Page 17 of On Dry Land

Spencer is moving slowly up the yard, blue jacket zipped into place and hands tucked into the pockets. I watch, noting the absence of his backpack and the obvious trajectory toward the house. When he’s close enough for me to see uncertainty on his face, I walk across the living room. I can see the moment his eyes catch movement through the glass, and almost immediately, he removes his hands from his pockets, dangling them down by his side. Unlocking it, I slide open the back door and step out, coffee steaming in the crisp morning air.

“Morning,” I greet him, leaning a hip against the open doorway and watching him. He’s shaved his face.

“Good morning. Sorry to come up here like this.” I shrug, taking a sip of coffee. I was right about him being handsome. He clears his throat, flicking his fingers back toward the cottage and continuing. “I, uhm…I can’t figure out how to work the espresso machine.”

I try to remember what sort of espresso machine is even in there. It’s been so long since I decorated the space, and the moment I was done, I stopped caring. Rising, I take a drink of my own and regard him. There are two choices—either I let him inside and make him a mug here, or he lets me inside to show him how to make his own. He stares at me, the same conundrum clear in his brown eyes. Taking another sip of coffee, I decide, of the two of us, I’m the one least likely to come away worse off in an altercation between us, the least uncomfortable with his presence. No matter that the guest cottage is mine—right now, it’s tangentially his, and I don’t think he wants me inside.

“Come in,” I offer, turning and walking back inside, back door open in welcome. I know without looking that he’s hovering in the doorway, not following. Stopping in front of the espresso machine, I raise my voice to be heard across the room. “You can come in.”

“Aren’t you…aren’t you worried I’ll, like, steal your stuff or anything?” he asks. I snort.

“What are you going to do, stuff the flat-screen into your backpack?” Looking at him over my shoulder, I raise an eyebrow. “If you’d like to nick some of the smaller things, go ahead. There’s a nice set of coasters on the table there. Crystal.”

He laughs softly and takes a hesitant step inside. “You’re a weird guy, you know that?”

I have been called many, many things in my life. Most of them unflattering. Cold, heartless, robotic, and selfish among the most frequent. Emotionless was one of Dylan’s favorites during the divorce proceedings. Unlovable. I can’t remember a time I was ever called weird. Perhaps that means I’m growing as a person.

“Thank you,” I tell Spencer, who chokes on another quiet laugh.

“You’re not worried I’ll attack you and steal your money?” he continues. The coffee drips slowly into the mug as I turn and lean my lower back against the counter. Spencer is standing two steps inside the back door.

“I suppose I should be worried about that since all my wealth is stored in gold bars and easily carried off.” A flash of a smile flickers across his face. “Besides, don’t take this the wrong way, but I doubt you’re hiding much muscle beneath all that bulk.” I wave a hand at his winter jacket and the sweater visible at the collar. “I imagine I’d have pretty good odds in a fight.”

“You get into a lot of fistfights?” he asks doubtfully, eyes bouncing around the room before landing back on me.

“No. You?”

“No. I run away.”

Tilting my head to the side, I ignore the buzz of the espresso machine telling me it’s done. I like that answer and the guileless way it was given. I’ve never had patience for toxic masculinity, and I find it distinctly unappealing in a partner. Machismo just looks pathetic to me.

“Well, I suppose we can both agree not to shank the other and perhaps relax a little bit,” I say lightly, grabbing both mugs and walking one over to him. I keep a little distance between us, holding the coffee out at arm’s length. He takes it, careful not to touch my fingers.

“Cheers,” he replies, flashing another smile my way as he brings the mug to his face, inhaling the steam.

“Close the door and have a seat,” I instruct, skirting the edge of the room and sitting down in one of the armchairs.

Spencer complies, sliding the back door closed and then, briefly, back open, as though to make sure it didn’t automatically lock. Satisfied, he does a quick survey of the seating options available before choosing the one furthest away from me. I find myself looking forward to a time when he’s a little more trusting of me and, right on the heels of that thought, have to remind myself that he will be gone long before that time comes. He fidgets, butt sliding across the leather of the couch, eyes squinted as he takes a sip of likely still-too-hot coffee.

“Nice morning. Not as cold as yesterday,” he says eventually.

“Really? The weather?”

“Well, I thought it would be a more polite way to make conversation than to question your taste in furniture. This couch is rock hard.”

I pinch my lips together so I don’t smile. “Nice to look at, though.”

“Couches are for sitting, not admiring,” he retorts. “The one in my—the cottage is nice. Way nicer than this. Actually”—he gazes around, eyes bouncing from the art on the walls to the sharp, clean edges of the furniture—“did two different people do your decorating?”

“Yes.” Leaning back, I cross my legs and rest an ankle on my knee, waving my free hand at the room. “This came furnished. I did the guesthouse.”

“You did?” he asks, surprised. “Huh.”

A low buzzing draws his attention to the kitchen, shoulders visibly tightening beneath his bulky jacket. If I thought he’d do so, I’d tell him to take it off and relax, stay a little while. I don’t have anywhere to be for a couple of hours yet, and it’s been a long time since another person has been in this room with me. Rising, I put my mug down on the coffee table.

“My phone,” I explain, feeling the weight of Spencer’s eyes on my back as I cross the room to retrieve it. Such a jumpy little rabbit.

Reclaiming my seat, I ignore him and check my messages. Lex, Cody, and Shiloh. The latter is the first I read, already knowing it’ll be a status update on Oliver. The message is short but gets the point across. He’s fine. Hopefully going home later today or early tomorrow. Relief burns through me, warmer even than the coffee.