Heart Thaw (11 page)

“Why would I lie about that?” I press my palm on his jaw and my fingers spread over the rough bristle of his facial hair. “I know I acted like a jerk, but it was because I was scared of the way I feel. Trust me, I wish I thought about you less.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He rolls away, and I sit up, cross-legged next to him.

“Everything is already so complicated. And then we…well, you know. So could this possibly be good, Trent? I mean, we can’t just keep having sex and being awkward together. And it’s not like we’re going to be couple or anything. It’s not like we have any good options.”

I tuck my hair behind my ears and suddenly feel completely uncomfortable and exposed. His St. Christopher medallion is slung down his back. He pulls it forward and rubs the medal between his fingers.

“Do you ever listen to the shit you say? Like, do you ever just consider the words that are about to come out of your mouth for a single second before you say them?”

“Don’t get pissed at me because I’m telling the truth.” My skin prickles with annoyance. “Just because you want something, that doesn’t mean you get to have it. It doesn’t even mean you
should
have it. Sometimes some things are just too complicated. And it’s best if you just leave them alone.”

“Or fuck them when you get horny on your winter break?”

He stretches his arms behind him, cradling the back of his head on his hands. Every muscle draws tight, and my mouth goes dry.

“That’s not…whatever.”

My head spins, and I stand up to go pass out on the couch.

Trent pulls me back down with a yank, and I land on the bed in a heap. His face, glaring down at me, is just on the edge of homicidal.

“Sometimes when you want something so bad, it’s worth fighting for.”

“What would I be fighting for? Seriously? You and me, how do we even make sense? You’re my best friend’s little brother.”

I twist my fingers around themselves and try to avoid the lasers his eyes are shooting at me.

“If you refer to me as your best friend’s little brother one more time, I swear to God, I will lose my shit,” he growls. “I know you watched me play in the fucking mud and build snow forts, but guess what? Every guy did that when he was a kid, okay? Except that asshole Jace.” He narrows his eyes at me. “I imagine him playing with his little ‘future hedge-fund douchebag’ kit, complete with a clip-on Armani tie and a tiny ‘SOCOOL’ license plate for his mini-Ferrari.”

“Jace wasn’t a finance major. He was pre-law.” I glare back at Trent.

“And you were impressed with that? With him?” Trent shakes his head with disgust.

“Oh, I’m sorry that,
yes
, it did impress me to be with someone who had college ambitions and was motivated. No offense, but working at Home Depot isn’t exactly a career move. You can do so much better. You’re so smart, you could be doing so much with your life if you just applied yourself. You have to grow up sometime.”

I can hear my voice whining into preachiness, and I hate it, but I really do care about him, and I want to see him succeed. And I am so pissed at him for tossing every opportunity away.

“You know, you never asked me.”

He rakes his fingers through his hair and holds it back from his face, his elbows pointed out, his mouth a hard line.

“Asked you what?”

Instead of answering me, he pulls his jeans back over his long, muscled legs and stuffs his shirt over his wide shoulders, inside-out. He leans down and his hand cups my face, his thumb running along my jaw gently.

“
Anything
.” He leans in, and I pucker without meaning to. He pauses, one millimeter away from my lips, then plants a kiss just to the side of my mouth. “Merry Christmas, Sadie.”

“Wait! You’re leaving? You can’t. Mom expects you tomorrow.” I’m shocked that tears smolder at the edges of my eyes and my throat feels like I’ve spent hours in a smoky room.

“I’ll be here, bright and early. I’d never disappoint your mom.” He makes his way to the stairs with long, angry strides and pauses a few steps up. “Would have been a pretty shitty idea for the two of us to wake up on Christmas morning naked, in bed in your mom’s basement together anyway. I don’t want to get you mixed up in my immature fuckups. Night.”

I fall back on the lumpy mattress and hear a wrapper crinkle. The condom, dug from under my back, glints back at me with broken promises. The roar of Trent’s motorcycle disturbs the silence of the night.

