Colorado 01 The Gamble (4 page)

Human enough to escape.

I walked to the railing and looked
downstairs, left then right. Max wasn’t in the kitchen or living
room.

I looked out the windows and saw the snow
and pine trees, white and green jagged mountaintops breaking the
blue sky, breathtaking landscape, a fabulous view as far as the eye
could see.

I also saw that the drive had been cleared
of snow including a large, level area at the front of the house.
The one track lane that led to the road was also cleared as was the
road leading away. My rental car was sitting in front of the house
shining in the sun, so bright, it was eye watering. It looked like
it’d never been touched by snow.

There was no Cherokee.

“Max?” I called, my voice sounded untried,
weak. I cleared my throat and called louder, “Max?”

Nothing.

Thank God. He was gone.

Then knowing I should get a move on, I just
stood there, all I needed to do crashing in and pressing down on
me. I didn’t know what to do first.

I’d always had the terrible habit of looking
at any problem, no matter how big, as a whole problem. Charlie was
always telling me to break it down, make the big problem into
smaller problems, take it one step at a time.

I looked at the bed and my suitcase.

Shower. Shower first, get dressed, get some
food in me, a quick snack, energy. Water, I needed to rehydrate.
And coffee. I needed caffeine. Then write a note of thanks to Max,
pack up my car and get out of there, drive down the mountain and
spend two weeks in Denver.

I’d never really been to Denver just the
airport and a grocery store but it seemed like a lovely place. And
people lived in Denver, there had to be things to do. Cinemas.
Shopping. Museums. I could find stuff to do in Denver. Maybe I
could find me in Denver. Maybe I could figure out my life in
Denver.

Denver it was.

I went to my bag and pulled out things I
needed, went to the bathroom, dumped them there then back to the
suitcase for clothes.

Then I caught sight of the bed and got
side-tracked when I decided that I should probably change the
sheets on the bed. No one wanted to sleep in a bed after a sick
person had been there. Max might have been a jerk when I first met
him but he’d been
not
a jerk when
I’d been sick. He deserved clean sheets.

So I pulled off the big, fluffy, chocolate
brown covered down duvet and yanked the sheets off the bed,
throwing them into a pile at the foot. The internet advertisement
of the A-Frame said it had a washer and drier. I’d put the sheets
in the wash after my shower and tell Max in the note where to find
his sheets so he wouldn’t think I made off with them. Not that he’d
think I’d steal his sheets but who knew. People did all sorts of
weird stuff at a rental.

I went to the bathroom and halted in front
of the mirror when I caught a look at myself.

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

My face was pale, there were purple-blue
shadows under my eyes but it was my hair that caught my attention.
My hair was a disaster.

I hadn’t lucked out much in life but one
thing I had lucked out with was my hair. I had a lot of it, it was
thick and it looked good practically anytime day or night, even
just waking up or when I hadn’t washed it a couple of days. I’d had
a few unfortunate perms when I was younger but usually it looked
great no matter what length or what cut or, being honest, what
color. Currently it was highlighted a light blonde, the streaks of
blonde liberal through my naturally somewhat mousy brown hair and
I’d let it grow kind of long.

Now, it was dank, partially matted and
frightening.

I pushed aside the frightening vision of me,
brushed my teeth, washed my face and jumped into the shower. This
was taking a lot out of me. I’d just battled a serious fever and I
hadn’t had food in who knew how long. I should probably rest,
definitely take a second out to eat a banana or something but I had
no idea where Max was. I was hoping he was at work. That would give
me plenty of time to do what I had to do and escape.

I got out of the shower, lotioned my body,
perfumed, pulled a comb through my hair glorying in the feeling of
being clean. I decided that showers worked wonders. They were
mini-miracles. Especially Max’s shower which was separate from the
bath, tiled in beautiful taupe and brown veined marble and big
enough for two.

