“That easy?”
“That easy.” His gray eyes held mine in the candlelight. “Ask me for anything, Riley. See how fast I say yes.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. So I did what I always did when he said things that made my heart race.
I changed the subject.
***
We ended up cooking together by candlelight.
I dug out my ancient camping stove, a relic from a camping trip I took with Margo a year ago that ended with us checking into a hotel after approximately four hours of “roughing it.” We made pasta, the only thing I had ingredients for, in a pot balanced precariously over the tiny flame.
Caelan insisted on helping, which meant we kept bumping into each other in my cramped kitchen. His arm brushed mine as he stirred the water, and goosebumps rose on my skin. My hip grazed his as I reached for the salt, and I felt the contact like a brand. When I turned to grab a spoon, I ended up with my face approximately three inches from his chest.
His very damp, still very visible through his shirt chest. He’d said he was okay when I asked if he wanted a dry one, insisting he didn’t get sick. Men were so stubborn.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, stepping back.
“Don’t be.” His voice was lower than before. “I’m not.”
I busied myself with the pasta sauce, which was just butter and garlic because that’s all I had. My hands were trembling slightly. From the cold. Obviously from the cold.
“You’re not very good at this,” I observed, watching him struggle with the colander. He was holding it upside down, water dripping everywhere except where it was supposed to go.
“I have other skills.”
“So you keep saying. What skills, exactly?”
“I can...” He paused, clearly searching for an answer that didn’t involve whatever mysterious thing he actually did. “I’m good at strategy. Planning. Long-term thinking.”
“Those are job interview answers.”
“I can also fight.”
“Fight?”
“Combat. Physical confrontation.” He shrugged like this was normal. “I’ve been trained since childhood.”
“To fight.”
“Among other things.” He finally managed the colander, draining the pasta into the sink with only minor spillage. “Hand-to-hand. Weapons. Tactical assessment.”
“That’s... not normal.”
“Where I come from, it is.” He plated the pasta, dividing it between two bowls with careful precision. “Everyone in my family trains. It’s expected.”
“Even Thessa? Your family sounds intense.”
“You have no idea.” He handed me a bowl, his fingers brushing mine. “But I’d rather hear about yours.”
“Not much to tell. Dead parents, raised by a godmother who did her best, spent most of my childhood escaping into books.” I took the bowl, moved toward the couch. “Standard orphan backstory.”
“You say that like it’s nothing.”
“It was a long time ago.” I settled onto the cushions, tucking my feet under me. “I’ve made my peace with it.”
He sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him despite his still-damp clothes. The couch was small, there was nowhere else for him to sit, and yet I was acutely aware of every inch of space between us.
