Page 20 of Knights Like These
“Appetizer, entrée, and dessert. And then she asked Lauren what her five-year plan was.”
“On the third date?”
“On the third date.”
He shakes his head, laughing, and I’m laughing too. Our knees are closer than they were ten minutes ago, and I didn’t notice when that happened.
He’s telling me about a prank Ollie pulled at training camp last year—something involving a water bottle, a locker room, and an industrial fan—and I’m laughing, the wine warming my blood, his voice low and steady, and I realize I’m getting sleepy.
My head gets heavy. My eyes get heavy. His shoulder is right there—solid, warm, reliable, the same shoulder I’ve leaned on since I was fifteen.
I close my eyes for one second.
I wake up, and the first thing I’m aware of is that I’m warm. Really warm. Something is solid under my cheek, and my hand is resting on fabric that isn’t a pillow and isn’t a blanket and—
Oh.
Oh no.
My head is on Archer’s shoulder. My body is curled toward him, my right side pressed against his left, and my hand—my hand is on his thigh. My palm flat against his quad, fingerscurled slightly into the fabric of his sweatpants, as if I reached for him in my sleep and held on.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I keep my eyes half-closed and try to assess the situation without alerting him to the fact that I’m awake.
He’s still. Completely, unnervingly still. His head is leaned back against the couch, his right arm is along the back of the cushion behind me—not touching me, but close, inches from my shoulder—and his left hand is resting on his own knee. He’s not moving. He’s barely breathing.
The TV is off. The wine glasses are on the coffee table, both empty. The house is dark except for the light over the stove in the kitchen, which he always leaves on. I have no idea what time it is or how long I’ve been asleep, but judging by the stiffness in his neck and the careful way he’s holding himself, it’s been a while.
I pull away. Slowly. I peel my hand off his thigh, sit up, and blink as if I’m just waking up, which I am.
“Sorry,” I say. My voice is rough with sleep. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re fine.” His voice is rougher. Lower. Like he’s been sitting in silence for forty-five minutes and his throat has forgotten how to work.
“How long was I out?”
“A while.”
“You should have woken me up.”
“I didn’t mind.”
I look at him. He’s studying the coffee table. His jaw is tight, his hands are on his knees now, and he’s sitting very straight.
“Arch.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He stands, picks up the wine glasses, and takes them to the kitchen. I hear the water run, hear the clink ofglass against the sink, and I sit on the couch with my hand still tingling where it pressed against his thigh, trying to remember how to breathe.
“Goodnight, Syd,” he calls from the kitchen.
“Night.”
I hear his footsteps on the stairs and his bedroom door closing.
I go to the guest room, close the door, and call Lauren.
