“You’re biting your lip,” I say, beginning the count with my index finger. “You’re thrusting your boobs out, which is a miracle given the harness.” Another finger. “Now, you are smiling.” Third and final finger. “If I wasn’t driving at the moment, sweetness, we’d already be fucking.”
Queue the blush seen around the world.
“Ian!” I love the way she says my name. “Could you not make it sound so...so...animalistic?”
I snort because—one—we both know she loves my dirty talk and—two—she’s conveniently forgotten how we got down and dirty in a ski lodge upstate yesterday, and trust me, there was nothing civilized about what we did to each other.
I’m willing to play the game though and keep up the charade of modesty.
“What can I say, sweetness?” I reply. “Everything with you is animalistic. You bring out my baser instincts.”
I turn the curve onto the private drive. Two minutes later, we arrive at the waiting helicopter. It’s not a two-seater either or even a four-seater. This thing is a monster, seating up to twelve and with a top speed in excess of 160 miles per hour.
I did my homework. Plus, we don’t have all day. There’s Cinnamonas we have to be back for.
“Ian,” she breathes, staring at the helicopter.
“Harlow,” I say in the same breathless tone.
I hop out of the car and help her out, waving to my father’s pilot who starts the engines. Her hair is wild from the wind being generated by the rotors, flying around her face and swinging into her eyes.
“Join me,” I shout over the whir of the blades as I offer my hand.
Her eyes are so wide, I can see the whites around her irises, and for a moment, I actually don’t know if she’ll accept, but then she does. We climb into the helicopter, and I buckle both of us in. She’s staring out the window as we start to rise, but she blindly finds my hand.
Ow.
She’s white-knuckling my fingers, squeezing so hard it’s a miracle she doesn’t break my bones.
“Harlow,” I say.
No response. Just a nuclear-level grip on my hand.
“Harlow,” I repeat, softly.
She looks to me slowly. She’s practically hyperventilating.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I promise you’re safe. We’ll be there in under an hour.”
She goes limp, her shoulders relaxing and her grip loosening. For the entire ride, I never let go of her hand, not even when my fingers fall asleep and the tingles begin to creep up my wrist.
“We’re here, folks,” Gerald calls through the mic. “Descent in five, four, three, two, one.”
He lowers the helicopter with ease, and we land outside my parents’ vacation home. It’s still pitch-black out, but the lights along the runway are bright.
I feel the rest of Harlow’s fear melt from her body, and she frees her hand from mine.
“Sorry my hand got all sweaty,” she says, wiping it across her pants.
“Sweetness, it’s fine,” I say.
Gerald opens the door, and I hop outside and turn to help Harlow down.
Though it’s not snowing, gusts of wind blow the snow loose from the tops of trees around us.
“I’ll be here,” Gerald says. “Call if you need anything.”
I nod and thank him.
“Where are we?” Harlow asks.
She looks off toward the main building of my father’s retreat, a massive log and stone cabin, but I tug her straight ahead along a field-stone path.
“My family’s vacation home,” I say.
“You have a vacation home in the same state as your normal home?” she asks.
I chuckle because leave it to Harlow to point out that it does sound obnoxious.
I’m not doing myself any favors when I add, “We have lots of homes in many states and in many countries.” I turn to her, quite serious as the lights that line the path lead the way. “I don’t give a shit about any of it though. We are only here for one thing that is unique to the property.”
“Any chance you’ll tell me what that is?”
I grin. “Patience is a virtue, sweetness.”
“Patience is a curse I wasn’t burdened with.”
I snort and lift her hand to my lips to drop a kiss across her gloved knuckles.
“I’ll make it worth it.”
She sighs, and that little sound does funny things to my stomach. “I believe you, Ian.”
The way she says my name with complete and utter faith nearly destroys me.
—Harlow—
We walk through the darkness hand-in-hand. The forest around us is quiet save for the creaks from frost-laden branches. Our pathway is lit by ensconced lights built along the sides of the stone. We avoid the main path going to the log home and continue into the darkness.
“Watch your step,” Ian says before we continue down a set of stone stairs.
On both sides of the path, I see nothing except bare trees coated white with ice like we are walking into a winter wonderland.
We reach the landing at the bottom of the steps, and I hear the burble of moving water, but I don’t have time to ask Ian what it is before we turn the corner of the pathway, and the sight steals my breath away.
I walk toward the water beside Ian.
Steam rises from a pool of clear water in front of us, fed by a tall waterfall that stretches up the rocky cliffside. The waterfall is mostly frozen, but it thaws the closer it gets to the hot spring. The place is illuminated by ensconced lights built into the cliffside and in the ground around the pool.
Ian kneels to run his fingers through the water.
“What do you get a person whose family could buy them anything?” he muses. Welcome to my world, bud. He stands, letting the water drip off his fingertips, and turns to me. “This property has been in the Beckett name for generations, and it’s a very well-kept secret. You’ll be the first non-Beckett to swim in these waters in over two hundred years.” He steps toward me, erasing the distance between us. “What do you think?”
“It’s breathtaking,” I
