Chapter Six
BEAU
The buzzing starts early. Her phone, suddenly alive on my nightstand, lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. I've been awake for an hour, entranced by the way her hair fans across my shoulder and how she makes these little sounds in her sleep that make me want to keep her here forever.
The phone keeps going. Each notification is a reminder that she has a whole life that doesn't include me.
“No,” she mumbles against my neck, burrowing closer. Her naked body presses against mine, and my cock stirs.
I'm already in too deep. The moment she came apart in my arms that first time, screaming my name, I knew I was done for.
Clara sighs, reaching for the phone. Her whole body tenses, that soft, lazy warmth replaced by anxiety.
“Eleven missed calls.” Her voice is small. “Twenty-three texts. Blair's going to kill me.”
She sits up, pulling the sheet with her. The phone rings, Blair's name on the screen. Clara looks at me, apology already in those ice-blue eyes, then answers.
Blair's voice tears into Clara, talking about responsibilities, her career, and blown opportunities. Each word puts more distance between us, even though Clara's still in my bed.
“Am I fired?” Clara asks, and the fear in her voice makes me want to grab the phone and tell this Blair exactly where she can shove her job.
But I don't have that right. I'm just the guy she got snowed in with. Last night doesn't mean I get a say in her life.
When she hangs up, she won't look at me. “I think the roads might be clear.”
I sit up, reaching for my jeans. “Probably. I heard the plows start early this morning.”
“I have to get those photos today. If I can salvage something…”
I pull on my shirt, needing armor for this conversation. “I get it.”
She turns to me, eyes flashing. “Don't act like this meant nothing.”
“Didn't say it meant nothing.” I stand, putting distance between us before I do something stupid like beg. “But we both know what has to happen now.”
Her phone buzzes again. The sound makes her flinch, but she reaches for it.
“Answer it,” I say.
I leave her to get dressed, needing space before I do something stupid like tell her I love her. Because fuck me, I think I do.
In the kitchen, I make coffee even though my hands are shaking. Through the window, the sun is shining on fresh snow, as if the universe is mocking me. Perfect photography weather.
She emerges in her own clothes: the ones she arrived in, now clean and dry. She looks professional, put-together, like the woman who drove up here a few days ago.
She’s transformed into Professional Clara when she answers her phone again, discussing angles, lighting and deadlines. Thisis who she really is; driven, focused and talented. It only makes me love her more.
“I have to go,” she says after the call. “If I can get to the overlook by noon, get the shots, edit them tonight…”
“I'll drive you to your car.”
"That's it?" She stares at me.
“What do you want me to say? Stay? Give up everything you've worked for? Live in a cabin with a man fifteen years older who can barely read?” I shake my head. “I won't be the reason you give up your dreams.”
“What if my dreams are changing?”
“After a couple of days? That's not dreams changing, that's good sex clouding your judgment.”
