t even look like anyone lives here. Everything is sterile, every countertop perfectly clear, not even a wallet and keys tossed down, or a water glass left behind. Maybe he left? My heart soars at the prospect. That would be ideal. Then I’d be able to have a full-blown meltdown about not being able to ride for a month by mys—

“Why are you up and walking around?” Cole’s cool voice is like a spray of frigid water against my back. Shocking and unpleasant. It leaves me breathless. So I freeze, not wanting to turn around and look at him. Because I know what I’ll see. And I hate that I’ll like it. Just focus on his lack of personality and you’ll be fine. Don’t be a baby.

I turn rigidly, slowly, while keeping one hand on the counter. I basically prop myself up. I need something to hold on to if I’m going to look him in the eyes again. Intelligent eyes, like granite almost, a mosaic of grays and silvers, rove over my body as though he’s measuring me to see what size box he’ll need to pack me in to ship me off.

“I . . . I need some painkillers.”

Cole snorts and crosses his arms. He’s standing in the front entryway of the house, door flung open, and sun shining in from behind him. The way its rays wrap themselves around his brutish form makes him look like a glowing silhouette. He reminds me of a solar eclipse—and I know you’re not supposed to look at those. It’s dangerous.

I turn my head away, blinking and trying to find some equilibrium. Trying to focus on the throbbing in my leg that, in his presence, has dulled to a low thrum because my body is focusing on all the other feelings he brings up. Embarrassment, sadness, longing. I hate that he can still do this to me, so I concentrate on the pain, trying to pull it back up and wrap it around myself like a shield. I want to feel better, but I don’t want it to be because I’m looking at Cole Harding.

This is living proof that the man is a drug I can’t resist. But I dropped the addiction once before, and I’m stronger now. I’m on a different path, one he can’t join me on. There would be far too many complications. Even more than before.

I pinch my shoulder blades together and jut my chin out. “Where are they, Cole?”

“In the cupboard above the fridge.”

I turn to hobble away from him, wishing I were wearing something other than a pair of too-big sweatpants that say “Vancouver” across the ass and an oversized T-shirt with an Orca whale across the chest. I traveled by ambulance to the hospital and, needless to say, my clothes were mud-soaked. And this sweet little getup is what Billie bought for me at the gift shop. At least it’s clean.

I stare at the fridge, and then I look up at the cupboard above it. Did he intentionally put the drugs somewhere I wouldn’t be able to reach?

“I can’t reach that,” I grit out through clamped teeth, intentionally not looking at him. My composure is fraying rapidly and agitation mixes with dread. A whole month of this. Maybe more! Now that they’ve given me the chance, all I want to do is compete. Win. Prove myself. Not take a month off to live in the same house as Cole Harding.

“I know,” he says simply, without a trace of humor in his tone. Jerk.

My head snaps toward him, and I feel my eyes widen in their sockets, my lips rolling against each other almost painfully. I hate feeling coddled like this. “Take them down. Now.”

He’s leaning casually against the door frame, still staring at me coolly, but now his eyes are focused on my lips. Not exactly jumping into action to help me which is even more infuriating. Being made to feel helpless is the worst feeling in the world, and men have a bad habit of doing it to me. I don’t know if it’s because I’m small or quiet, but it fires me up. My dad and brothers did it to me without even realizing that putting baby sister up on a pedestal was some real patriarchal bullshit. Even if they meant well, it wasn’t doing me any favors, and it’s ultimately why I struck out on my own. But Cole . . . he’s just doing it to be a dick. To make a power play. And I loathe it with every fiber of my being. I won’t stand for it.

“I don’t know how Vaughn turned out to be such a gentleman when you turned out to be this.” I wave my hand over his body dismissively, watching his eyes flare and his jaw tick as he clamps his teeth down. “I’ll get them myself.” I take one limping step toward the big farm table, planning to drag a chair back to the cupboards and stand on it to reach the medicine.

But before I can even get there, he says, “Violet. Stop.”

When I look up, he’s taking sure strides across the airy farmhouse and rounding the opposite side of the island before he comes to stand beside me. At what must be 6′1″ or 6′2″ he can, of course, easily reach the cupboard.

