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“You’re here.” His voice is sleep-scratched and raspy.
“I am.”
He pulls down his glasses to rub at his eyes. Then he pushes them back up to look at me. I love those glasses. “I tried to wait up for you,” he says.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I absolutely did.” He moves his legs off the bench and straightens, stretching the upper half of his body. My own body feels taut and poised to spring. My heart’s a mousetrap, with its trigger set. Ready to snap. But instead of cheese, Spencer’s the bait.
“There’s food in the kitchen,” he says, as if he heard my brain thinkcheese.
“I’m not hungry,” I say. And it’s true. I have no appetite at all. Still, at the mention of food, my stomach rumbles. Loudly. I never did get dinner last night, which means I haven’t had a meal since yesterday’s lunch.
Spencer’s lips curve up. “Let’s get you something to eat anyway. You’ve got a long day to get through, and you’ll be operating on no sleep.”
As he stands to his full height, I gaze up at him, and my shoulders begin to quake. This is more about my emotions than about being cold. But without another word, Spencer reaches down to haul his sweatshirt off.
I catch a sliver of bare skin at his abdomen, and his muscles flex while he works the hood over his head. Then he pulls his arms through the long sleeves, and shoves the sweatshirt at me before I can object.
Not that I would. The thick cotton feels amazing against my skin, and it smells even better. Like clean laundry and citrus, with a hint of bonfire smoke. The chill of the air combined with being wrapped in Spencer’s scent makes me tremble again. Not to mention the fact that I’m anticipating our conversation.
“But we’ll talk after food?” I ask. My question sounds low and breathless. Spencer nods, and puts a hand at the small of my back. Then he guides me into the kitchen. I let myself be led, like some kind of zombie-puppet-marionette. I’m just grateful for someone else to be in charge. As much as I love being the camp director, it’s nice to surrender control in this moment. Especially to someone I trust. And I trust Spencer.
At least Iwantto be able to trust him.
I’d like to think he would take care of me. That he’d let me take care of him right back. My full heart and foggy brain are saying he’d never hurt me on purpose.
Please don’t hurt me, Spencer.
He drags two stools up to the stainless steel counter in the center of the room and motions for me to sit. Then he pulls a couple of hotdogs and hamburgers out of the warming drawer and sets them on plates. From the fridge, he collects ketchup and mustard. Relish and onion. Tomatoes and pickles. These he arranges in front of me. “After you,” he says.
I unwrap a hotdog from its foil and gobble three quick bites, totally skipping the condiments. Meanwhile Spencer takes his time building the perfect hamburger.
Two halves of a bun. Two patties. Two slices of tomato, two of cheddar cheese, and two dill pickles. He skips the onion. I swallow. “Don’t you like onion?”
“I do,” he says. “But.”
I blink at him. “But. What?”
“But nothing.”
“You took two of everything else.”
He shrugs. “That’s just something I do.”
I huff out a laugh. “Avoid onions?
“Not exactly.”
His avoiding the question makes me wonder if he’s planning to kiss me later. But this makes my insides flutter, so I shove another bite of hotdog in my mouth. I chew while Spencer adds two squirts of ketchup to his top bun. Then two of mustard. Two of relish.
I clear my throat. “So I’m guessingtwois a thing with you.”
“Not with everything,” he says. “But, yeah. I like to eat things in twos.” He meets my gaze. “Two handfuls of chips. Two scoops of ice cream. Eight M&Ms, which is two sets of four which is two sets of two.”
“Wow.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “And I’ll probably have two cookies after I finish this. There’s still some left over from The Bread Box.”
