He quirks a brow in amusement, keeping silent.
“I know you didn’t have a choice, but still. Thank you.” I start chewing on my lip, finished with what I wanted to say.
He nods again and pushes from the wall. Taking off his goggles, he hangs them from the hook by the door.
“So, what do you want me to do?” I ask nervously, trying to figure out how to pass the time without getting in his face too much.
His eyes dip to my lips, and his nostrils flare at my question before darting back to mine, but I saw it. I saw it the moment it crossed his mind.
“Can you make some coffee?” he asks.
“Sure,” I reply eagerly, happy to have something to do. “Do you want me to make yours or mine?”
“I don’t have coffee,” he glances at me sheepishly, “but I smelled yours when I came in.”
“Sure.” I jump to action, grateful to be useful.
He goes for the doorknob and twists it, and on some instinctual level, I sprint after him and grab his arm. “Where are you going?”
It’s not me; I don’t behave like this. I’m usually a picture of calmness and common sense. Until he showed up on that bridge all those nights ago. Now all bets are off, and I turn into a hysterical, illogical banshee every time he enters the room.
His attention switches to my hand on his and then returns to my face. He doesn’t try to shake me off. “I need to get some wood for the fireplace. It’s going to be a really cold night, and the generator won’t stay at max heat for long. I’m usually okay with the cold, but—” He doesn’t finish, but it’s clear that he meant with me here, he’ll need to use more heat considering I’m always cold. I don’t even think he owns a warm jacket.
I instantly feel guilty.
“I got some extra gas; it’s in the trunk of my car.”
“Okay.” He nods, still not attempting to remove my hand. “But we still need firewood. I’ll be back.”
For some unexplainable reason, I still clutch him. “I promise,” he adds firmly, keeping his eyes on mine.
“Alright.” I drop my hand and hide it behind my back, embarrassed by my weird reaction to his proximity.
He opens the door again and walks outside. When the door is shut, I rush to the window to see where he’s going. The dim lighton the front porch allows me to follow his figure to the side of the house. He comes back a minute later, and I rush to the kitchen as if I were there the whole time. He drops the wood by the fire and goes to hang his coat up before proceeding to the bathroom, disappearing for a few minutes. When he comes back out, he’s wearing different jeans and the same shirt.Hmm, what was he doing in there?
He returns to the fireplace and squats.
His ass is taut in his dark jeans, his shoulders looking impossibly wide in the gray turtleneck sweater he’s wearing. How can a guy be so hot wearing a turtleneck, for fuck’s sake? And yet, he is. Even from the back. His hair is short, but the black strands at the nape of his neck touch the collar of his sweater, where I see a tiny part of his tattoo peeking out. When he stretches to arrange the wood in the fireplace, his sleeve rolls up, revealing more ink. It’s colorful and large, and I instantly want to roll his sleeve up more to see what he’s hiding. I’ve never seen Archie shirtless, and I don’t think I can survive the sight, to be frank. My libido gets crazy with just a sliver of his corded forearms showing. What will it do when his abs and chest are on full display? I just know it’ll be epic. I hope he sleeps in long sleeve shirts and wide pants.
Gosh, I hope not.
He suddenly turns to me, catching me checking him out. I jerk back and nervously move around the kitchen, making coffee. I’m sure my cheeks are aflame, matching my hair color. Just awesome. Now he thinks I’m a stupid, horny teenager.
I rummage through the tiny cabinets, making more noise than possible considering they’re practically empty. As the coffee drips, I keep myself busy, scared that if I stop for even a second, I’ll continue ogling him. It’s an arduous task because the man is gorgeous.
I mentally roll my eyes and start putting away the groceries, noticing that we only have the things I bought at the store, a few cans of cat food, and bottles of alcohol.
“Where’s all your food?” I ask, surprising myself more than him. “Your human food?”
“You’re looking at it,” he replies without turning to me.
I glance back at the shelves, expecting food to magically appear, but there’s still nothing. “It’s just booze in here.”
“Exactly,” he replies with a smile.
“Were you planning on eating anything while you’re here?”
“Are you auditioning to play my mother?” He throws me a funny glance.
