I raise both brows. “That boy must be dense.”
“Most boys are,” Blake grunts, killing the Jeep but not opening the door yet. He folds his arms on the steering wheel, his remote, quiet gaze following his daughter. “You want to stay in here? It’s warmer. I just need to do the rounds for safety checks. Pretty boring shit.”
“I don’t mind the cold,” I say carefully, smiling and shrugging.
I don’t want to say I definitely don’t mind it with you.
I don’t want to sound that desperate.
He glances at me, raising both brows. “Yeah? Hawaiian girl out here in Montana, and you don’t mind the dead of winter? Figured you’d be missing the warmer weather like your own skin.”
“Well...” I look out the window. The frost has fogged it up, and my breaths don’t help, misting it until the whole world runs in watercolors through the glass. “I don’t miss much about Hawaii anymore.”
“Since your old man?” he asks.
Even if he’s gentle, it aches.
My eyes flutter shut a few seconds longer than they should.
“Yeah,” I answer thickly. “Since my dad.”
His silence isn’t awkward or censuring.
It’s soft.
It’s kind.
Gives me a moment to compose myself with his warmth here to keep me company. I wait until I can breathe without feeling like my throat is caught in an ever-closing noose.
“Anyway,” I say, trying to smile. “I’ve been around colder places than Montana. I once spent a summer gutting fish in Alaska and stayed a few months longer.”
“Fuck.” His startled laughter rolls over me. “Why?”
“I wanted to know what it was like,” I answer. “That’s why I do a lot of things. I’ve tried organic farming, micro-brewing, hand-carving beads in communes. If it seems fun, I try it. And I’m usually right.”
“Gutting fish was fun? You serious, lady?”
“It actually was. Just really smelly. I learned a lot of awful sailor jokes, though.”
Blake snorts. “So why’d you quit, then?”
He relaxes as he leans against the steering wheel, his powerful body slouched in a lazy sprawl of taut musculature.
“I didn’t want to mess up my hands.” I hold up my purple-gloved hands and spread my fingers. “While I wander around, I can at least make a living with massage. But gutting fish gives you carpal tunnel, and that’s if you don’t have an accident with a knife sooner or later.”
With an amused sound, he gives me the side-eye. “Can’t have that. There’s magic in those fingers.”
There’s something almost suggestive in the way he says it, in the way his gaze lingers on my outstretched fingers, very unsexy in their purple yarn sheaths.
Then he clears his throat and looks away, pushing his door open.
“C’mon,” he says. “If you really want the grand tour, let’s go.”
I pull my coat tighter, drag my cap down over my ears, and slip out after him—and nearly yelp as the biting air hits me right in the face.
Yep. It’s that time of year. The average temperature can drop drastically in the space of an hour as the winds pick up after dark in mountain towns like this. I’m shivering like a wet puppy as I turn my collar up to better cover my neck and jaw.
Blake barely seems to feel it, turning to lead us through the rickety wooden gate closing off the field.
It’s comfortable walking with him.
Not really needing to talk, though now and then he explains what he’s doing as we follow the perimeter of the carnival grounds, then start moving between different installations.
He’s mostly checking for fire hazards.
Too many extension cords plugged into an outlet, for example, or hot-burning lights too close to a cloth awning. Open fire next to dry, brittle grass becomes perfect tinder with winter leaving it crackling and dead.
I’d never really thought about the infinite ways a fire can start. But Blake seems to see it all with this weird sixth sense.
He’s mostly interested in the stage, which they’ve assembled inside a massive tent—I guess to keep everyone warm. Though if you ask me, I’d love to see it open-air, naked under the stars.
That’s one thing that’s always helped me decide to stay, whenever I pick a place to hunker down for the winter.
Just how well I can see the stars stretched over the yawning heavens at night.
Some places, larger cities like Portland and Chicago, I can’t even see a single star. It’s just smog or blaring lights reflected back, the sky always a strange shade of peach-purple. You can’t even see the moon sometimes save for a faint glow peeking past the light pollution.
I never stay in places like that long.
I go where I can see the same stars I saw at home in Oahu, and counted sometimes with my father to make wishes again and again, always hoping they’d come true.
I look up at the glittering expanse of the Milky Way, lingering before I follow Blake into the tent and climb up on stage with him.
There’s a heaping mess of plugs and cables belonging to hot spotlights.
I can already tell this is going to be bad, holding my breath.
“Shit,” he mutters, crouching low to examine a few tangled wires.
“You’re going to shut this whole thing down, aren’t you?” I ask, staring at the bunched nest of cables sprouting from a multi-outlet splitter that looks like it’s had about thirty others plugged into it. “Because this is a Carrie reenactment waiting to happen.”
“You’re damn right,” he says grimly. “Shitfire. I taught these people better than this.”
I grin. “Did you actually teach them, or just lead by example?”
“Hey, now. I lead a good fire safety seminar.” He grimaces. “But it’s been a few years. Seems like folks need a refresher course, and this time they need to jot crap down.” Blake frowns, stroking his beard, thick workman’s gloves rasping against the bristly hairs. “Come to think of it...that might be a good gig for Justin. Maybe lead a carnival event on fire safety.”
“Justin?” I tilt my head, watching the faraway, thoughtful look in Blake’s eyes. “The younger fire dude, right?”
His gaze darts to me, narrowing like I’ve said something wrong. “He’s not that young. Closer to your age, matter of fact.”
Weird.
Closer to your age than me, he’s not saying, and I arch a brow.
“He’s not my type,” I say, and Blake’s brows rise in answer to mine, almost teasing.
“Nah? You seem to like wounded animals, and he’s definitely the broken puppy type.”
I laugh. “I’m not attracted to boys still trying to get their crap together. I have a very specific type, hardly a puppy dog.”
More like a coyote, a panther, a bear.
Something rangy, put together, and wild, with teeth sharp enough to bite.
“I’m not gonna set myself up by asking what that type is,” he says dryly, leaving me sputtering—ugh, does he know how infatuated I am?—while he looks away, scanning over the nest of cables again. “Teasing aside, Justin might benefit from a visit with you. Just for stress relief, relaxation. He’s carrying a lot of pain around all the time, and I feel like I’ve been neglecting him.”