Page 18 of On Fire

Ever.

And off I go. “I’ve got some Thai spring rolls in here, not the fried kind, the soft kind with tofu and maybe some shrimp ones. Yeah, there’s some shrimp. Two in fact. One for me one for you.” I know I must have looked startled—it sounds so buddy-buddy. “Or you could have them both. There’s also some left-over chili and cornbread. It’s Chloe’s recipe, so it’s really good with sour cream in the batter and also some corn chowder. Oh, I have fresh salsa, too, with tomatillos—you know those green papery—”

He nods—

“I made sourdough yesterday, so we could have that, but I also have fresh clams, and I was going to turn it into clam chowder if you want that instead.” I pause, one hand on the fridge, and before he can speak, I just keep going, segueing into the recent weather report of the continued heat wave, how well Finn’s inn is doing, and what color I wanted to paint the exterior of the firehouse next spring. The whole time he’s nodding and drinking his beer.

It's a fucking horror show.

With wilting relief, he picks salad and cornbread, and this shuts me up for five minutes. The entire time he just sits there while I start chopping up veggies, he rises a second time and deftly lifts an avocado from the fruit bowl and pulls a knife from the magnetized rack on the wall.

When he reaches behind me for the knife, his shirt gaps open in the front, and I see a swath of pec muscle and clavicle. My dick pulses.

“Can I dice this? To go on top?”

I shrug. I should have thought of avocado. Not to be outdone, and to ignore what’s happening between my legs, I grab some cheddar from the fridge and start grating like a maniac.

“I can’t cook, but I can chop,” he says. His stomach rumbles. “I think I’m starved,” he finally admits, sighing heavily and then he pauses the action with the knife and closes his eyes.

That simple act of standing in front of me with his eyes closed seems like such a unselfconscious gesture of vulnerability, that my groin tightens. And my groin never tightens. I work very hard to make sure very little tightens.

I pause my stream-of-consciousness diatribe about whatever to ask, “You okay?” He doesn’t respond. He weaves on his feet for a split second, and I move toward him. “Nic? Hey.”

His eyes open and he stares right through me. He’s got dark navy-blue eyes, a color I’ve never seen before.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry. I’m exhausted. I knew the owner of the bar . . . and this thing. These bombs. It’s. . .”

“Are you having flashbacks or something?” I know he was in the service at some point.

“No. It’s not like that. I hardly get those. It’s just that—this is hitting in a place I’m not used to,” he says. All mysterious. All sexy.

For someone who likes to talk about their feelings, probably too much for most men, I don’t want to talk about anything right now. Especially the bombings. I force myself to focus on something else, and when he uses the blade edge of the knife to scrape the avocado on top of the salad, I fight the urge to tell him to flip the knife over. I grab a couple of hard-boiled eggs and dice those up as well.

I open the fridge one more time and wave another bottle of beer at him. He nods, and I grab my third and sit down at the counter as well.

We eat in silence. After everything he said earlier about being hungry, he just pokes at the greens. He doesn’t touch the cornbread, not even with honeybutter. This makes me nervous.

He stands and starts clearing the bowls. “I’m up for dishes. Just tell me what to do.”

Just tell me what to do. . . that phrase takes me back to my first time in bed with a guy, and I shiver. I never shiver. Why does man this have me so rattled?

“There’s no dishwasher,” I say and watch him start rolling up those white shirt sleeves. His forearms are well muscled, brown, and tight. Every movement is so graceful, so precise.

After he’s found the stopper, he fills the sink with hot soapy water. I set the rack next to him at the sink.

“This is nice,” he says. “At The Inn, I don’t do dishes. I eat in the dining room and stay in one of the secure rooms.” There’s a pause. He glances at me. “I hope you’re not going to dry,” he adds when I pick up a tea towel.

“It’s illegal in restaurants,” I say, looping it over the hook by the sink.

“Thank you.” This time his smile is at me. “Finally. Someone who’s reasonable.”

I’m good at being reasonable, but it’s harder the more I look at him. “I’m having another. You?” I ask, reaching into the fridge. I’m running out of things to say, grab the church key off the counter, and can’t get the cap off fast enough. But his next question makes me freeze.

“Who have you come out to?’ he asks casually, like he’s talking about the weather.

“What?” The church key clatters to the floor.

“Give me that,” he says, and grips the bottle with one hand and twists the cap off with the other. There’s a soft crack and the sound of fizz. He hands the bottle back to me. It’s so hot in the house that condensation immediately forms and drips down the sides of the bottle. “So, you’re not out.” He reaches for another himself. He retrieves the church key and cracks that bottle open and clinks his against mine while I stand there, immobile.