Slowly moving past me, his scent and heat flowed everywhere, overwhelming my senses. As he slid back onto the stool, my eyes were drawn to his body. Being caught staring was last on my wish list right now, but the way his forearm flexed as he lifted his beer to his mouth was impossible not to notice. As the thick column of his neck moved with each swallow, my mind traveled to a place that made my dick swell behind my pants. Witnessing him take the last, long pull from the bottle, licking his lips and savoring each drop, rendered me speechless. What the fuck was wrong with me? Ten minutes with him and I was acting like some hormone-crazed teenager.
But in reality, that was all I ever had been when I was around Micah, or at least it was all those years ago. I’d have to rein that in now just like I did back then.
“He’s a service dog,” he said, lowering the amber-colored glass bottle to the counter. Before I could say anything, he added, “PTSD and for this.” His voice took an angry turn as he held up his prosthetic arm. There was shame in his eyes as hatred vibrated around him. It was immediately obvious he didn’t want to talk about it.
So I didn’t.
Saving him from the conversation he didn’t want to have, I moved from my stool and walked to the fridge to pull out what I bought for dinner. “So where’s your car? Or did you two walk here from . . . ?”
“California.” His tone was noticeably lighter than it had been just seconds ago. Seemingly thankful for the change in topic, he laughed as he said, “Nah, that was just a bit too far, even for me. I drove past a shop down the road and figured I could use an oil change and tune up. I have to get it tomorrow morning.”
“Hungry?” I asked, opening a gigantic T-bone steak.
With some lightness returning to his voice, he let out a “hell yeah.” His shoulders relaxed, and I shelved the barrage of questions filling my head.
Why did you leave?
Who did you leave?
Why did you come here?
Why me?
When he asked, “What can I help with?” there was a hint of the kid I used to know in his eagerness. And with that, we slid back into an easy flow.
“I have this,” I said, tipping my chin at the steak. “And I figured a salad. Keep it light. Want to start chopping . . . ?” My words fell to the floor. What an asshole. Cutting myself off, my eyes immediately went to his arm. “Uh, actually.” I recovered with the grace of a bull in a china shop. Quickly thinking through the tasks we needed to complete for dinner, I couldn’t name a single one that didn’t require the use of two hands. Lamely, I said, “No, I’m good. You sit.”
Whatever easiness we’d worked toward was instantly erased as he pushed past me to grab another beer. I ignored the excitement bubbling in my chest as his arm grazed my chest. I had to.
Without saying a word, he stared at me with determination in his burning green eyes. Using his prosthetic, he held the bottle next to his body as he twisted the cap with his other hand. “Don’t underestimate what I can do with one good hand,” he ground out, but it was impossible to ignore the heated innuendo in his words.
So with that, I doled out a few tasks, and he was thankful to have something to do. As we cooked dinner, I kept the words to a minimum, figuring I’d do less damage that way.
But with each passing minute, I knew we couldn’t stay silent forever.
