Page 16 of Love Below Zero

16

BELOW ZERO

BECKY

Anne:

Morning.

Do you have any chapters for us yet? Please send through at your earliest convenience.

MacKenzie:

Attached picture of Mr Spock and the hairball he coughed up this morning. He looks very proud of himself.

I don’t like the cold. Even though I’ve been living in one of the most miserable places on earth for years now, I’ve never gotten used to the chill. Anything under twenty degrees Celsius is enough for me to pull out the heavy-duty winter jackets. While it is still summer in Antarctica, the temperature is below freezing. Meaning I am not looking forward to going outside, even though it means I get a change of scenery for the first time in two weeks.

It definitely has nothing to do with the fact that I have to go outside with James Reid. When Frances told me I would be going with him, several arguments were already on the tip of my tongue. I would rather be digested alive by carnivorous space goo. I would rather throw myself out of an actual airlock into the cold vacuum of space. I would rather streak naked through the plateaus of Mars than go anywhere with Doctor Reid.

But Frances just gave me her most commanding glare, as if she could already tell I was going to be difficult, and all I could do was nod and say “yes, ma’am.”

We get ready to go outside after breakfast. We’re standing in the foyer, which doubles as our airlock. Eli scrounged up a pair of walkie-talkies for us to use since our regular comms are out. It won’t be easy to use them through the hazmat suits, so we are essentially on our own.

I shrug into my giant puffy jacket, pulling a beanie over my head. I am determined not to freeze. Is it overkill? Probably. I’m wearing so many layers I can’t use my arms to their full extent. I don’t care. I’m only here to hold the toolbox, not for any real reason.

Why didn’t Reid object to me going with him? Surely he would have preferred Joanna, the actual engineer, or even Eli for the company. But he didn’t say a word when Frances announced it, just gave me a small, pained smile.

Something is afoot, my Spidey senses are tingling.

I reach for the hazmat suit, ready to pull it on, when I notice my shoelaces are still untied.

“Shit,” I mumble under my breath, trying to bend down to reach them. The puffy coat makes it impossible. I’m going to have to take it off again, and Reid is already tapping his foot impatiently, his hazmat suit halfway on.

“It’s not that cold outside,” he points out before closing the space between us. It’s just the two of us in the airlock. Frances is on standby should we need anything, and I can hear Eli and Joanna yelling at each other over Mario Kart .

My blood heats at his condescending tone. Who is he to tell me how cold I could be or not?

“It’s well below freezing and I ...” I trail off as he kneels down in front of me, one hand wrapping around my calf. All thoughts whoosh out of my brain like air escaping from a punctured tire. His hand is warm, even through all the layers of clothing. So warm I’m sure it will burn a hole right through my thermals.

My blood heats now for a very different reason.

“You what?” he asks as he lifts my leg, placing my booted foot on his thigh. My mind definitely isn’t blank anymore. It’s filled with the image of James Reid, kneeling in front of me, his hands tracing my legs, moving higher ...

“I ... uhm.” I gasp for air, shaking my head to clear the very unwelcome dirty thoughts of him. I watch in rapt fascination as he ties the laces on my snow boots, his long-fingered hands working deftly.

What else can he do with those fingers?

He finishes with the left side, putting my foot gently back on the floor before picking up the right one.

Lord, help me.

“I don’t do cold.” It’s not my most articulate moment, but I am proud of my brain for at least forming a semi-coherent sentence.

My balance falters and I reach out, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady myself. He looks up at me, green eyes filled with ... something I can’t place. Determination, maybe? I’m never going to get the image of him kneeling in front of me out of my head. I can hear my heart pumping in my ears, and I’m sure my face is bright red.

This scene isn’t at all erotic—in fact it’s kind of sweet—yet my stomach flips. I tighten my grip on his shoulder.

“This shouldn’t take long.”

How the hell is he so calm about this? He deftly ties the laces on my right boot, tucking them into the sides so they won’t come loose again. He sets my foot back on the floor, and is it just my imagination or did his thumb trace a gentle circle on my calf before he let go?

I definitely am not cold anymore. In fact, I’m hotter than the surface of the sun.

“Right.” I clear my throat, taking a few steps away from him as he straightens. I grab the hazmat suit, pulling it on. My brain feels like it’s wading through syrup. What just happened?

“Frances,” he calls and I jump a little. I have to get a grip. “We’re heading out!”

“Good luck!” Frances calls back from the kitchen. James pulls open the door and we step into the cold.

Outside is just as magical as I thought it would be. I can’t feel the breeze on my face thanks to the hazmat suit, and I am still breathing filtered air, but it’s different flavoured filtered air, so that counts for something. The snow-covered rocks look the same as they did when we arrived, but I inspect each one as if it’s my first time seeing them. I am an intrepid explorer, taking in the sights of an alien world .

James clears his throat behind me, and I realise I’ve been staring at a particular clump of rock for too long.

