Snowed in with Mr. Heartbreaker (Copper Valley Bro Code #5)

Chapter 8

8

Aspen

Thank god for the wine.

It’s taking the edge off of my anxiety.

But not quite enough given what Cash is doing now.

Since having the almost-cooked pancakes, we’ve stuffed towels at the base of the doors to prevent drafty cold air from seeping in, debated if we should gather freshly fallen snow to melt for more water now that we’ve confirmed the power being out means no water as well, and now we’re sitting in the living room by the fire, since it’s the warmest part of the house and my fingers are cold.

Not that I told him my fingers are cold.

Not after that hug he gave me when I wanted to completely crawl into him and ask him to never let go.

I don’t like being that vulnerable with anyone.

Even myself most of the time.

So since we’re once again as prepared as we can be, I’ve sat here and sipped wine.

He’s asked questions about my calendar once the holidays are over.

It got awkward again.

And now he’s heading to my bedroom.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

“Moving the mattress.”

I think about it and realize I can’t argue with his plan.

Nor do I want to. Even when the implications— I’m getting our bed ready —are making my nipples tight and my vagina excited.

Not gonna happen , I tell them.

They snicker back at me.

He’s sleeping on the couch , I inform them. He’s getting the mattress, which he’ll insist I use myself with half of the quilts while the fire keeps the whole room warm enough for both of us to sleep here without touching, because the man does not want to touch me.

They’re full-on guffawing now.

I ignore my horny body parts and make myself useful, picking up everything between the couch and the fireplace so that Cash can get the mattress down easily.

It’s a double.

Not even a queen.

And he’s carrying it like it’s light as air.

Neither one of us says anything after he gets it placed on the floor near the fireplace.

We both stare at it for a long minute.

Then he mutters, “Pillows,” and heads back to the bedroom.

I get to work straightening the sheets and making the bed. The bedroom door clicks, and a moment later, he sets the two pillows on the bed.

I shake out one quilt.

He grabs another.

We stand at opposite ends of the bed and take turns setting quilts out.

Not talking.

Once the bed’s made, we both stare at it.

“I need to write some stuff down,” I say at the same time he says, “I saw a book I’d like to try to read again.”

We look at each other.

Then at the mattress.

He clears his throat and sits on the couch.

I grab my journal and plop down in the middle of the bed.

He uses his phone for a light for the book.

I use the fire for the light for my journal, which I’m not writing a damn thing in.

Would it be wrong to invite him to sit here with me? The couch has to be colder, and he’s done so much work to get us ready to survive the night. He deserves to be closer to the fire.

If he wants to be.

Maybe his body temperature runs hot all the time.

Who knows?

He clears his throat again.

I glance over at him.

He nods at my journal. “You writing a book?”

“No. Lyrics. Poems. Gratitude. Trauma dumping. It’s all-purpose without a plot.”

He’s quiet for a long minute while the fire crackles and I hold my pen over the pages, my brain continuing to be a blank slate.

While I’m poised with my pen, unable to move, he shifts on the couch.

Is he creeping closer? Is he cold? Is the fire not putting out enough heat?

“I keep one of those with me most of the time too,” he says.

He is definitely closer. Very much sitting at the edge of the couch.

I shift like I’m adjusting my hips and inch a little more toward him too. “For lyrics, poems, gratitude, and trauma?”

“Yeah.”

There’s something hesitant in his voice.

Something that has me watching him as he stares at the fire, arms draped over his knees, book dangling from one hand. He’s in his jacket and jeans again.

I flip my journal closed. “Did you write songs for Bro Code?”

One shoulder shrugs. “Levi and Davis did most of it. I’d help sometimes.”

“Because they asked you to or because you wanted to?”

“Wanted to.”

“You still write lyrics?”

“Chords and melodies and arrangements sometimes too.”

His ears are turning pink.

It’s adorable.