I wonder if it’s snowing. I wonder if he’s sober enough to be on that damn thing. I wonder why I didn’t say goodnight, tell him how much I care about him.

I wonder why I didn’t keep my big, flapping mouth shut and let myself tangle around Trent Toriello, the sexiest, most frustrating guy I’ve ever met in my entire life...and the one complication I just can’t afford right now.

Chapter Seven

Christmas this year starts later than it ever has before. When we were kids, Christmas started as soon as the lightest gray dawn lit up the sky, and we exploded out of bed to wake our moms.

When we got to be old, sleepy teens, Eileen always kicked us out of bed, flipped on
A Christmas Story
for background noise, and got busy handing out gifts. She and my mom sat on the couch, coffee mugs with lipstick stains gripped hard in their hands, their happy, throaty chuckles mixing with the flash of the cameras.

I creep into the deserted living room, still dark except for the tree’s soft glow, and wonder if I should flip the television on. Whose job is it now that Eileen is gone?

Eileen is gone.

I touch the glass bikini-clad frog.

“I miss you, Mrs. T. So much. You know Georgie’s pregnant? I promise I’ll be there for her. And Trent. I’ll be careful. I’ll keep it how it was. I know that’s the best way. We have to keep things the way they were, because none of us can deal with it anymore changes right now. We’re all barely holding it together as is. God we miss you.”

My face is wet, and, even though I’m whispering, I’m scared someone will hear me, so I stop talking.

In a few hours everyone will get up. Christmas will start, and I just promised my best friend’s dead mother I would help keep things how they were.

Which means I need Trent. I need to find him and make things right, before this day turns to complete and utter crap. I scribble a note to mom.

Mom –

I was worried about Trent riding his motorcycle over in the snow. Thought I’d go pick him up.

Love you,

Sadie

I clench the keys in my fist and rush out into the freezing morning air. My hair is still damp from the shower I took when I first woke up, and I’m wearing what I could scrounge together from the laundry room, since I didn’t want to rustle around in my room and wake Georgia. Luckily, my favorite dark jeans were in there. Unluckily, the only shirt was a low-cut, sexy black wrap-top of Ella’s. It’s nice enough that I felt weird wearing it without a little bit of makeup.

I have to make do with what’s floating around in my purse, but I manage to find a tube of only-slightly-clumpy mascara and put my lipstick to dual use as a blush, too. I look fine, other than the dark, purple circles under my eyes.

I almost skid on the slick road twice on my way to Trent’s, and am suddenly even more sure that this is a mature, responsible idea. This is no weather for him to be riding that motorcycle in.

I turn down the bumpy, pine-tree-lined drive that leads to the tiny cabin Trent’s father’s father left him in his will. I haven’t seen it since we were kids stopping by to play in the creek behind it—other than that one night with Trent when it was in a state of being-rebuilt-chaos and we were busy getting...well, busy—so I’m completely shocked by what I see today.

The front yard is landscaped with neatly trimmed bushes surrounded by decorative rocks. The siding has been stained a deep, warm brown. The door is sparkly glass, new and inviting. There are copper walkway lights, large, smooth gray pavers, and a freshly slated front porch with two small potted pine trees winking with twinkle lights in the dim dawn. My amazement at the beautiful little cabin floats me to the front door, where I push the doorbell before I glance at the tiny grove of young trees, newly planted.

On the east side of the house.

Where the sun is rising.

Just
rising.

I snatch my finger to my chest, wishing I could take the ring back. But I can see movement on the other side of the glass and the door swings open.

Trent stands in only his boxers, and my mind rushes back to the alcohol-blurred shadows of last night.

“Sadie? What are you doing here?”

“The roads…um, there was ice out. I worried. About you. On your motorcycle. Shit. It’s really early. I’m sorry.”

I start walking backwards. Trent has dark rings under his eyes, but he rubs his face and waves me in.

