He was willing to be married so long as there were always options open. So long as we didn’t plant roots anywhere. So long as I was willing to pack up and leave at a moment’s notice.
It was why he wanted me to give up the archives. Why he wanted me to be a writer. To be able to conform to the life he envisioned—fuck anything I wanted.
BAM BAM BAM!
My heart nearly flies out of my chest as I realize the sound is coming from the front door. I peer out of the living room window, but I can’t see anything through the sheets of rain coming down like Noah’s fucking flood. But god, who could possibly be at my door right now?
BAM BAM BAM!
It has to be Easton. I told him to come get the fucking plastic containers, and only that moron would drive in the pouring rain to do what I asked.
I hurry to the door and whip it open, and against the pale, cloudy sky, all I see is a soaked hoodie holding something in its arms.
“Can I come in?”
It isn’t Easton. It’s fucking North, and there’s nothing I can do as he brushes past me, kicks the door shut with a wet boot, then pulls his hood down and shakes the water from his hair.
I’m immediately drenched, and I hear him dripping all over my floor.
“Um.” I blink at his silhouette which is lit up by the faint candle light spilling into the foyer.
He clears his throat, then his shadow holds up his arm, which crinkles as it holds plastic bags. “Food.”
My eyes narrow. “Did Easton send you? Oh my god, did he tell you what I said?”
North passes a wet sleeve down his face, then sneezes three times in a row. “Sorry,” he sniffs.
As mortified as I am to see him again, I don’t want him to drop dead in my foyer. I snag his sleeve and tug him hard into the living room so he can drip on the carpet instead. The light’s bright enough there that I can see his horrible, beautiful face, and I’m annoyed he looks so good even when he also kind of looks like a drowned rat.
“Just…stand there,” I say, waving a hand at him. I snag one of the candles off the table and make my way into the bedroom, setting it on the dresser so I can dig around for some sweats.
He’s much bigger than me, but luckily for him, I like my comfy clothes very baggy.
“Your power’s out!” he calls from the other room.
No shit. I bite back the snarky retort. “Storm knocked it out about ten minutes ago!” I answer back.
He says nothing, so I grab a towel and find my way back to the living room without tripping over my feet and braining myself in the dark. North hasn’t moved other than to take off his hoodie, displaying his station T-shirt, which is now plastered to his obnoxiously cut abs.
I do my best not to stare at the shape of his muscles as I thrust the clothes and towel at him. “Here.”
“Laundry?”
“Clothes, North,” I say impatiently. “You’re going to catch a cold and die if you stay in wet jeans. And—oh god.” He starts to strip right there in front of the window. “I have a bathroom.”
“Yeah, but it’ll be too dark for me to change,” he says and keeps going.
In spite of the fact that he’s had a hand on my dick, I still turn my head away to give him privacy. Unfortunately, I can also see a perfect reflection of him in the living room window from the candle flames, and I cannot stop watching as he peels away wet fabric to reveal miles of gorgeous, naked, glistening skin.
I swallow thickly.
“You know that you can’t catch a cold from getting wet, right? I didn’t graduate high school, and even I know that.”
I whip my head toward him just in time to see him tug the sweater over his stomach, and then he begins to towel off his hair. “You didn’t graduate?”
In the faint light, I can see his cheek darken. “Judgy much?”
“No, I—sorry.” I was being judgmental. “I thought you had to have a diploma and some college certifications for your job.”
