Holland’s place is not what I expected. It’s modern, but still completely cabin-esque. With a long driveway and green exterior, it’s part of the trees. An interesting camouflage. It’s beautiful.
There’s not much time to swoon over the house because I can hear a dog barking as soon as we shut the truck doors.
Holland leads us to the front and opens the door. Slate greets us, nose first. He’s a gray French bulldog, with white markings on his chest, the cutest face, and his tongue out in excitement. It kind of looks like he’s smiling.
I melt. His wrinkles. Matching gray eyes. Paws on my legs, jumping up for attention. I can’t even muster words. At this point, I’m making those noises we use to talk to dogs and babies. It doesn’t help with Slate’s excitement but I don’t care.
“He’ll calm down in a minute,” Holland reassures.
“Are you kidding? I love this!” I sit down in the middle of the entryway and let Slate lick my face and put his front paws on me, standing on his back legs. “He’s so cute!” I proclaim as I pet the now drooling dog.
I look up and Holland is looking down at us with a faint smile and he turns away with a fake eye roll.
“I just need a few minutes,” he says as he moves further into the house.
Slate is immobilized by a belly scratch. He’s leaning the side of his body on my front, kind of side-sitting, one paw up, and his head tips up to me in complete bliss. Dogs are the best. I appreciate the boost of serotonin.
I tilt my head to see more of Holland’s place. I peel myself from Slate,tand up, and take off my hiking shoes, lining them next to Holland’s.
My mouth drops when I get past the skinny entrance area. I’m looking straight through the entire place, which is an open floor plan. The back wall is completely made of floor to ceiling windows, which delivers an amazing view. I can’t put my finger on what I was expecting but it wasn’t this.
Taking it upon myself, I quietly walk through the house.
It’s small, not categorized as a tiny home, but comfortable enough for a few people. The high ceilings make the living space feel open and airy. There’s a leather couch, the color of caramel, and the type of deep where you know falling into it would feel heavenly. A darker colored chair is near the couch, with an ottoman and side tables. It’s not cluttered but simplistic.
Matching blankets go a step further to tie the room together. I have a weakness for blankets. The limit doesn’t exist on how many you can have.
The kitchen is sleek and functional. There’s no formal dining table, but instead a bar with a few stools and a bistro table for two. A few oranges and apples are in a bowl on the counter, and there’s a coffee cup in the sink. This place is put together. Clean. Everything flows, almost effortlessly.
Me and my lovely but chaotic apartment can’t relate.
It’s not that I’m messy or can’t keep it clean but more so that I have a unique set of preferences. I have lots of particular things that go in specific places. My place is full of color and texture—rich, fluffy rugs, statement furniture, mirrors to make it feel bigger, and books throughout. In my opinion, almost anything can be a bookshelf.
When I get to the wall of windows—letting in all the natural light anyone could ever want—I look up and see a loft. That must be where Holland’s bedroom is. My cheeks get a little hot. Why am I thinking about this man’s bedroom?
Trying to reel it in, I focus on the view. Mountains. Trees. Sky. This would be quite the spot to drink coffee in the morning.
I hear Holland coming down the loft stairs,interrupting my poor attempt at not picturing his bedroom.
“So, we should tape your feet…” Holland says, with no other explanation. Seeing my confusion, he realizes I have no idea what he’s talking about. “You didn’t get a chance to break in your new shoes. You don’t want blisters.” He sits at one end of the bistro table.
Makes sense. Also, very thoughtful. I sit in the other chair and take off my otter socks.
Holland scoots closer to me. Casually, he reaches for my first foot. He gently sets it in his lap and the world slows down. He rips a piece of kinesiology tape from the roll and slowly places it on my foot. My pulse picks up as he rubs his fingers along the tape, setting it.
He lifts my foot a few inches, taping behind my heel. His hand lingers on my ankle. His fingers are a bit rough on my skin.
I like this way too much. What is it about a man rubbing your feet? Enough men haven’t massaged my feet.
I’m jolted back to reality when I remind myself what this is. This isn’t a foot rub but a preventative measure to limit open sores on my body. I better pull myself together before this hike becomes even more frustrating.
Slate interrupts my thoughts when he whines, looking for attention. I reach down and pet him while Holland tapes my other foot.
Note to self: When I get back home, I need to reactivate my dating apps. It’s been too long.
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE TAPING WAS necessary but problematic. Her skin was warm and smooth, and my fingers were damn near shaking. Had to remind myself to breathe. When I did, I quickly remembered how she smells like lavender.