“Where the hell are you going? You came all the way over to save me from certain death on my bike. The least I can do is get you some coffee as a thank you for taking pity on me.”

I step over the threshold and my eyes widen because I’ve been a complete and total ass.

I know
nothing at all
about Trent Toriello.

“Wow. I...I remember a lot of really funky orange and green wallpaper. I mean, where there the walls used to be. And animal heads. And linoleum. And lots of harvest gold appliances.”

I turn in a slow circle, not even bothering to close my mouth. This transformation deserves a hanging-open mouth.

Trent walks across his dark slate kitchen floor and pulls a French press across the black soapstone countertop. He takes the teapot off of the stainless steel stove and puts it under the gooseneck brushed-chrome faucet of the shiny black farm sink. Once he fills the teapot and puts it on the heat, he opens cherrywood cabinets and takes out two large, ceramic mugs.

“I did some work to the place.” Trent points to an antique grinder attached to the wall next to the sunny, open dining room with its asymmetrical oak table. “Mind grinding some beans for me?”

I walk across the wide-planked wood floor and turn the handle. A crunching sound and the rich smell of freshly ground roasted beans fills the air.

“This place is totally transformed. I can’t believe it. I remember it being entirely decorated in plaids and bad shag carpeting. Did you do this all yourself?”

He crosses his tattooed arms over his chest and his lips twist in a smile that’s slightly mean.

“I’m a man of many talents, once you look past all my immaturity.”

My hand grips tighter on the handle as I grind with more aggressive determination.

“Sorry about that. I had no idea you’d done all this.”

“Well, it’s kinda hard to know if you never ask. Anything.”

His voice is clipped and dry.

“Sorry. I really am sorry. I’ve just been really overwhelmed the last few months. I’m in my last year of college, and I have no idea what I’m going to do. I’m an art history major. What the hell kind of job will I get with that? I’m flunking French, I haven’t even started my master’s program applications, my GRE scores were pretty shitty, and the one guy everyone kept saying made so much sense for me wound up making my mom cry.”

The grinder whirs faster, and Trent scowls at the mention of Jace.

“I’m a mess. A fucking mess. And I was sitting up at school thinking, ‘Well at least I can come home and it will all be okay.’ But mom is barely holding it together, Ella and I are either fighting or avoiding each other, Georgia is having a fucking baby, and there’s me and you.”

My voice is so high-pitched, it wobbles on the brink of smashing into a jillion tiny, sharp pieces.

The teapot screeches, but Trent ignores it and walks across the kitchen to me. He loosens my fingers from the handle of the grinder and pulls me into his arms, against the clean, bare skin of his chest.

“Shh.” He runs a hand over my hair. “You’re going to do great in all your classes. You’ll kick French’s ass. You’ll get into every program you apply to. That shithead you dated is going to lose all his hair and sport a gnarly beer belly in another five years, and when you run into him, he’s going to try hard to get your number, and you’re going to laugh in his face. Mom and Ella and George are all fine. I’m here to keep an eye on them. All of them. And you.”

My heart jumps and sputters in my chest. I feel a slow, sure heat that cyclones under my ribcage so fast it sucks my breath away.

The shrill whistle of the teapot gets more violent, and I rush to turn it off. When I turn back, Trent is carrying the ground coffee over.

“We’re going to be awake all day.”

He holds out the over-full glass of fragrant ground coffee, and the mix of the intoxicating aroma plus the fact that I was cradled in his arms a few seconds ago—
plus
the fact that I just spilled my guts to him like a loon,
plus
the fact that his house is so gorgeous and he’s so unexpectedly amazing—makes me feel very, very swimmy.

“Sorry. Can I, um, use the bathroom?”

He spoons ground coffee into the French press and answers without looking up.

“Mi casa es su casa. You don’t have to ask.”

