Page 24 of On Dry Land

“I’m stocked. And now, so are you.” In my pocket, my phone buzzes. Probably Lex, calling to follow up on the Maiden Seas as she’d promised. “Come up to the house if you need anything.”

Turning, I note Lex’s name on the screen and bring the phone to my ear, striding off across the lawn. Lex’s voice is loud enough to almost drown out the softly spoken thank-you from behind me.

There are very few things I love, but watching Colorado play hockey is one of them. Draping an arm across the back of the couch, I tilt the glass of bourbon, swirling the liquid idly. Spencer was right; this monstrosity is dreadfully uncomfortable. I put my feet up on the glass coffee table, ignoring the way the hard surface digs into my heel, and cross my ankles.

Usually, I do this in bed, as it’s the only truly usable piece of furniture in this house. But even if it weren’t, I think I’d find myself there more evenings than not. Dylan would be appalled to find out my ideal evening is lying in bed, room dark, hockey game up on the flat screen and a book on the nightstand, ready to be utilized during intermissions. Sometimes I even switch out the bourbon for a cup of tea. Shifting, I settle in a little deeper into the couch cushion, glancing out the wall of windows as I take a sip from my glass.

I know why I’m not upstairs, in my bed, comfortable. I know why tonight, suddenly, I’m sitting in the living room with all the lights on. I know precisely why I’m having trouble focusing on the game and instead keep glancing across the yard at the guesthouse. Tipping my head back, I sigh. On the TV, a commercial break comes on. Perfect time for me to go upstairs.

Instead, I stay where I am. I finish my glass and leave it carelessly on the kitchen counter as I fix a mug of tea. Two drinks per night is the limit, no matter if it was a good day or bad. And perhaps chamomile is the secret for making that abhorrent couch comfortable. The bourbon certainly didn’t manage.

The lights are on inside the guest cottage as I reclaim my seat on the couch, and I really wish I didn’t notice or care. It’s none of my business what Spencer is doing. I’m unsure where this curiosity for that man has come from, and the intensity of the feeling is a little concerning. I don’t want to be curious about him. Yet it’s there, sitting beneath my skin like a sliver and begging me to pick at it. On the television, Grayson Brody scores a tip-in goal, and I hardly care, too busy glancing out the window toward the cottage and wondering if my tenant is also watching the game. Wondering if he’d watch it in here, where I could contemplate him in closer proximity.

Disgusted with myself, I take a sip of tea despite how hot it is and almost miss the sound of tapping against the glass. Looking over the back of the couch, I lock eyes with Spencer. Biting his lip, he lifts a hand and steps back. I can feel his eyes on me when I rise and reach for the lock, the attention sending goose bumps down my spine. You did this to yourself, I think acidly, sliding the door open with a gust of cool evening air.

Spencer must see some of that self-censure in my expression, his voice laced with uncertainty as he says, “Evening.”

“Something not working?” I ask, glancing back at the cottage. If it isn’t, he’ll have to live without tonight. I’m useless at home repairs and have no desire to learn. I can call someone in the morning.

“No, everything is fine. Perfect.” He pauses, glancing at the bright living room behind me. I feel oddly satisfied to know he had a crisp, clear view of me inside as he approached across the lawn and then wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. He clears his throat, smiling carefully as he meets my eyes again. “I was just doing some editing and noticed your light was still on.”

He’d have had to be blind not to notice. Interesting that he was apparently just as nosy about me as I’ve been with him. Maybe the curiosity is catching, and we’re only concerned with each other based on proximity and novelty. Once he gets used to me, and I to him, neither of us will care. Although, I suppose there is little hope of ever reaching that point. He’ll be gone long before that day comes. Fighting against the urge to say something flippant or cutting, I try instead to offer the same courtesy he just gave me.

“No work for me. I’m watching hockey.”

“I don’t know anything about hockey,” Spencer replies. He looks pleased—eyes glinting in the light and a dusting of five-o’clock shadow on his jaw. I don’t think he’s an overtly attractive individual by most beauty standards. Generic, I suppose, would be the correct way to describe him. Rude, but truthful. And yet, I like the little chip in his front tooth, putting a sharp angle where a smooth line should live. I like the creamy, golden-brown color of his eyes and the way they look framed by a curtain of thick lashes. I must find something pleasing in the shape of his face since I can’t seem to stop looking.

“Second period just started,” I tell him, moving back so I’m no longer blocking the door. “If you’d like to give it a shot.”

He doesn’t ask if I’m sure. Doesn’t look worriedly around the yard or longingly back at the cottage. He doesn’t make an excuse about why he can’t or shouldn’t. He doesn’t pretend he came up here for any reason other than to seek out company.

“Thanks,” he says, stepping inside.

He doesn’t make a single move to take off that blue coat or to sit down. He stands five paces to my left, back to a wall, and watches as I close the door once more. I leave it unlocked. Feeling twice as idiotic as I did before now that he’s in the same room, I ignore him and reclaim my seat, hooking a finger through the handle of my mug and draping an arm over the back of the couch as I recline. Lifting my fingers, I gesture vaguely at the sitting area.

“Have a seat,” I tell him, annoyed with how pleased I am that he’s here. At least now I won’t have to give myself a neck injury looking out the window at the damn guest cottage.

“Who’s playing?” he asks, perching awkwardly on the end of the chair furthest away from me and glancing up at the television, where the teams who are playing are visibly displayed.

“Colorado and Minnesota.” A commercial break comes on, and I take a sip of tea, watching him watch me. There’s something more than curiosity in his eyes, although it’s not quite fear. Perhaps he came here for a specific reason after all. “Did you need something?”

“No. I wanted to ask you, though, if you wouldn’t mind me riding with you when you go to town tomorrow.”

“I thought we’d already established that you would be doing that,” I comment. He’d been excited about the rope, of all things, and had looked childishly eager when I’d told him my plan for tomorrow. Perhaps the time between getting home from the grocery store and now allowed him too much space to remember I’m a stranger and he shouldn’t trust me.

“Yeah, we did. And I’d rather go back to the warehouse with you and work on the traps, but I need to try and find a job as soon as possible. I’ve already been here a couple days—usually, I would have already found something by now.”

“Really? People hire you?”

He scowls at me, and I raise an eyebrow. “Yes, of course. Manual labor–type things, usually. When I was in New York, I walked a Pomeranian. Sometimes I can get a position as a busboy.”

“I think you’ll find people around here walk their own dogs.” The game comes back on, barely drawing my attention before I fix it back on Spencer. “And it’s not the season for landscaping. Nobody needs a gardener in winter.”

Spencer sighs, turning his face to watch the game. He’s sitting ramrod straight in the chair, hands resting on his knees, coat slightly bunched up around him. I have the oddest desire to laugh. He looks ridiculous and uncomfortable.

“You can loosen up your corset, if you’d like,” I offer, smirking at the look this earns me.

“I’m not going to stay long. I don’t want to bother you; I just wanted to ask about tomorrow.” Despite his words, he unzips the coat and scoots back just far enough in the chair to touch the backrest.