Rare Blend (Red Mountain #1)

27. Marisa

CHAPTER 27

Marisa

THE BATES MOTEL

I fell asleep shortly after our trip began. I don’t know what it is about long car rides, but they put me to sleep faster than anything over the counter ever could. I must have been deep in sleep, because when the voice of a man pulls me out of my slumber, I gasp in shock, completely disoriented. It takes me a second to gather my bearings and realize, for some reason, we’re at a standstill, pulled off to the side of the road. The man is wearing a high-visibility jacket and has his head poked through the driver’s door window, chatting with Ethan. The last thing I remember is looking out the window at a sunny day, and now it’s dark, with white snow falling in huge flakes, blanketing the ground.

“You’re going to have to turn around or find somewhere to stay, because DOT is shutting the pass down. The snowfall is pretty heavy up there, and we’re predicting some avalanche activity.”

“When do you think you’ll reopen it?”

“Probably not until tomorrow morning. Where did you folks come from?”

“We’re coming from Red Mountain. It’s about three hours east of here.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard of it. Wine country right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend heading back. I heard the canyon outside Ellensburg had a series of accidents and car pile ups. Your best bet is going to be taking the next exit and hoping Roslyn or Cle Elum have some hotel vacancies for the night.”

Ethan and the man chat a bit more. Once we’re back to driving, Ethan apologizes.

“Sorry you had to wake up like that.”

“I’m the one that’s sorry. I was that person, falling asleep on you. And now we’re going to be stuck here for the night.”

He turns up the dial on the heater. “I’m not upset about any of that. I would be more upset if I was all the way back in Red Mountain hearing about you having to find some roadside motel in the middle of a snowstorm, completely alone.”

“I’m a big girl. I’m perfectly capable of figuring things out on my own.” I can’t help the attitude that slips out of me. I don’t appreciate being underestimated simply because I’m a woman. And I just woke up from a nap, which is when I’m at my bitchiest.

“That’s not what I mean,” he says gently. “Of course you’re capable, you just shouldn’t have to do it alone. I’m glad I came.”

Warmth surrounds my body, and it has nothing to do with the heater. I shouldn’t have snapped at him. He’s been nothing but sweet lately, going above and beyond anything any other guy has ever done for me.

He takes the exit to Roslyn. I’ve passed the sign countless times but have never actually ventured into the town.

“Cute town,” I comment as we drive through the main stretch.

The town looks like it has a bit of a magical flare as the heavy snowflakes fall, veiling everything in soft white.

Ethan points to a grocery store parking lot. “I’m going to pull in here and make some calls. See if we can find a couple of rooms for the night.”

While he does that, I send some texts to Hillary and my dad, updating them on the situation. I also fire off an email to the HR rep who sent me the interview invite, warning them that weather may prevent my ability to get to the interview and that I will update them if I’m no longer able to make it.

“I was really hoping Suncadia would have vacancies,” Ethan says. “But they’re all booked up and so is the rest of Cle Elum. I called a few hotels here in Roslyn and they all directed me to the Huckleberry Lodge. I called them and they have one room available. So, what do you think? Stay there or drive back and see if we can at least make it to Ellensburg?”

I look around, watching the snow fall heavier by the minute. “Let’s try the huckleberry place.”

Ethan types it into the GPS, though we soon find out that wasn’t necessary, since it’s down the road.

The Huckleberry Lodge is everything you would imagine a crappy roadside motel to look like. In fact, I’m surprised it’s not called The Bates Motel .

“Sure you don’t want to try Ellensburg?” Ethan asks, his face scrunching as he looks at the ramshackle building.

“With the luck we’re having so far, we could end up at a shittier place than this. Let’s stay here. It can’t be any worse inside.”

Ethan leaves me with the engine running while he runs to the front office to take care of the check in. When he returns a few minutes later, he moves his truck in front of the room marked with the number eighteen. While he unloads our bags, I go inside.

I was wrong. Somehow, the inside is even worse. The carpet is an interesting shade of brown, shaggy and worn, and the walls are paneled. I feel like I’ve stepped into the 1970s, and not in a good way. Taking a deep breath, I’d guess that was also the last time it was properly cleaned.

“This place is a dump,” Ethan says behind me, rolling in my giant suitcase.

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

In the distractions of getting here and the snow and the detour, I’m now realizing I’m going to have to sleep in this room with Ethan. I’ve slept in his bed and I was napping in the car with him an hour ago, so it shouldn’t be a big deal, but it feels like a really, really big deal. There’s something so intimate about beds and changing into pajamas and brushing your teeth alongside someone. It’s all very couple-y, and we are not a couple. We’re friends.

Thank God there are two beds, because I wouldn’t let an animal sleep on this carpet, let alone a person, so we would’ve definitely been stuck sharing a bed. My face reddens at the thought.

With my head down and gaze averted, I claim the bed furthest from the door. If this happens to be one of those murder motels, at least I’ll get a fair warning when the killer goes after Ethan first.

