I remain planted in the middle of the room for another eight seconds, but as much as I delay, I can’t think of anything else to do in here to put off making an appearance. Leaving the room, I blow out a breath and close the door behind me, not stopping before I dive in head first and descend the stairs to get this over with.
But as I step into the living room and look around, my shoulders relax just a hair. There’s no one down here. A couple of lamps light the spacious room, and I turn my head left, seeing the kitchen, dimly lit by a few lights hanging over the center island, empty, as well. I spot the red light of the coffee machine, though, and pad over in my bare feet, keeping an eye out for one of the guys.
Finding a cup in a dish rack, I pour myself a cup.
“Morning.”
I jump, the cup nearly slipping out of my hand as the coffee sloshes over the rim. Searing drops land on my thumb, and I hiss.
I glance over my shoulder, seeing Jake stroll into the kitchen and open the refrigerator,
“Morning,” I murmur, brushing the hot liquid off my skin.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
I cast another look, seeing him take out a drink, sweat already glistening all over his arms, neck, and back as his T-shirt hangs out of his back pocket. It’s only about seven. How early do they get up?
“Fine,” I mumble, taking a paper towel and wiping up the coffee. I actually slept like shit, but that will only open me up to more questions, so it’s easier to lie.
“Good,” he replies.
But he just stands there, and I can feel his eyes on me.
I take another paper towel and wipe the wooden countertop some more.
“Warm enough?” he presses.
Huh? I look at him questioningly.
“Your bedroom last night?” he says, elaborating. “Was it warm enough?”
His light hair, damp with sweat, sticks to his forehead and temples as he looks at me, and I nod, turning away again.
But he doesn’t leave.
He just stays there, and I feel myself wanting to sigh, because this is the part where people usually expect me to make an effort to carry on a conversation.
The kitchen grows smaller, and the silence more deafening, except for a bird cawing in the distance. I search my brain for something to say, the awkward seconds stretching and making me want to bolt.
But then he moves closer all of a sudden, and I straighten, on alert as his chest nearly touches my arm. I’m about to move away, but then he reaches in front of me, and I watch as he switches off the coffee maker.
“I was just keeping it warm for you,” he says, his breath brushing the top of my head.
My heart starts pumping harder. Keeping it warm…？ Oh, the coffee. He left it on for me.
“You have pretty hands,” he points out.
I look down at them wrapped around the mug.
“Your dad did, too,” he adds, and I can hear the taunt.
I pinch my eyebrows together. Was that a dig?
“My dad had pretty hands,” I muse, taking a sip without looking at him. “So real men use chainsaws and pick-up trucks instead of Mont Blancs and cell phones?” I ask.
I turn my head, peering up at him, and he narrows his blue eyes on me.
“Well, he’s dead now,” I tell Jake. “You win.”
He lowers his chin, his stare locked on mine, and I see his jaw flex. I turn away and take another sip of my coffee.
Regardless of whatever bad blood was between him and my father, the orphan is the last person he should be targeting with his insults. Manners are a thing everywhere. This guy’s a prick.
Despite that, though, my stomach warms, and I sip my coffee to cover up my nerves.
I feel it. The need to engage.
After the sadness, anger was my constant companion as a kid. And then the anger went away, and there was nothing. I forgot how good it felt. The distraction of my emotions.
I like that I don’t like him.
“Alright,” someone calls, and I hear her footsteps enter the kitchen. “I’m out.”
I glance over, still feeling Jake’s eyes on me, and watch the naked woman—now dressed—strolling up to Jake with a brown leather backpack slung over her shoulder as she wraps an arm around his neck. She leans in, and he hesitates a moment—still looking at me—before he finally turns to her and lets her kiss him.
She’s his, then. I take in the smooth skin of her face, in shadow under her baseball cap, and her tight and toned body. She’s nowhere near his age.
The guys aren’t as cut off from civilization as I thought. Until the weather starts, anyway.
The tip of her tongue darts out and slips into his mouth for a split-second before she pulls away, and I turn back to my coffee, a strange irritation winding its way through me. Will there be lots of people coming and going?