“Yeah.” A corner of his mouth actually twitches at the joke, which for Cullen must be like laughing aloud. “Oh, before I forget.” Ducking out into the hallway, Cullen returns with another garment bag, the now-familiar orange overnight delivery tag stuck to its side. “It came late.”
Tentatively taking the bag from Cullen’s hand, I reach inside it to pull out a gorgeous pale yellow dress, its wraparound design promising to accentuate my body without being too snug or uncomfortable. A matching set of pumps and—holy crap, an Arc’teryx jacket that is a climber’s dream and perfect for the Colorado autumn weather—completes the set. The price tags have been taken off, but I can tell the stuff in here is worth at least a month’s salary.
Unsure exactly how to handle this, I revert to our familiar-to-us dynamic and go on the offensive. “Cullen, you can’t keep getting me clothes. I…” I can’t afford these. “This isn’t my style.”
“It should be.” Cullen stretches his back and heads toward the ringing doorbell again. “Your other choices are anything that I have in my closet or the scrubs the hospital let you come home in,” the man calls over his shoulder.
Actually, my other option is to go home and pick up my own things, but that would require a ride from Cullen, which puts me back into the same boat of owing him something. I hesitate another moment, then decide to put the dilemma on hold for now, given the smell of fresh-baked crepes that’s sneaking from the delivery the man just accepted.
For the next quarter hour, we enjoy raspberry crepes with some of Cullen’s espresso, which was stationed in the one place I hadn’t looked. I only realize how starved I am two portions into my breakfast—but by that point, it’s too late to worry about appearances. Fortunately, Cullen tucks in with the same companionable vigor.
“I have some admin to catch up on,” Cullen says once we’ve devoured our breakfast like a couple of vultures. He frowns at the word admin, and, based on what I’ve seen him leave for me to do at the Rescue, the attitude is unsurprising. “But I’ll be back around four to pick you up for Eli’s damn barbecue.”
I blink at the presumptuousness. “Why do you think I’m going to this barbecue?”
“Because it’s a Rescue thing and you’re an employee,” Cullen informs me. “And because if I have to go, you have to go.”
I roll my eyes. “Can you drop me off at either my place or the Rescue on the way? I’ve got work to do and no laptop to do it on.” At least I hope I still have work to do, if Frank’s little visit this morning isn’t leading to me getting fired.
“Use mine.” Beckoning me to follow him into his office, Cullen pulls out a laptop and taps a few keystrokes where I can’t see his screen.
“If you’re deleting porn from your history, don’t bother,” I tell him.
“Don’t worry, the porn is bookmarked for your convenience,” he replies without pause, then turns the computer toward me. “Password is pipe hitter five zero five, all one word.”
“Speaking of porn…” I mutter.
Cullen snorts. “Pipe hitter is a special forces term SEALS use a lot to refer to themselves, not whatever it is you were thinking.”
“Right.” Despite being the one to have started this line of conversation, I feel my skin heat. Nonetheless, I pull myself back to the one elephant in the room we’d not touched on. “What’s with you and my boss? I didn’t know you two even knew each other.”
Cullen’s eyes darken dangerously. “I grew up in Denton Valley,” he says curtly. “We know each other.” There’s a finality to his words that makes it clear we’re done with this line of questioning. But just in case I need further clarification, Cullen turns on his heel and walks out the door.
Very mature.
I spend the rest of the day on the computer, typing up my hard-won story along with my initial research into police response times, interspersed with bursts of checking email. There’s one from my mom, asking me to call her, several from climbing stores promising to sell me the best gear at rock-bottom prices I can’t afford, and a note from Frank informing me that he expects my extracurricular activities with my boss at the Rescue will not interfere with my deadlines. I reply to none of them, though Mother, being Mother, keeps sending me notes as if I might have just overlooked the first five.
Finally, when my achy body no longer agrees to typing, I set up my phone on FaceTime while I scour Cullen’s kitchen for crepe leftovers.
“Lary, darling.” My mother’s face appears on the screen, her makeup as perfect as her face-lifted visage. In the background, the ocean waves lap each other in little curls—she must be on that cruise with Greg. “I’ve been trying to get through to you since last night. What’s so important you can’t call your mother back?”
I rub my temple. When all else fails, try the truth. “I was in the ER. A man came after me, an—”
“No!” My mother’s hand covers her mouth, her eyes wide and the Tiffany diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist catching the light.
Realizing what I inadvertently said, I shake my head. “No, no. He just shoved me around a bit. A dislocated shoulder and some bruises. Nothing broken.”
Relief floods my mother’s face, and for a moment, I want to reach through the screen and hug her. Then she speaks. “Oh, thank the Lord—nothing that a little makeup can’t fix, then.”
I swallow a sigh. Right. “Makeup doesn’t actually fix anything, Mother,” I say on reflex, though I’m not sure why I bother. In her world, it likely does.
My mother leans closer to the screen. “Where is it that you’re talking to me from, Lary? That looks like a man’s house. Is it a man’s house?” Her eyes narrow, and I swear to God I see a flash of jealousy sparkle beneath the heavy makeup. “If you turned down an invitation to a family event to trollop around with a—”
“Ma. Stop.” I rub my temples and count to five before my anger settles. “One, Greg is not family. Two, I’m staying with a friend because I was assaulted last night.”
“Mmm. And did this friend get you the Gabbana tee you’re currently wearing?”
I look down at my chest, realizing that, holy crap, she’s right. I knew the jeans were designer, but I hadn’t looked closely at the top before pulling it on this morning.
“Now listen to me, Lary honey. This friend might seem nice at the moment, but I’m telling you right now the gravy train will not last. We need someone stable. Someone with values. And I must tell you, Greg’s feelings were quite wounded at you not coming with us. I do think it’s important to make it up to him. I’ll have a plane ticket sent to you to join us at the next port of call and—”
I hang up the phone and send Mother’s three subsequent attempts to reach me to voicemail. Cullen went overboard with the clothes, but he probably just tapped whatever ad showed up on his phone. At least I hope that’s what happened.
Putting both the conversation with my mother and my phone out of my thoughts, I dive back into my work.
In the late afternoon, I’m back in Cullen’s truck, watching the still-unfamiliar roads go by as we head to Eli’s. Making a sharp turn, Cullen enters what I think is the best-paved Colorado street ever, but turns out to be a long-ass driveway. It’s lined on both sides with such thick Douglas firs that it feels as though we’re driving through a tunnel. As we pass the obscuring evergreens, I finally catch sight of a large bed-and-breakfast-like building.