He pulls the small orange pill bottle out from where it sits, surrounded by what looks like a bunch of bottles of vitamins and supplements. I crane my neck to see what they might be, trying to read the labels, before I blurt out, “Grab yourself some happy pills while you’re up there.”

He turns to me slowly—almost too slowly—before placing the painkillers on the butcher block island. I expect him to slam them down, but his movements are soft and quiet—a little unnerving if I’m being honest.

Just because I spent a year writing back and forth with the guy doesn’t mean I know his mannerisms. In fact, I know little about him. He was never forthcoming, and I’ve realized, in the aftermath of permanently logging out of my account, that he mostly just played along with a lonely young girl who needed someone to talk to. And to get off. Once.

“If I’m going to live out here, I might need to invest in some.”

Was that . . . a joke? I honestly can’t tell. I peer up into his face, scouring his features for some trace of humor and finding none. What I find is a fine white scar that cuts through his thick right eyebrow and points up to his hairline. Something I’ve never noticed before because I’ve never really had the chance to admire him up close. And I am admiring him, because he’s flipping hot. The kind of man who has been—as they say—designed by women. Rugged and harsh, masculine to his core. He looks like he could manhandle the hell out of a girl. A thought that makes my pulse race.

“I’m sorry. I know this . . . we . . .” I fumble around with my words, feeling a blush stain my cheeks. I look away, out the front window toward the green hills, and take a deep breath. This can’t be my reality for the next month; it just can’t. “I can understand why you wouldn’t want to live with me. I’ll find somewhere else to stay for the next little bit.”

He turns away to grab a glass. “Go sit down.” I want to tell him to take a hike, but sitting sounds really appealing, and I decide this isn’t my hill to die on. Not today anyway. Not when all I want is some water and some pain relief.

I move gingerly around the island, knowing I’m supposed to use crutches, but not knowing how I’ll do that when my ribs and shoulders hurt the way they do. Once I’ve heaved myself onto the simple wooden stool at the counter, I watch him turn the tap on and fill the glass.

I try not to look at his ass, but I fail. It’s not sweatpants weather, but he’s wearing them anyway, and wearing them well. Tapered at the ankle and snug around the waist. When he faces me again, I roll my lips together and pull my hair over one shoulder so that I can run my fingers through it.

I swear he lifts the glass and sniffs it before saying, “Here,” and sliding it across the island toward me. His hand engulfs the glass. It looks like a child’s cup in his grip.

I take the water once he’s completely let go, not wanting to risk a brush of his fingers against mine, and then reach for the bottle of pills. I read the directions on the bottle. It says two pills every six hours. “I think I’ll go with one,” I mostly mumble to myself.

“Probably a good idea.”

My eyes flash up to his. Dick. Now I want to take two just so he doesn’t get the satisfaction of seeing me do what he says.

I twist the top off roughly and toss the lid down on the counter. “Didn’t really ask your opinion, did I?” I shake one out onto my palm and toss it back into my mouth.

“Nope. I’m just here to provide the biceps,” Cole deadpans, and I freeze. The bitter taste of the chalky pill dissolving on my tongue fills my mouth as I glare back at him.

Embarrassment flares up in my chest, and I force myself to choke back some water before whispering a quiet, “I’m sorry,” as my eyes dart around everywhere but in his direction.

“For what?” He leans back against the edge of the opposite counter and stares me down like he’s trying to incinerate me on the spot. His gaze is . . . unnerving.

But I don’t want to let him know I think as much, so I sit up tall and flatten my hands out on the wood counter. “For last night. I wasn’t myself. I just . . . don’t like being told what to do.”

A smirk graces his full mouth now, and his look flicks from cool disinterest to . . . something else . . . as his eyes roam over my body, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “That’s not how I remember it.”

My fingers pulse around the glass of cold water. Do not throw this at him. You’re an adult. Walk away.

“Like I said,” I glare at him now, pushing to stand and trying not to wince, keeping my voice as even as possible, “I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

And then I turn and hobble back to the safety of the spare room. I want to mope in private.