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His voice is low, gravelly, still waking up. His beard is growing out, stubble forming down his throat. I want to nibble him, swirl my tongue over the knot of his Adam’s apple, and slip my hand under the sheets to reprise last night’s entertainment. But then we’ll be sweaty, and sticky, and we’ll never get out of bed.
“Don’t look at my sketchbook while I’m gone,” I tell him. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
The crazy thing is, I think he means it.
I get dressed, brush my teeth, and then head downstairs.
I’ve borrowed Tasha’s clothes, but she’s much taller, and they’re all a bit long on me. I have to roll up the sleeves of her plaid shirt to keep them from swallowing my hands.
The house is old, and her staircase creaks when I make my way downstairs. The grandfather clock greets me with rhythmic clicks. The wooden floorboards are cool under my feet when I leave the carpeted staircase and go into the kitchen. I find a bag of coffee grounds in a drawer and a french press on the counter.
And this is where my spoiled brat comes out. Because I’ve never had to make my own coffee before. I find coffee filters, coffee mugs, but I can’t figure out exactly how to fit all the pieces together.
“Crud,” I murmur to myself.
“First time without a Keurig?”
Tasha watches me, amused, leaning against the open doorway with her arms folded across her chest.
I wince. “I know. I’m basic.”
“C’mere.” She steps in beside me and takes the french press from me. “You’ve got to know how to make your own coffee if you’re going to exist in the real world, hon.”
She measures out the grinds, tosses them into the bottom of the press, and then boils up a pot of water. Together, she shows me how to add an inch of water to the pot, and we let it sit for thirty seconds before filling it up the rest of the way. Then we put the top on it and push the stopper down part of the way.
“Now we wait,” she tells me, drying her hands with a rust-colored hand towel. “Wanna earn your breakfast?”
She means it literally—I follow her, and we go into the chicken coop out back. She takes a recycled egg carton, and together, we hunt for eggs in the coop.
“I’m not going to lie,” I tell her, “I love this.”
She smiles at me. “You two having a good time, huh?”
I feel my cheeks go hot. Did she hear us last night? I shrug lightly. “We’re surviving.”
“Seems like more than that.” I feel her side-eye me. “What’s the deal with you and Archer?”
Can my face get any redder? I nudge my fingers around a nest until I find the brown-and-white-spotted egg in the nesting.
“He’s a bodyguard,” I tell her. “He’s just…doing his duty.”
She shakes her head. “The way that man looks at you…that’s not duty.”
“How does he look at me?”
“Like you’re his moon and his stars, girl.”
22
ARCHER
I’m not a man who can stay still for very long, so I break rank and get out of bed.
I clean the dressing on my wound. It’s looking better this morning, the skin around the gunshot pink and healing. My shoulder is stiff, and the muscles strain when I circle my arm to test it, but the pain isn’t blinding anymore.
Everything feels a little better this morning. Which instantly puts me on edge.
