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Huh? I look at him questioningly.
“Your bedroom last night?” he says, elaborating. “Was it warm enough?”
His light hair, damp with sweat, sticks to his forehead and temples as he looks at me, and I nod, turning away again.
But he doesn’t leave.
He just stays there, and I feel myself wanting to sigh, because this is the part where people usually expect me to make an effort to carry on a conversation.
The kitchen grows smaller, and the silence more deafening, except for a bird cawing in the distance. I search my brain for something to say, the awkward seconds stretching and making me want to bolt.
But then he moves closer all of a sudden, and I straighten, on alert as his chest nearly touches my arm. I’m about to move away, but then he reaches in front of me, and I watch as he switches off the coffee maker.
“I was just keeping it warm for you,” he says, his breath brushing the top of my head.
My heart starts pumping harder. Keeping it warm…? Oh, the coffee. He left it on for me.
“You have pretty hands,” he points out.
I look down at them wrapped around the mug.
“Your dad did, too,” he adds, and I can hear the taunt.
I pinch my eyebrows together. Was that a dig?
“My dad had pretty hands,” I muse, taking a sip without looking at him. “So real men use chainsaws and pick-up trucks instead of Mont Blancs and cell phones?” I ask.
I turn my head, peering up at him, and he narrows his blue eyes on me.
“Well, he’s dead now,” I tell Jake. “You win.”
He lowers his chin, his stare locked on mine, and I see his jaw flex. I turn away and take another sip of my coffee.
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nbsp; Regardless of whatever bad blood was between him and my father, the orphan is the last person he should be targeting with his insults. Manners are a thing everywhere. This guy’s a prick.
Despite that, though, my stomach warms, and I sip my coffee to cover up my nerves.
I feel it. The need to engage.
After the sadness, anger was my constant companion as a kid. And then the anger went away, and there was nothing. I forgot how good it felt. The distraction of my emotions.
I like that I don’t like him.
“Alright,” someone calls, and I hear her footsteps enter the kitchen. “I’m out.”
I glance over, still feeling Jake’s eyes on me, and watch the naked woman—now dressed—strolling up to Jake with a brown leather backpack slung over her shoulder as she wraps an arm around his neck. She leans in, and he hesitates a moment—still looking at me—before he finally turns to her and lets her kiss him.
She’s his, then. I take in the smooth skin of her face, in shadow under her baseball cap, and her tight and toned body. She’s nowhere near his age.
The guys aren’t as cut off from civilization as I thought. Until the weather starts, anyway.
The tip of her tongue darts out and slips into his mouth for a split-second before she pulls away, and I turn back to my coffee, a strange irritation winding its way through me. Will there be lots of people coming and going?
“See you tonight?” she asks him.
“Maybe.”
