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Lizzie
Dinnerisbizarreand simple. As promised, I’m back down to dish up the meal just as the potatoes start to bubble over, towel wrapped around my head. Caleb is watching me with an almost insulting amount of surprise.
“You weren’t kidding,” he says.
For a moment, I think I catch his gaze traveling up my legs, but steam sears my fingers and I’m brought back to the task at hand. By the time I glance over again, his face is its usual mask.
Given the time I’ve known other girls to take in the shower, I let the judgment go. I know I’m a tad unusual. When your main purpose under the spray is to scrub yourself free of grease and oil, efficiency becomes a natural habit.
“Here,” I say, handing over a plate filled with grilled steak, vegetables, and creamy mashed potato. “If there’s anything you don’t like, just leave it.”
The ingredients had come from his refrigerator, so I consider myself fairly safe. Then again, my cooking skills are basic and open to criticism.
“Given the smell of it, I find that highly unlikely,” he says approvingly.
I’ve already moved the dining table back to its place in the lounge but Caleb ignores it and veers instead for the armchair that I found him in last night. Taking his lead, I curl up on the couch with legs crossed beneath me and balance my plate on my knees.
The companionable quiet of two hungry humans follows, each of us more interested in the plate in front of us. Only after we’re both mostly finished do I look up to catch him watching me.
“Go on. Ask.” I tell him, a piece of carrot stuffed in my cheek.
“Ask what?”
“Whatever’s up your ass,” I say. “You’ve been looking at me funny since the Jessop house.”
“I have?” he seems flustered. He’s quiet for a moment before saying, “Generally people say I don’t look like anything. That I’m hard to read.”
I shrug, unsurprised. Caleb is the classic strong and silent type. His emotions and deeper thoughts are closed behind vaulted doors. He’s the type who’s solitary in his own mind. The type to be branded as unfeeling or stony.
The fact that I’d noticed something is nothing special, I’m just used to the type. The racetrack is like a homing beacon for guys like Caleb. Competitive and ambitious, racers are always unwilling to admit weakness. It’s only in the merest twitch of an eyelash that you might notice something.
Nick had been exactly the same before he died. Bold, brash, and the life of any conversation. He wore his social mask well. But underneath the charisma he was the same as Caleb. His true feelings were locked away, only noticeable in the deep, dark blue of his eyes.
Thinking of Nick causes a sharp hurt to tear through my chest, and pushes my thoughts to my father as well. But I can’t deal with these thoughts and the emotions they bring. So I react in the same way I have for four months… I distract myself with something else.
In this case, Caleb.
Caleb might not display that same drive to conquer as the men I’m used to, but that’s only because he’s already king of his domain. He’s physically powerful, skilled with his hands, and as much a part of the Forge as its river or its trees. A man without competition doesn’t need to display his superiority. It’s just a natural aura around him. But that strength doesn’t suddenly turn an alpha male emotionally open. After all, keeping your thoughts on lockdown is a habit of a lifetime. It’s all-consuming and hard to break.
“Maybe, I’m wrong,” I admit. After all, I’ve only known the man for twenty-four hours. I may be over-generalizing. “But you keep frowning at me. Like…” I pause, trying to find the right words.
“Like…?” he prompts.
“I don’t know. It changes. Sometimes you look like you have something you want to say. Sometimes you don’t seem to know what to say.”
Sometimes you look at me like I’m a snake you just discovered in your boot.
Caleb stuffs his tongue thoughtfully into his cheek. The other side of his face hollows out, his slashing cheekbone turning even more pronounced. I take the moment to scrape the last of the mashed potatoes onto my fork.
“I suppose I’m just trying to work out how serious you are,” he says finally.
“About what?”
“About staying. Here, in East River.”
With a glower, I swallow the last of my meal before sighing in frustration.
“I’ve said I’m staying, haven’t I?” Several times, in fact.