“If I wanted someone to moon over the rocks, I would have brought Eli.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “I saw him licking several of the samples he brought back last week. I don’t think that’s very sanitary.”

“Unfortunately, he does that a lot more than he should. Someday he is going to lick something that he shouldn’t.”

Fuck. I don’t want to laugh at that, or give him the idea that we are friends who joke around. I’m still mad at him. Just because he tied my shoelaces doesn’t make up for his general dickishness.

The conversation tapers off as we make our way to the solar panels. It hasn’t snowed since we arrived, but the panels are covered in a sheen of ice and dust. James sets the toolbox down and opens it, pulling out a small chisel.

“Here, just lightly tap the ice sheet and then wipe it off the panel. I’ll have a look at the faulty one.”

I nod, taking the chisel from him and getting to work. The panels are fairly easy to clean, and soon I’m sitting on the ground next to James as he peers at the underside of the panel. He mutters to himself occasionally as he works, but we don’t speak.

Eventually even the great outdoors got boring. I should have brought a book to read. I should try to think about my next book, but every fibre of being rebels at that idea. Daydreaming is an important part of my writing process. Ideas have to marinate for a while before I feel comfortable committing them to the page. Still, I try. I run through plot scenarios and character arcs, but eventually I just give up and start staring into space .

What is taking so long?

“Hand me the adjustable spanner, please,” James says, snapping me out of my momentary disassociation. “It’s the one?—”

“I know what it looks like,” I say coolly, my irritation ticking up. My butt is cold from sitting on the ice, and the chill is starting to dig its fingers into me. I grab the wrench from the toolbox, shoving it into his outstretched hand. “Are you almost done?”

“No.”

Very articulate as usual, Spock.

I stand, wiping the snow from my suit. He hasn’t given me anything else to do, and I know next to nothing about electrical systems, so really why am I even out here? I pace, trying to warm up and get some feeling back in my frozen butt.

“You’re not helping,” he says. Only his bottom half sticks out from underneath the solar panel, but I can tell from his tone that he’s frustrated as well.

“Yeah well, if you wanted help, you should have brought Joanna,” I snap, continuing my pacing.

“Believe me, I wanted to,” he mumbles, low enough that I almost don’t catch it.

“Why didn’t you then?”

He sighs, sliding out from underneath the panel to sit upright. His eyes meet mine. “Frances seems to think we need to clear the air between us.”

“And the best way to do that was to shove both of us out into the cold vacuum of pretend-Mars?” I cross my arms over my chest. Well, I try to. The suit and my puffy jacket mean I only get halfway there.

“Apparently, since this is the most you’ve spoken to me in two weeks.”

I have been avoiding and somewhat ignoring him. “I didn’t think that was an issue for you, Doctor Reid. I’m giving you mission updates and information solely pertaining to our work. Is that not what you wanted?”

He pushes to his feet, throwing the wrench back into the toolbox with a thwang that echoes around us. He snaps it shut, picking it up before stalking past me. He really is the most infuriating man. First he tells me that I need to take this seriously, then he gets mad when I do take it seriously. Am I maliciously complying to his request? Maybe. But why does he care so much? We’re not friends, and while I might be slightly attracted to him, I highly doubt he finds me attractive. We agreed to keep things professional. This is me keeping things professional.

“No, that’s not what I wanted.”

I follow behind him to the generator, resisting the urge to throw my hands into the air. “Then what do you want, Doctor Reid? Because I have no fucking idea how you want me to act.” He’s giving me whiplash.

He sets the toolbox down on the ground before turning to face me. His hand comes up, probably wanting to run it through his hair, but the hazmat suit stops him. He settles for clenching his fists. He’s agitated, and knowing I can pull this kind of reaction out of him gives me immense satisfaction.

“Look, I apologise for the inventory thing.”

I snort. Not this again.

“You seem to apologise a lot without actually addressing your behaviour. ”

He winces. “I honestly did not mean for it to come across that way.”

“Well, it did. I don’t want your apologies, Doctor Reid.”

His eyes find mine, a riot of colour against the stark white landscape.

“What do you want then?” His voice is low, and he looks so penitent that I almost take pity on him. Almost.

“I want a lot of things, James. A cup of tea. A brownie. To be able to fucking write something. But most of all I want you to fix the damn generator so we can go back inside.”

His eyes are apple-green flames as he looks at me. “You haven’t been writing.” It’s not a question. He must have noticed. Observant prick. “Why?”

The cold must have frozen my critical thinking skills because I spill my guts. “Why? Why do you think? I haven’t written a single word since your video came out.”

Horror replaces the anger on his face.

“Because every time I open a Word document, all I hear is your voice in my head, telling me how unoriginal my work is.”

He takes a step toward me, hands raised like he wants to reach for me. “Rebecca, I’m?—”

I take a step back, holding up my hand.

“Don’t you dare apologise to me again. I’m so fucking tired of your apologies. Just fix the fucking generator.”

He stares at me for a long time before nodding, turning his attention back to the generator.