I sit on the bed, fully clothed with my legs stretched out in front of me. Even like this, I can smell the musty bedding, feel the itchy fabric rub against my leggings. I only brought skimpy choices for pajamas because Hillary keeps her house as hot as a sauna. Thinking about all this bedding making contact with my skin somehow makes me feel even itchier. Meanwhile, Ethan is working on latching the door, pulling it, making sure it’s actually locked. I watch as he moves the lone chair in the corner and wedges it under the doorknob. I can’t help but smile, because it’s exactly what I would’ve done.

Brandon used to make fun of my obsession with locking doors. When we lived together, every evening I would run through my routine of checking the doors and windows, making sure they were all locked. That’s how I grew up. It’s not like we lived in a bad part of town or there were ever incidents that made us question our safety, but my dad made it a habit to lock up the house before we all went to sleep and it always made me feel safe. As an adult, I carry on with that practice. Brandon grew up with nannies and vacation homes—or as he would put it, “comfortable”—meaning the thought of someone breaking into his home in the middle of the night never even crossed his mind. I’m glad Ethan is a lock up the house kind of person. I feel my shoulders relax knowing we’re safely locked in here for the night, even if it means being in this shitty room, pretending I’m not wondering what Ethan sleeps in.

“Mind if I use the bathroom first?” Ethan asks, cutting through the silence.

“Nope, go ahead.”

He rifles through his bag and pulls out what I’m assuming is his toiletry bag. I can’t stop my mind from the journey it’s now on. Will he shower? What body wash does he use? Will he shave or brush his teeth? Gahh! This is too intimate.

I simultaneously feel like I absolutely need to know the answers to all my nosy questions and like this is a side only a girlfriend or wife gets to see, and I’m getting a front-row seat.

While he does his thing in the bathroom, I turn on the TV, because I desperately need noise. If I hear him pee, I’ll spend an embarrassing amount of time thinking about his penis. There is something seriously wrong with me. I shouldn’t be thinking about Ethan’s penis.

He’s out a lot more quickly than I thought he would be. He goes back to his corner of the room, so I grab my own toiletry bag and pajamas and barricade myself in the bathroom. Halfway through washing my face, it hits me that it’s still fairly early. How will we pass the time? And will there be food? I’m not hungry now, but I will be soon, and Ethan does not need to meet my hangry personality, because she’s a bitch and I do not claim her.

I do my skin care routine and change into my pajamas. They’re the most modest pair I brought, pink short shorts covered in little red cherries and a matching tight-fitted tank top. Normally, I wouldn’t wear a bra, but I am not about to go braless in front of this man. I may be able to hide my attraction to him pretty well, but my nipples would betray me instantly.

My hand lingers on the doorknob. I’m actually very nervous for him to see me like this. I’ve never been the type to be uncomfortable being seen without makeup or in my hideous baggy sweats. Hell, we met when I looked scrubbed out from the drive to Red Mountain. He’s seen me looking less than dressed up several times since we’ve met, so this shouldn’t feel weird. Yet it does. This is vulnerable. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to look unaffected and step through the door.

My gaze avoids even so much as looking in Ethan’s direction, even though I swear I can feel his eyes on me. When I sense him turn his head in the opposite direction, I sneak a peek at him, hiding my face with my mass of hair, and I swear his cheeks are tinted a light shade of pink.

Ethan clears his throat, slicing through the deafening silence between us. “Are you hungry at all? I was going to try to find something to hold us over until morning.”

His eyes hold mine, almost to the point that I feel like they’re unable to look anywhere else.

“Sure. Do you want me to come with you?”

The heat of his stare has me thanking the universe I kept my bra on.

“No, you’re already dressed for the night. Any food aversions I need to be aware of?”

“Olives. I hate them in all forms.”

He smiles and then nods before he starts the task of moving the chair and unlocking the door. “Put the chair back against the door after I leave.” He pulls out his phone. “Give me your number so I can text you before I come in, that way you know it’s me.”

A sudden bout of shyness hits me as we exchange numbers. I bite the inside of my cheek to distract from my rapid heart rate and the fluttering in my stomach, hoping he doesn’t notice the nervous energy coursing through me.

Ethan returns with tacos.

“I figured tacos were the safest bet. You seemed to like them last time.”

We share a look, and it makes my stomach somersault.

“Fair warning, though,” he continues. “It didn’t look like the most authentic place, so don’t come for me.”

He sets the bag on the table by the corner, and we work to unload the foil covered paper plates. The scents of seasoned meats and cilantro waft from the tacos.

“It smells good, so I’m sure they’re edible.”

Since the table is too small to eat at, we decide it makes the most sense to eat in our respective beds.

“Any TV requests?” I ask him.

