Keeping Secrets in Seattle - By Brooke Moss Page 0,28

a small mountain lake that reflected the trees and sky like a mirror. “Where are we going?” I yelled over the roar of the engine.

“It’s a surprise,” Landon called.

The gravel road curved around the water, coming to a dead end in front of a log cabin with a long deck running the span of the entire house. The front was covered in river rock, and I could see through the front window that the entryway was lit up with a giant antler chandelier, and there were several animal heads mounted on the walls.

Landon slowly brought his bike to a stop, then climbed off with a proud grin on his face. He removed his helmet and helped me with mine.

“Where are we? Whose house is this?”

He lifted my helmet and smoothed down my hair. “This is my parents’ place.”

“Your what?” I looked down at my mud-splattered jeans and old sweater. “You brought me to meet your parents?”

He laughed. The sound was deep and rugged, and it made my knees knock together. “No. They’re out of town. You’ll meet them soon enough.”

“Oh, I will?” I looked around in awe. “Wow. This is nice.”

“My dad built it right after he retired. He and my mom go to Arizona every year for the winter, and I come out here every few weeks to check on the place while they’re gone.” He took my hand and walked me to a porch swing. “I want you to wait here. I have to get a few things ready.”

“Okay.” I sat down.

“Stay here, beautiful.”

I nodded, and off he went, letting himself into the cabin. I listened to pots banging, and a door being opened and shut several times, but stayed where I was, engrossed in the beauty around me. The wind rustled the trees over my head, and I even saw a deer cross the driveway a hundred yards away. I didn’t hear a single sound besides Landon puttering around on the other side of the cabin and some frogs croaking in the long grass surrounding the water.

I could get used to this.

He finally approached from the opposite end of the porch. “You ready?”

I let him lead me through the house to the backyard, where he’d placed several bales of hay around a giant fire pit, and a bonfire was now burning. There were some trays of food, a bottle of wine, and two glasses sitting on a blanket waiting for us. Landon had brought out speakers for his iPod, and it was playing some soft acoustic music. He’d lit a dozen paper lanterns to illuminate the path down the back steps, and dropped a few dozen more daisies like the ones he’d given me earlier all over the bales.

I looked around with an open mouth. “This is all for…me?”

Landon hugged me from behind, kissing my neck. “Of course it’s for you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

I sighed. This was completely perfect. Gabe, who? I thought as we walked down the path and I took my spot on the blanket opposite Landon.

As he set to work cooking our steaks over the open fire, I admired how striking he was. Every muscle of his arm was visible through his thermal shirt as he held the cast iron skillet above the flames. He pressed his lips together when he concentrated, and his eyes would melt into little slits when he laughed. I adored the way the tattoos on his neck peeked above the collar when he bent and reached.

After we’d eaten, our legs wound around each other’s as we laid there next to the radiating warmth of the fire pit. “Thank you for dinner,” I told him around a yawn. “Who taught you how to cook like that?”

He shrugged as we settled down on our bed of straw and blankets. “My dad said that a real man can cook anything on an open fire.”

“Is that so?” I laughed. “Are you and your dad close?”

Landon drew lazy figure eights on my back as we snuggled. “Sort of. He’s older now, and not as interested in the things I do as he was when he was younger.” When I looked up at him curiously, he added, “I was a surprise baby. My parents were in their mid-forties when they had me.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. He’s the one who sparked my interest in woodworking. Years ago, I think I was about fifteen, he and I went into the woods and chopped down a birch tree. We spent the next few months cutting, whittling, and carving it