Austin heads for the kitchen, and I sniffle, watching the thick, icy pall descending on the cabin.
“Mack says he’s been booked.”
“Trevor? Really?”
He shifts uneasily, jaw tightening. “Really.”
No judgment.
Still, shame rushes through me in waves. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t get Trevor and me. But some tiny part of me, doesn’t believe the lie. Maybe I never truly did.
“Drink?” he asks again from the kitchen.
“What do you have?” Resignation threads my voice. I can fight this all I want, but I’m stuck here.
“Tea, hot chocolate, coffee, wine…”
“Wine,” I say flatly.
Surprise flickers behind his eyes.
“Not a fan of hard liquor. But I could use something to take the edge off.” Something to make me stop shaking. And thinking.
He nods. No commentary.
“Can I help with setting the table?” I ask, following the hunky cowboy with my eyes. Broad shoulders and back tapering down to the waist, thick thighs and an ass?—
My eyes dart away.
Heat climbs his neck. He nods once.
Caught red-handed.
My cheeks glow as I cross the distance, searching cupboards and drawers for plates and silverware. “You have forks?” I quip, more to myself than him.
He arches a thick, black eyebrow.
“I thought cowboys ate all their grub with spoons out of cans.” Sarcasm drips from the statement.
He shrugs.
“All grunts and shrugs. That your native language?”
He answers with silence.
Thank God for the background music, or I’d lose my mind in this interminable silence.How does someone live like this?
My stomach growls. Legit rumbles loud enough for both of us to hear.
Trevor would have something snide to say. But if Austin hears it, he never lets on.
At the table, I shift nervously, eyeing plates of lasagna, glasses of wine, sparkling silverware. “All we need are candles,” I joke, trying to cut through some of the tension.
The creases in his forehead deepen.
Metal clinks—forks on plates—are the only bridge of silence as we eat.
I can’t take it.