I stumble down the hall, taking note of the gorgeously understated wallpaper, gray with the white outlines of naked birches and bright red cardinals here and there, which pops against the rich, dark wood floor. The bathroom is all tiny gray glass tiles, glistening stainless steel accents, and stark white porcelain. I look around for scuzz or hair or grime, but this bathroom is so spotless, it could be in a magazine spread. It takes me ten minutes to figure out how to get the fancy faucet to run cold water over my hands so I can press them to my face. I wind up blotting some of the makeup off, but I need to cool down.

I came here to make peace and drive Trent over for the most normal Christmas possible. But I expected a skuzzy, run-down cabin and Trent a hung-over mess. All this beauty and Trent expertly handling a French press do not mesh with my imaginings.

I look in the mirror and glare at my reflection.

“You are
not
allowed to fall apart all over him,” I hiss at my reflection. “You are supposed to be putting things right. Not turning into a raging, horny imbecile. Get your shit together, Sadie.”

I peek down the hallway, and Trent is bent over the countertop, pressing down on the French press handle, his shoulders and arms flexed with gorgeously bulged muscles.

My eyes drink in the long, smooth line of his spine, the firm curve of his ass, the strong stretch of his legs. He pours two mugs of coffee and adds sugar and cream to mine, so it’s light and sweet, the way he knows I like it.

He hands the mug to me when I walk into the kitchen and holds his up so we can clink in a toast.

“To the best fucking Christmas we can fake.”

His smile is small and labored.

“Cheers.” I tap my mug to his and drink a blissful sip of the creamy coffee. “This is so good. I didn’t know you liked coffee.”

He shrugs. “I guess I’m a man of many mysteries.”

“So, tell me about the house. You fixed it yourself?” I slide up onto his countertop and gaze around, taking in the dimmer switches that control expertly placed pot lights, the arched entryways, and low-hung, tastefully simple chandelier in the foyer. “It’s gorgeous.”

“Yeah. Pretty much all me.” He moves from one foot to the other and flicks his eyes around reluctantly. “We should get going to your place.”

He gulps his coffee down and sets the mug in the sink. I trace my fingers over the smooth, cold counter and study the raised image of a rabbit lying in the grass on the front of the sink.

“My mom always wanted a farm sink.”

“Yeah? I didn’t know that.”

Trent tries to sound nonchalant, but I can tell from the bite of his fingers on the counter he’s tense.

“They’re really expensive.” I pop off the counter and come to stand next to him at the sink. “Was this one? Expensive?”

His mouth works back and forth for a second before he squints at me.

“I guess. Why?”

“Did you get a discount? Like for working at Home Depot?”

Trent in a faded t-shirt slumped on my couch works. Trent in a beat apron at the hardware store works. Trent spray painting the trestle with gorgeous but illegal art works.

But Trent in the middle of this chic, understated masterpiece of a kitchen? Something isn’t right.

“We get ten percent off.” He sighs and shuts his eyes, like he’s dreading my questions. My brain whirs and my throat closes up.

“You’re not dealing again, are you?”

I barely manage to get the words out. Could he be that stupid? Last time the judge went easy on him. Mom said he could have gotten a lot worse than the slap on the wrist he wound up with.

The sliver rings in his eyebrow and over his ears flash as the sun breaks through the trees and shines in his sparkly kitchen windows. He looks right at me, his eyes shot through with a deep, flat black.

“Why is it that you always expect the worst when it comes to me?” His voice is harsh, like the grating whine of a tile saw on stubborn granite.

“I don’t.” I hold my hands up and gesture at the room. “It’s just…all this! It must have cost a lot. Where did you get the money from?”

“Maybe I took out a homeowner’s loan.”

The words break out of his mouth in brittle, fragmented pieces, and I feel my knees give a little with relief.

“Oh. That makes sense. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions like that. It’s just really gorgeous, Trent. And I know this is expensive. I can tell.” Now that I know this didn’t come from illegal dealing that could get his ass thrown in jail, I smile at him, relieved. “Are you going to give me the whole tour?”

But he doesn’t return my smile.

“So this shit impresses you?”