Page 31 of Carte

I tilted my head, “Storage room?”

“For gear and such.”

I frowned, “Gear?”

He turned then. He looked to the floor, the butterflies on his neck twitching, before he looked up and asked, “You’re aware that you’re in the middle of the woods? I know you felt the cold, so logically you know that it snows here. When it does, you need gear. To clear it, to play in it. Also, you need wood for heat. But you also need to chop that wood. So again,” he shrugged “Gear.”

I gaped at him. Was it possible that he was not annoyed with me? But was instead fighting laughter? “Mr. Ryan, are you making fun of me?”

“Not making fun, just stating the facts, Miss. Thorne.” He turned around and started going upstairs. But I could see his shoulders shaking.

“You are.”

It was then that my short-lived vow came to fruition.

Carter threw his head back and roared with laughter.

And I felt like I just climbed to the top of the charts, won a lottery, saw a miracle of birth, and ate a hot fudge sundae all at once.

At the light tap on my door I leaped from the bed, and pulled them open.

To say I was bored was an understatement. There was nothing to do around here. There wasn’t a TV, not that I like watching it. But my books were still at the hotel, and I didn’t have my guitar with me.

“What’s wrong?” Carter asked as he saw my face. Or better to say the frown I felt pulling at my brows and lips.

“I don’t have my stuff.”

He looked around the piles of clothes that were still on the bed because I got so frustrated with silence that I gave up putting them away.

“I didn’t mean clothes,” I snapped.

Understanding dawned in Carter’s cognac eyes. “There’s a guitar somewhere around here. I honestly don’t know if it’s any good. But it did provide us with more than a few good nights.”

He motioned me to follow him.

“Do you need your own books, or is any piece of paper good enough? I have some notebooks in my bedroom that you can have.”

If he gave it to me, I would write my words on a leaf. I didn’t care, as long as it came from him.

When he glanced over his shoulder at me, I croaked, “I don’t have any special requirements.”

He arched his brow as if challenging my statement, but muttered, “That’s good to know.”

I didn’t rise to the bait. I followed him silently to the kitchen too scared that if I opened my mouth, words that I could never take back would tumble out.

No one had ever met my needs without me having to explicitly tell them. No one had ever paid that kind of attention. And no one had ever moved to give them to me.

As I watched the muscles of his back that were outlined under his black T-shirt that was molded to his body in a way I wanted to flex with every step, I realized that this pull I was feeling for Carter Ryan ran deeper than just a physical attraction.

Much deeper.

And I didn’t know what to do with that.

As we came into the kitchen, I almost cried then and there.

“It’s nothing fancy, just tacos. I didn’t have time or the energy to make something more elaborate.” He gestured to the kitchen island that held much more than simple tacos.

“It’s perfect,” I whispered, my eyes glued to the feast that he made for us.