I get the feeling Ethan isn’t much of a TV watcher. He shrugs while I scroll through the channels, confirming my suspicions. As I’m scrolling through like it’s 1995, since there’s no guide on this thing, I randomly land on a Spanish-speaking channel playing a telenovela. I pause for a moment, trying to figure out if it’s one I recognize.

“My mom lives out of the country, so sometimes we’ll try to watch a show together to stay connected even though we’re so far apart. Usually, it’s a novela of some kind, but right now we’re not watching anything.”

I’m not sure why I decided to volunteer that information to him. I’m sure he has no interest in mine and my mom’s TV habits.

“You miss her?” he asks hesitantly, while chewing softly.

“All the time. Especially lately. She’s out there having the fun she missed out on.”

He’s stopped eating and is watching me, giving me time to continue.

“My mom had me at nineteen and my dad was twenty,” I explain. “I think they tried their best, but you know, babies raising a baby isn’t ideal.”

Ethan gives me a cautious expression, opening his mouth a few times before he decides to speak. “I have a question,” he starts.

His face twists, and I can tell he’s worried he’s going to upset me, so I give him a nod to continue.

“Why don’t you have the same last name as your dad?”

I breathe a smile, relieved it’s an easy question. “It’s really not that controversial. My parents weren’t married yet when I was born, and my mom thought I should have her name, I guess. And then weirdly enough, when they got married, she took his last name, and I was the only Castilla, until she changed her name after the divorce. I’ve thought about changing it, but it feels too late now. Plus, I’ll probably take my future husband’s last name.”

I turn my focus back on trying to find something to watch, but I feel Ethan’s stare stay on me a few beats longer.

I stop on another novela, pausing to see if it’s one I’ve watched before.

He points to the TV. “Is this one any good?”

I shrug. “I’m not sure, but we can give it a try. Is the Spanish going to be too fast for you? Even though you somehow secretly know Spanish fluently.”

“It’s not really a secret. You assumed I didn’t know it. My mom wanted us all to know a second language, so we all speak something else besides English. I picked Spanish because I knew I was going to work for the winery in some capacity and a lot of the workers speak Spanish. It made sense. Plus, now that I’m the boss, I can communicate easily and I feel like they respect me more because I try.”

A teasing smirk crosses my lips as I look at him. “You think they respect you, but really it’s because they have to wait until you leave the room to talk shit about you, because they know you’ll understand.”

He gives me a sad little pout. “Probably.”

We start watching the novela, and even though we missed the first ten minutes, and it’s clearly not the first episode, we’re quickly sucked in.

“Do you think she knows that he’s secretly her father and she’s acting like she doesn’t know?” Ethan asks. He’s so engrossed in the show it’s actually cute. It’s like the time Hillary and I introduced Archie to Love Is Blind . He still pretends he hates that show but will actively watch every episode and then need to discuss it afterward.

“There is no way she knows. I think she’s suspicious about him in general. He’s not a good guy. Obviously, she’s not going to trust him.”

The show must be airing a marathon. We get two more episodes in, but when the next episode is about to start, my eyes feel heavy with sleep.

“We should get to bed. We’ll leave first thing in the morning so you can make it to your interview.”

I yawn, slinking under the scratchy sheets. “Sounds good.”

Ethan shuts off the TV but leaves the lamp between us on while he uses the bathroom.

A heavy weight sits on my chest, making it hard to breathe as I wait for him to finish his nighttime routine. The intimacy I felt earlier returns in full force. It’s more intense now that we’ve shared food and bonded over a TV show and I’ve been lying around in my indecent pajamas for most of the evening.

Ethan emerges from the bathroom in low-slung flannel bottoms and a white T-shirt. I watch as he walks from the bathroom to his bed, lightly tugging on the collar of his shirt.

“Sleep however you usually sleep. No need to keep on a shirt or something if it’s uncomfortable.” I blurt it out before my brain can stop me. I immediately want to swallow back all the words. My cheeks are surely bright red, and I’m hoping the glow from the lamp masks it.

Ethan merely nods and then starts lifting the hem of his T-shirt. I should look away. I should look anywhere else than at the man in front of me, playing into my strip tease fantasy. The higher the shirt lifts, the more I feel like I’m in a free fall. His toned stomach comes into view. It’s not the kind of body that spends hours in the gym, more like the kind that takes an active role in the labor of his vineyards. Sturdy and solid, dusted in neatly trimmed dark hair. My hands itch to touch him, to run along every groove, trace every line, and feel that prickly hair scrape across my fingertips. When his shirt is fully off, he turns and folds it, returning it to his suitcase, completely unaware that I’m drooling like a dog, practically panting. My skin feels overheated and restless, like I could combust at any moment. And I just may with the ache building between my thighs.

“Are you done checking me out?”

I jackknife in bed, sitting up. “I was not checking you out.” Deny, deny, deny .

“Liar.” I can practically feel his smirk. He wrestles in the bed and then turns to switch off the lamp, cloaking us in darkness.

“Goodnight, Marisa.”

“Goodnight, Ethan.”