“I took violin lessons in grade school,” he tells the fire. “Then piano with Levi and Tripp when I got older, and I taught myself guitar when we started the band.”

I’m picking up the same I miss it vibe that I got while he was making pancakes and talking about touring. I shift fully to face him, completely intrigued, all of our awkwardness forgotten.

“Are your songs good?”

“No.”

His answer is so instantaneous that I don’t believe him. “Is that insecurity or objectiveness speaking?”

He slides me a look.

Insecurity.

My heart squeezes. “Can I see?”

“Didn’t bring it with me.”

“I didn’t mean now .”

He grunts a nonanswer.

“What kind of songs?” I press.

“Bad songs.”

“ Cash .”

“It’s nothing anyone’s streaming these days.”

I’m sure it’s great isn’t our normal. We give each other shit in person. We laugh. We joke. We don’t go deep.

Deep only happens occasionally in text.

But neither of our phones will send messages right now, and even if they could, we need to conserve the battery power on both of them as long as we can.

He’s already flipped off the flashlight on his phone since he’s not reading.

And now I’m staring at him like I’m waiting for him to take it back.

Screw this.

I flip to a page in my notebook, scribble out If you like it, someone else will too , rip the page out, and thrust it at him. Texting won’t work, but this will.

He takes it and stares at the note like he can’t read it.

Or possibly like my handwriting is terrible.

Very well could be that.

But after a long moment, his lips quirk up on one side.

He leans close enough to me to pluck my pen out of my hand, sets the paper on his thigh, scribbles something himself, and hands me back the paper.

Or I’ll burn all of my careers down in flames for taking such a wild left turn .

I roll my eyes.

He snatches the paper back and bends over it while he writes more, wrinkling the paper against his leg.

When he passes it back, our hands brush, sending a shiver up my forearm.

But when I read his note, a squeak of outrage slips out of my mouth.

I showed our old producer and he told me to keep my day job .

I grab the pen. Fuck him , I write back.

Cash snorts and takes the pen back from me.

A moment later, I have the most Cash Rivers answer I’ve ever seen, in or out of text message. He wasn’t my type, and even if he was, I hear he sucks in the sack.

I snicker.

This time when I take the pen back, it’s warm.

Like he’s been holding it warm.

I have a problem if I’m getting tingly in my lady bits over holding a pen that he held.

Definitely should’ve been snowed in with someone else.

Except I don’t think I’d be tolerating anyone else.

You should record the song and release it yourself , I write.

Songs , he writes back.

Excellent. Glad we’re on the same page. I look forward to hearing your self-produced album .

He slides me a look as he’s reading that last one.

Then he takes a long, long time to write out an answer.

And when he does, I swear my heart stops again.

I’m getting tired of the Hollywood networking grind. I miss touring. I miss being on a live stage. But if I went out on tour with a solo album, people would show up for the shit show of watching me be bad, not for the talent.

“Are you freaking serious?” I say, my voice weird and loud in the peaceful atmosphere that the crackling fire and low light are giving us.

He looks at the ceiling. “It’s not bad . But it’s not top-ten quality, and I know it.”

“How about sometimes you do things just because you love them? Who cares how many people are watching from the audience if you’re enjoying being on stage? Who cares how many records you sell if the joy was in making the record itself?”

His brown eyes flicker over my face. “You know you’re fucking irresistible?”

My stomach collapses in on itself, my breasts tighten, and my vagina clenches while I try to not suck in a massive breath of surprise.

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t say that.”

You’re fucking irresistible .

He absolutely did too say it.

And it has my brain suddenly tripping over itself, trying to analyze what he means while my heart turns into a caffeinated squirrel.

I wish I could read his mind.

And it’s not the first time I’ve wished I could read his mind.

We’ve been at his house at the same time for approximately three weeks over the last year, total. Despite how much we’ve texted, I likely haven’t personally interacted with him more than a dozen times.

