Page 60 of Archer

Yesterday, we’d kissed for a few minutes on the deck, and I’d texted Alexis about it off and on for nearly an hour.

The touch of one Marine had taken me temporarily out of my nightmare and returned me to my girlhood. I needed to thank him for that, and a number of possible ways quickly entered my mind.

I hurried to the bathroom and rushed to get ready for my day.

Then I went in search of coffee.

Archer stood at the counter, already dressed in jogging pants and a hoodie, pouring coffee into two mugs.

He looked up when I entered, and his expression softened.

“Morning.”

“Morning.” I moved to his side, suddenly unsure. Were we supposed to kiss good morning now? Pretend yesterday didn’t happen? Navigate some middle ground?

Archer solved the problem by setting down the coffee pot and pulling me into his arms. He kissed my forehead, then the tip of my nose, then finally my mouth. Gentle. Unhurried.

“Good morning,” he said again, voice lower this time.

I melted against him, breathing in his scent—soap and coffee and something distinctly Archer. It was intoxicating.

“I was thinking.” He brushed a strand of hair from my face. “We should take a walk on the beach. You obviously love it outside, and it’s going to be warmer today than it has been in weeks. What do you think?”

“A walk sounds incredible.” Nothing cleared my head like walking along the shore, watching sandpipers race the tide and feeling the Atlantic winds in my hair.

“Give me ten minutes to make breakfast. Then we’ll go.”

He made coffee and cooked?

Part of me wanted to offer to help, but the rest of me said to sit down and enjoy the marvel. I did that instead.

Archer cracked eggs into a pan, sprinkled seasonings, tossed in a little shredded cheese, then scraped a small plate of chopped veggies on top. He moved through the steps with the same efficiency and concentration he brought to everything. But there was something different in the set of his shoulders. He seemed lighter somehow, and I hoped some small part of that could be attributed to me.

When he finished, we ate omelets and toast at the small kitchen table, our knees bumping beneath it. Every accidental touch felt significant. Every shared glance made me smile.

“What are you thinking about?” Archer asked.

“Just feeling good.” I set down my fork and brushed a napkin against my lips. “Appreciating the silver linings in the trainwreck of my life.”

Archer’s brows furrowed.

I smiled.

He reached across the table and laced his fingers with mine. “We’re going to fix the trainwreck parts.”

I hoped he was right.

“You said we need to improve our communication.” His thumb traced circles on my palm. “That is not my strong suit.”

“Are you willing to learn?” I asked. “Do you want to improve?”

He wrinkled his brow but nodded. “I’m good at saying the wrong thing, using the wrong tone, or going quiet, because I know I’ll be misunderstood, and it seems smarter to keep my mouth shut than risk making things worse.”

I tipped my head, considering his words. “That’s very self-aware for someone who doesn’t think they’re good at communicating.”

He snorted, a small derisive sound.

“Just keep talking to me. If I don’t like your tone, I’ll let you know.”