I pulled on my underwear and the pair of
jeans I bought that Niles shook his head at when I showed them to
him. Niles didn’t understand the jeans or the other stuff I bought
for my rustic, timeout adventure to Colorado, thinking my purchases
would help me fit in with the natives. Niles wore suits to work and
large whale corduroys and cashmere sweaters when he was relaxed and
at home. I’d never seen him in jeans and definitely not faded,
secondhand jeans.

I’d bought them specifically for my Colorado
adventure in a secondhand clothing store on Park Street in Bristol
that specialized in vintage American clothes. They were faded and
there was a tear in the back pocket, the threads bleached white,
and I thought they looked hip. They also fit like they were made
for me and they made my somewhat generous behind look good.
Therefore, I loved them.

I paired them with a wide, tan belt and my
lilac, long-sleeved t-shirt that had fitted sleeves so long they
came over my wrists and had a boat neck that was so wide sometimes
it fell off my shoulder.

Then I gathered all my stuff and walked out
of the bathroom and smelled bacon cooking and saw that the dirty
sheets had been taken away.

I closed my eyes slowly.

I should probably not have taken time to
strip the bed though that would have been rude.

And maybe I should have left out lotioning
and, probably, standing under the strong, hot spray of the shower
for a full five minutes, just letting the water wash over me and
bring me back to life.

Well Max was home and I had no choice, I’d
have to thank him in person. No, I’d have to face him, tall,
amazing-looking, gravelly-voiced Max Whatever-His-Last-Name-Was who
had seen me mostly naked and took care of me while I was
sick
then
I’d have to
thank him in person.

Get it over with,
Charlie would say to me.
Always good to do
the shit stuff fast, get it out of the way.

Charlie, as ever (if he’d been there but,
unfortunately, he was not), was right.

I sighed, threw Max’s t-shirt on the
armchair and dumped my toiletries in my bag. Then in bare feet I
walked to the spiral staircase and descended.

When I hit the living room I saw him
standing at the stove, his back to me. He was wearing another
thermal, no flannel this time. It was wine colored and it fit him
perfectly. Maybe a bit
too
perfectly. You could even see some of his muscles defined
through the shirt and there appeared to be a lot of them. He was
again wearing faded jeans. The waves of his thick hair at the back
were just as perfect as they were from the front. Maybe even more
perfect. Maybe even his hair was the definition of
perfection
.

I was five feet from the bar when he turned,
fork in hand.

His gray eyes hit me, they did a sweep from
head to toe and back again, he smiled and I stopped moving.

“She lives,” he said in his strangely
attractive, gravelly voice.

His eyes and his voice both felt physical,
like a touch, a nice one. I felt blood rush to my cheeks as I
lifted my hand to my hair and found it wet and slicked back, so I
dropped my hand and my head and, looking at my feet, I mumbled,
“Sorry.”

“For what?” he asked and I looked at him
again.

“For –”

“You inject yourself with a flu bug?”

“No.”

“Shit happens,” he muttered and turned back
to the stove.

Well, I had to admit, shit definitely
happened. Though not much shit happened to me anymore. I did my
best to avoid that for a good long while but it used to happen to
me and I knew it still happened because I heard from my friends
when shit happened to them.

“Anyway, I’ll just –”

“Sit down,” he ordered, dropping the fork on
the counter and moving to the fridge.

“I’m sorry?”

He had the fridge open but he looked at me.
“Sit down.”

“I thought I’d –”

“You need juice,” he declared and pulled out
what appeared to be the cranberry juice I bought in Denver.

“Really, I should just –”

He closed the fridge and pinned me with his
eyes. “Duchess, sit your ass down.”

Well. What did I say to that?

I didn’t know but I started, “Max –”

“Ass on a stool or I’ll put it on a
stool.”

Was he serious?

“Max, I need to –”

“Eat.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You need to eat. You haven’t had anything
in two days.”

I forgot about him being somewhat rude and
definitely domineering and felt my head move forward with a jerk at
the same time I felt my eyes grow wide.

“What?” I whispered.

“You been out of it for two days.”

I looked out the window as if the landscape
could tell me this was false (or true). Then my eyes went back to
Max.

