“I’ll have you know, my mother could make the Russian navy blush,” Heath retorted, standing in the doorway with hands on hips. Evan couldn’t see the details of his face in the darkness,but he knew there was a scowl involved. It made him laugh harder, then cough. His throat felt like goddamn sandpaper.
“You need tea, with honey and lemon.”
“I hate tea.”
Heath turned on his heel and marched toward the stove. “And somehow I’m still speaking to you. How is your stomach? Can you handle some food?”
He thought about it, then shook his head. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”
“There’s a roll left over from last night, some fruit, and a bit of jam,” he listed off, head hidden by the refrigerator door. “That’s pretty tame, and you might feel better if you eat a little.”
“Eh, maybe.”
“You should also be resting.”
He was exhausted, but he felt useless just standing there. “I thought you weren’t my mother?”
Heath’s expression softened as he put the armful of leftovers on the counter. “You’re exhausted, Evan. At least sit down.”
“Bossy.”
“Yes.” Heath pointed to the stool opposite the counter. “Sit, stay. Good boy.”
He obeyed with a grunt, hating how relieved his legs felt the moment his weight was off them. “I’m not a dog. Or has your opinion of me changed again?”
A muffled chuckle came from within the cabinet he’d designated for his tea. “You do actually remind me a little of my mother’s stubborn beagle.”
“I bet that’s one handsome beagle.”
“Oh, she’s precious. Mom dresses her in pink with little ribbons on her ears.”
Evan grunted again and crossed his arms. “I could pull that off. I look fucking amazing in pink.”
The hell he did. He’d look like strawberry shortcake.
Heath smiled and lit the propane stove with a match, placing a pot of water on the burner to boil. “I bet you do.”
It overwhelmed him. The care and comfort, familiar yet foreign, stirred emotions he barely recognized and feared acknowledging. He wanted to tell Heath to cut the shit and go back to bickering, while in the same breath envisioned shoving him against the counter and showing him how thankful he was for the kindness. What came after the kissing? What other noises did Heath make?
Evan’s hands curled into fists in his lap. Talk about staying in your lane, this was the wrong side of the entire goddamn highway. These thoughts didn’t belong in his head. He reserved these urges for someone soft and curvy, who smelled like honeysuckle or cherry blossom, not a medieval fucking library.
Heath placed a plate in front of him with the roll, spread with butter and jam, sitting in the middle of a fan of peach and mango slices. He added a mug prepared with a tea bag, drizzling honey into it before slowly pouring in the boiling water.
Evan watched this careful preparation with churning emotions that squeezed the sides of his throat. “Nice presentation.”
Heath’s smile was pert. “I’m no Top Chef, but a little pizzazz goes a long way, I think.”
Tears burned at the corners of Evan’s eyes. Why was this fucking with him so much? Not just the attraction, but the attention.
Was it because he’d dedicated so much energy to anger and revenge, he’d ceased to appreciate simple pleasures? A week ago, he’d have laughed at this tiny plate of scraps prepared in the dark, because last week’s Evan only cared about getting to say “Fuck you. I win.” Now he couldn’t look Heath in the eye for fear he’d kiss him or cry. Maybe both.
“Thank you,” he croaked, and Heath’s smile warmed.
“You’ve gotten some color back. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” he lied, because it was easier than explaining something he didn’t even understand himself. Like how the person he’d been when he’d boarded a plane six days ago wasn’t who he’d woken up as that morning. Or any morning since they’d arrived on the island, honestly.
Some benevolent homosexual horndog had possessed or body-snatched him, and his old persona was slowly losing the battle of assimilation.
