Conrad O’Neill isn’t your average Joe. A few days to nip this all in the bud is optimistic.
“I only have one bed.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Carter says.
I shut my eyes. Is it not enough for them to step into my home and invite themselves to take a look around? The last thing I need is Carter Trescott roaming around the place playing bodyguard.
But for Otis. That’s what it all keeps coming back to.
“Fine,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest. They need to know I’m not happy about this.
Distance is a good thing.
Closeness is not.
And I would rather not live under a roof with someone when I don’t know where I stand with them yet…
I suppose that’s why Vex and Skipper are volunteering Carter as tribute. It’s about time we figured that out.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Vex says.
“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter, heading into the kitchen to fill up the kettle.
Carter joins me after seeing the other two off, positioning himself close behind me, saying nothing.
Having him here is weird. Unnatural. The house wasn’t built for people of his size and girth. He ducks under doorframes and walks around like he’s stepping on eggshells. I’m still unsure if he’s doing that in the literal sense, or the figurative one, since we’re sharing the room with a gigantic elephant, and nobody’s addressing it.
I reach up onto my tiptoes to grab two mugs, assuming Carter’s gonna have tea too. I’ve never really done the whole hosting thing, but in the movies they always make tea for the guest.
The tea never gets drunk because the plot is always far too important.
Hopefully my reality is different from the movies in that sense.
Carter takes the mugs off my hands, his warm palms brushing sensually against mine. He places them on the counter effortlessly and inserts himself into the corner of the kitchen bench, a space only half of him can fit in.
“It’s cozy,” he says.
“You don’t have to speak. Don’t worry about entertaining me or making me feel better about a place I already know looks like a rat’s den. You’re my bodyguard. Maybe you could be a silent one.”
“Carmen.” He tips my chin and steers me toward him.
Nope. Too close for comfort.
Thank god for the kettle. It boils at the perfect moment.
I scoot over to the cupboard and drop two tea bags into the mugs. Lemon tea is all I have. I’m not the kind of host with options.
You get what you’re given.
That was what my mother said every time I protested against having potatoes. For the seventh day in a row.
“Here. Allow me.” Carter takes the kettle out of my hands and smoothly pours out two cups.
He glances at my trembling hand, so I quietly stick it behind my back and pray that he thinks I’m weak, not anxious to be alone in his presence.
The time we spent apart has been filled with the thoughts of him and the others. And typically, when you obsess over something, it becomes harder to confront that thing in person.
The in-between of my thighs is burning up, desperate to be felt by one of Carter’s fingers.
