Page 39 of On Dry Land
“What do you think?” Dryden asks after I finally take a bite of something. He watches while I chew, somehow managing to smirk at me around his own fork. “Taste like a sixty-dollar entrée?”
“Please don’t tell me that. It’ll give me a stomachache.”
He chuckles softly, and then, as though unable to help himself, adds, “The cheapest one, too.”
Groaning, I stab my fork into something that looks like a spring roll and bring it to my mouth, biting off the end. Everything is a little chilled, and, again, I’m surprised that Dryden didn’t feel the need to warm anything up in the oven. This is pretty close to eating cold leftovers, and I wouldn’t have pegged him as the type of person to put that sort of thing in his mouth.
“It is good,” I admit about the food. Not sixty-dollars-for-a-single-plate good, but, then, I’m not the person this sort of thing is catered toward anyway. “Is this Oliver’s favorite restaurant? Is that why we went so far to get it?”
“No. He’s a chef by training and hobby, though. If anyone can appreciate good food, it’s Oliver.”
“Not friends, though, huh?” I tease, needling him a little bit. I don’t know why he feels the need to provide a degree of separation from everyone. He did the same thing with Cody, pretending as though they were merely in a business relationship and that he doesn’t like the man. I don’t care what he says, though; nobody—and I mean nobody—would drive forty minutes to pick up hundreds of dollars’ worth of food for anyone less than a friend.
“Cute guy,” I add recklessly.
“Not my type.”
“I don’t know, he seemed pretty clean.”
Humor flashes across Dryden’s face, there one moment and gone the next, both of us remembering what he’d told me when we first met. It melts away into something else as his dark eyes drop away from mine and flit across my face like he’s memorizing my bone structure. The butterfly wings that had gone dormant flutter back to life, and this time, I know I’m not the only one who can feel it.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he says quietly, lowering his fork to one of the trays and resting it against the edge.
“You’re the one who invited me in,” I reply, voice equally low.
I should not keep pressing. I should eat my dinner and go back to my cottage to edit, check on the video I posted and see how many more views have accumulated. I shouldn’t be engaging in this way with the person who, in many ways, currently holds my life in their hands. Heat can be smothered just as easily as it can be fed.
“Yes,” he agrees, “and you’ll be the one to go.”
I pause, not wanting to lose my footing on the fine edge we’re walking. I so rarely get to want things. I take the bare minimum and am grateful for it—never asking or wishing for more. Intimacy has always fallen into the more category of things I can’t have. Food, water, shelter, and, on the rare occasions I can get it, safety—those are all needs. Anything beyond that is asking for too much. But sometimes I want to be on the receiving end of longing and not revulsion. Sometimes, I’d like to allow myself the opportunity to be a little selfish.
“Yeah. But not yet.” There’s no sense in lying. I will leave. We both know it. But not today, and very likely not tomorrow either. Not next week, and maybe not even next month.
“No, not yet,” Dryden agrees softly, picking up his fork and putting a bite of cold pasta into his mouth. I watch him chew, tracing the lines of his jaw with my eyes, down his throat and over his chest. Possibilities crowd my mind as I look—a whole world of things I could do to him if he’d let me.
Chapter Fourteen
DRYDEN
Snow falls thickly from the sky, gathering at the edges of the windows and covering the pool. I can only barely see Spencer’s cottage in the distance, the gray exterior fading into the white winter morning. A sharp flare of annoyance stabs at the back of my skull, and I roll my neck, trying to relax the muscles. Another day we can’t haul. I never should have left traps in the water through the winter.
Sighing, I rub a finger over my eyebrow and turn away from the window, texting Cody as I walk back to the kitchen to brew some coffee. I need something stronger than tea this morning.
As I fiddle with the machine, my phone buzzes. I ignore it, having already said to Cody what he needed to know. If I reply to him, he will continue to respond back, texting with me all day like I’m his significant other. It’s exhausting. Yawning and considering the merits of crawling back into bed, I cup my hands behind my neck and drop my head back. I need to schedule a massage.
Grabbing my phone to do just that, I pause. There is indeed a reply from Cody, but there is also a message from Spencer. Clicking the notification, I lean back against the counter and cross my socked feet.
Spencer
Rudy is closing the clinic today. Emergencies only.
Dryden
Good. The roads will be icy.
Spencer
Staying in?