I let out a breath. My hands are cold, and I’m pretty sure I have frostbite in my big toe. I’ve had enough of being an astronaut for today.

We complete the rest of the repairs in tense silence. And by “we” I mean Reid. I mostly just stand there, shivering.

After what feels like hours he says, “I’m finished. We can go back.”

I pick up the toolbox and without a word head back to the dome. The next five minutes are the longest of my life as we wait for our imaginary airlock to cycle so we can go inside. I need to put some distance between me and him, as much distance as the dome will allow. I feel emotionally wrung out, and a nap is calling my name. I didn’t mean to tell him about the writer’s block. I was fully prepared to take that to my grave. But it just came tumbling out.

“We’re clear,” James says, looking up from his watch. I nod as he pulls the door open and we step inside.

Another five minutes of waiting.

I’m eager to get out of the stupid hazmat suit. I can already tell the dome is warmer than when we left it.

“Welcome back,” Frances calls from the kitchen. “How did it go?”

“Fine,” Reid and I answer in unison. Frances chuckles.

“Great work on the repairs. Once you’ve suited down, get some rest and enjoy the rest of your day off.”

“Yes, ma’am,” we both echo and I glare at him. He just shrugs, checking his watch. After a small eternity, he pulls off the hazmat suit. I take it as my cue to do the same.

Getting into the suit was much easier than getting out of the suit. In fact, my puffy jacket makes it almost impossible to free my arms. I flail around, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on my forehead.

Fuck.

Stupid jacket. Stupid, warm dome. Stupid James Reid with his stupid green eyes?—

“Can I help?” His voice is soft, breaking through my frustrated thoughts. I stop flailing, turning to face him. I must look absolutely ridiculous. Like the Michelin Man being strangled by a hazmat suit.

His gaze isn’t mocking though. I want to be spiteful and say no, but I am hot, tired, and I really just want to lie down.

“Please,” I say.

He steps closer, his scent washing over me. He takes my arm, freeing it from the suit before moving to the other one. His touch is gentle but firm, like I’m a baby penguin he’s rescuing.

It makes me feel ... too many emotions to name. No one has ever handled me with such care. There is nothing condescending in his actions, and he isn’t afraid to touch me. A lump forms in my throat, my eyes blurring.

He pulls the suit down, letting me hold on to his shoulders again as I step out of the monstrosity. I watch in a daze as he hangs it back on the rack before closing the distance between us again.

His eyes hold mine as he reaches for the zipper of the puffy jacket. My breath hitches, my mouth going dry. Slowly, almost as if he doesn’t want to scare me, he pulls the zip down.

My brain should be screaming at the moment. Red alert! James Reid is undressing me! Red alert! But instead I’m eerily calm.

He reaches up, pushing the jacket from my shoulders. Tiny lightning bolts strike everywhere his fingers brush over my arms. We are standing too close, yet I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t think. For one wild moment, it looks like he’s going to kiss me. For an even wilder moment, I want him to.

Which is so fucking stupid. I was just arguing with him. I actually hate him.

“I’m going to make it up to you, Rebecca,” he says, his breath fanning over my cheeks. “I promise.”

He presses the jacket into my hands, and then he’s gone, leaving me frozen in the foyer.

Apparently James’ version of making it up to me is giving me a copy of my own book. An annotated copy, by the looks of it. I blink down at the hardcover book, unsure of what I’m seeing. I’ve just woken up from the best nap of my life. The type of nap you need three to five business days to recover from. It’s almost dinner time, and as I pull the door open to head downstairs, a soft thunk makes me look down.

Leaning against the door is my book.

I recognise the edition instantly. It’s the hardcover only available at the convention James and I spoke at last year. The one where I vomited on his shoes. Stuck to the front is a note.

Maybe this will help with the writer’s block.

I pull the note off, placing it on my desk before flipping the book open. It’s filled with his handwriting—small and neat, no surprise there. My eyes scan the annotations against my better judgement. He’s made it clear he hates the book. I really don’t need his innermost thoughts on it. Why did he think this would help the writer’s block? I’m not above writing out of spite, but at this point another negative comment from him will send me over the edge.

I don’t find any negativity though. His annotations are ... sweet. Funny. Insightful.

I sit back down on my bed, stunned. Annotations in multiple colours leap out at me as I page through the book. If each colour represents a reread, then he’s read this book five times since he bought it last year. There are some annotations that correct the science. Notes on wormholes, string theory, and dark matter. But none of them feel condescending, and he even marked a few pages where I got the science right.

I can’t help myself. I bring the book up to my nose, inhaling its wonderful scent. Tears spring to my eyes. It’s the first time I’ve smelled anything other than stale dome air for two weeks, and it’s overwhelming. Ink and paper, mixed with something more. Something that smells distinctly like James. Coffee and cold Sunday mornings.

Okay, that is way too poetic, even for me.

I snap the book shut, setting it on the bed before heading downstairs. If he thinks he can bribe me with his little handwritten notes, he’s dead wrong. I don’t forgive that easily.