But sometimes I imagine he’s looking at me the way I’ve seen Cooper look at Waverly. The way I’ve seen Levi Wilson, another former Bro Code member and currently a solo pop star on hiatus, look at his wife.

And that’s why Levi’s on hiatus.

For his wife and her three kids that he’s taken as his own.

The idea that Cash would look at me like he cares is all in my imagination, and even if it wasn’t, I don’t need a relationship.

I’m too busy taking care of myself for a relationship.

“You think I’m irresistible?” Shut up, Aspen. Shut. Up .

He stares at the floor and mutters back, “How can you not know you’re irresistible?”

My heart stops and my breath trips.

My brain tries to tell me that my ears heard him wrong, but they didn’t.

I heard him right.

It’s even more obvious when he says, louder, “I like you.”

“No.”

He half grins, then shakes his head.

And oh my word .

His cheeks are turning pink. Even when he’s lit only by the orange glow of the fire, I can tell he’s blushing.

My heart starts beating again, far more rapidly now. It’s skipping through spring tulips.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do. I like you. And I shouldn’t—wouldn’t—say it, but the fire is all we have aside from body heat to stay warm. So I owe it to you to tell you that I like you, and I’ll do everything in my power to stay on this couch, but if survival instincts kick in, I might—get closer. And it might be uncomfortable, but I won’t do anything intentionally inappropriate. I just…thought you should know.”

This man—my friend—my mentor—my landlord—is sitting mere feet from me, hasn’t had a drop of wine, and is telling me he likes me and we might have to snuggle to get through the next few days.

When I like him too, no matter how much I don’t want to, because I still need a few months of a place to live before I have the cash in my bank account to buy myself a house.

Would it be awkward if I reached for my journal and started scribbling right now?

Probably.

Nearly definitely.

I like you too .

The words are on the tip of my tongue but I can’t say them.

If I say them, it’s real.

If it’s real, he might try to kiss me like he did under the mistletoe two nights ago.

I might like it.

And then he leaves for his next movie shoot and I leave for my tour and we go back to texting like nothing happened, or worse, we don’t text at all and I have to find another new place to live.

“I know.” His voice is raw and husky in a way I’ve never heard in any of his movies. “I’m well aware I’m too old for you. I’m well aware it’s probably awkward and weird for you to think about it. But I like you. I liked you when we were texting before we met in person. I like knowing you’re safe in my pool house when you’re in LA. I like sitting on my balcony listening to you write songs when I’m there too. I like when I get an excuse to come fix something. I just—like you. I keep trying not to, and I can’t help myself.”

My first boyfriend swore he’d rescue me and take me away from my shitty home, but when his mom heard, she made him break up with me.

The first boy I slept with ran for the hills when my period was late the next month. The first guy I moved in with was using me to get a job. I had a two-week thing with another guy whose biggest struggle in life was how he’d tell his parents he scratched up the BMW they gave him for his birthday. I called it off with him after he counted out to the penny how much I owed him for a dinner date he’d invited me to at a restaurant he knew I couldn’t afford.

There haven’t been a lot of people in my life who haven’t let me down.

Honestly, even trusting Waverly is scary sometimes. The only reason I agreed to meet her in the first place was the logic that she had nothing to gain from helping me or being my friend. I can’t make her richer. I can’t make her more famous. I’m blunt and sometimes crass and I don’t hold back.

And I’ve been around her enough now to recognize that she craves that in her life because she doesn’t get my level of real many other places.

Cash gets realness from his family. I met all of them—his family, the friends he’s tight with, the significant others who have joined their broader friend-family unit—at the party the other night.

I can’t make him richer.

I can’t make him more famous.

He has nothing to gain from liking me.

And he flat-out just said he shouldn’t because he’s too old .

But if the biggest thing I have to lose is one more place to live, then screw it. I can almost afford to buy a house myself.

So just screw it .

We’re going there. And we’re doing it now.