“Two days?”

“Yep.”

“It’s Tuesday?”

“Yep.”

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

“Sit down, Nina.”

Too shocked by the knowledge that I’d lost
two whole days of my timeout adventure, without another word I
moved forward and sat down on a stool. Max poured me a glass of
cranberry juice and set it on the counter in front of me then he
moved away.

“Coffee,” I muttered, “please.”

“Gotcha.”

“Two days,” I whispered to my cranberry
juice before I took a sip.

“You remember any of it?” he asked and my
eyes moved quickly to him.

His back was to me and he was pouring a cup
of coffee.

Now, what did I do?

Did I tell him yes, I remembered him taking
care of me? Giving me medicine, keeping me hydrated, wiping my
brow, getting into bed with me and holding me until the tremors
went away, changing my t-shirt, stroking my back? Did I tell him I
remembered him being so sweet?

Since I wasn’t intending on thinking of any
of that (ever), I decided to lie.

“Remember any of it?” I parroted.

He turned and walked the coffee to me.
“Yeah, you were pretty out of it. Do you remember any of it?”

I nodded as he set the coffee cup in front
of me and affirmed, “I was really out of it so actually, no. I
don’t remember anything.”

He watched me for several seconds then he
dipped his head to the coffee cup and asked, “Do you take
cream?”

“Cream?”

He grinned. “Yeah, Duchess, cream. You got
that in England?”

“We don’t call it cream.”

“What do you call it then?”

“What it is. Milk.”

“All right, you take milk?”

“Yes.”

“Sugar?”

“One.”

“One what?”

“One sugar.”

He was still grinning but he shook his head
and went to the fridge. He pulled out a gallon jug of milk and set
it on the counter by me. Then he pulled out a huge, unopened bag of
sugar and, if I wasn’t wrong, I bought that bag in Denver too. Then
he set that next to the milk. Then he opened a drawer and got me a
spoon. Then he turned to his bacon.

I opened the bag of sugar while I said, “I
don’t think I could do bacon.”

“Bacon’s for me. You’re getting
oatmeal.”

“Oh.”

He cracked two eggs
into
the side of the skillet
with
the bacon
and
the
bacon grease and I stared. Then he walked to a cupboard and pulled
out a box of instant oatmeal.

I spooned sugar in my coffee and then I
stared at the gallon jug of milk. Then I looked at my mug. Then the
milk. Then back.

How was I going to get a splash of the milk
in that huge gallon jug in my mug without making a mess?

Then I heard, “Honey, you gonna will it to
pour itself in your cup with your eyes?”

I looked at him and asked, “Do you have a
little pitcher?”

He threw his head back and burst out
laughing, that was deep and gravelly too.

I stared again. What was funny?

“What’s funny?” I asked when he got control
of his hilarity.

“Don’t throw many tea parties, Duchess,” he
told me still smiling like I was highly amusing.

I wasn’t sure I liked him calling me
“Duchess”. Okay so, the way he was saying it
now
was kind of sweet in a weirdly familiar and even
somewhat intimate way. The way he said it two days ago, I wasn’t so
sure. It was almost like he was making fun of me except now it felt
like he thought I was in on the joke.

“Maybe you could stop calling me ‘Duchess’,”
I suggested.

“Maybe I couldn’t,” he returned, came toward
me, picked up the gallon jug, splashed a huge dollop of milk in my
mug, making coffee and milk plop up and out on the counter then he
turned back and poured, without measuring, a bunch of milk into the
instant oatmeal.

“My name is Nina,” I told him.

“I know that.”

“Maybe you can call me Nina.”

“I’ll call you that too.”

“Rather than Duchess.”

He’d put the milk back in the fridge and
walked back to me, grabbing the bag of sugar, his eyes came to me
before he turned toward the oatmeal. “You want a little pitcher for
your milk, you’re definitely a Duchess.”

I decided to let it go. In about half an
hour he wasn’t going to be calling me anything because I was going
to be in a rental car and on my way to Denver.