Page 17 of On Fire

The guy’s been up for fifty hours.

I release the wheel for a moment to offer directions on which side of the blanket to use, but he’s already got it jammed up under his head against the window. One hand rests on his thigh. I’ve always liked men with wide, perfect hands. His are beautiful. The sun sinks deeper into the blue horizon line and his reflection casts back at me every time I glance over to see how he’s doing.

He’s not sleeping. I can see his eyes are open and he’s looking out at the sea and sunset, not saying a word.

I figure he just doesn’t want to trigger my diarrhea mouth.

I wish my hands would stop sweating.

Just as we pull off the highway toward the water, his head lolls back and he is out. Too bad. We’ll be rolling in the driveway in fifteen minutes.

Then, some asshole kid comes swerving into our lane, oncoming. I press down on the horn, and he careens back into his own lane and is gone in a flash of headlights.

I give Nic a quick glance and he’s stirring slightly, but still asleep. With one hand on the wheel, I stretch across him to grab the seatbelt buckle and stretch it across his lap.

A simple click never felt so satisfying. My hand lingers over him for a moment, and I gently lift a lock of hair off his forehead and then immediately retreat.

Shit. I wipe both hands on my knees. Still sweating.

΅

“Luke said you named your house Ink Dot?” He’s unfolding himself from the car and slams the door. He hangs back a minute while I unlock the door and then follows me up the stone steps. Luke says I live in a Hobbit home on the side of a mountain. I do. It’s way too small. but I like it. The views of the ocean are great, and I love my kitchen. It’s half the downstairs.

“I got a lot of books and it’s like a little dot.”

Then he stops. “Why am I not at The Inn?”

“Finn told me to feed you.”

For the first time today he smiles, but it is more to himself than to me. He slides his feet out of his shoes like any self-respecting New Englander and glances politely at the interior, while I run around flinging open windows.

It’s hotter than Hades in here and there’s no AC. We need the sea breeze.

My clutter stands as a proud embarrassment to my dash-around life. It’s a mish mash of grandma doilies, hanging art, found art, lots of rocks and shells, and more crap I’ve picked up in my travels. Nothing kitschy, just stuff. The wall where the wood stove and mantle are, is all beach granite and the rest of the walls are old horsehair plaster over lathe. The only room I’ve renovated is my kitchen.

Chloe Russo, Claire’s older sister, and I used to do secret cooking lessons with each other but had to stop with the summer crowds—we are both too busy. But next winter this kitchen will be fully utilized again.

The house is really a story and a half, and the upstairs has knee walls. I can barely stand straight up there. I’m six five and those ceilings are six seven. Maybe.

But no one’s been upstairs in forever except for Luke, fishing around for a shirt or something when he used to live with me.

Now, it’s just me. As always.

“Leftovers okay?” I ask and start pulling out containers from the fridge. I hold up a green bottle of ice-cold beer. He nods, and I pop the cap and hand it to him.

He takes two long pulls, sets the bottle down on the counter and then asks, “What can I do?”

“Just sit there at the island and keep me company.” Jesus, I sound like my grandmother.

Shrugging off his suit jacket he then drapes it over the back of the sofa and starts poking around, looking at all my crap. I just watch him. Every move.

“Luke said you like to travel.” He picks up a small statue of a giraffe from Kenya, sets it down and then palms two coins from Japan, tossing one up before setting them both back down on the mantle.

Just the ease with which he does this is so damn sexy. Flip, toss, catch. With those hands. Long, lean fingers, perfect bones, neat tendons, even knuckles.

The sky outside is dark and there’s a thin line of red burning on the horizon. Auburn streaks catch this light and warms his face. Settling himself on a barstool, he reaches for his tie and unknots it. The sound of silken cloth zipping through his collar starts to make me hard. Then he rises again and lays it over the jacket. When he turns around, he’s unbuttoning the top button and his collar falls open. There’s a dark swirl of chest hair.

Here we go. There’s an immediate tug of war between wanting something to happen and never wanting anything to happen.