He goes still. His jaw knots. Then he looks at me. His blue eyes blaze. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. So tell me again how perfect we are for each other. How we’re made to be together.”
He runs his hand through his hair and blows out a breath.
“I’m not going back there,” I say firmly.
“All right. So what are you going to do? Can you phone Isla?”
“She’s staying at Cullen’s place tonight.”
“You could kip at her house, then?”
“I don’t really feel comfortable doing that.”
“Kim, then?”
I look at my watch. It’s nearly 9:15 p.m. “She’ll be asleep by now. I’m not calling her out at this time of night.”
“So what other friends can you call?”
I look at him hopefully. “You have a sofa, right? Can I crash on there for the night? Tomorrow I’ll decide what I’m going to do, I swear.”
He studies his glass for a long time. I know he’s lived in the house that used to belong to his parents since his father died a few years ago. He doesn’t want me there, invading his private space. I feel suddenly awkward, and wish I hadn’t asked.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I’ll find a motel. Somewhere will have a free room.”
“In February? The busiest tourist season of the year?”
“Then I’ll kip in my car,” I say, exasperated. “I don’t care.”
He rolls his eyes. “No, it’s okay. You can come home with me.”
“Well, don’t do me any favors.” I’m being sarcastic, hurt by his lack of enthusiasm.
Jude would have bitten back at that and turned this into a fight, but Archer just says mildly, “Don’t be like that.”
I sit stiffly though, raw and resentful at feeling so unwanted. “Don’t you like me?” I blurt out before I can think better of it. “Why don’t you want to touch me?” I like him. I’ve always liked him. Sitting there, at the bar, almost touching, occasionally smelling the scent of hiscologne, I feel a deep longing to understand what it would be like to be intimate with this man, who is so different from the prickly, resentful guy I’ve been living with.
When I’ve lain in bed at night, alone because Jude is working or not yet sleepy, I’m ashamed to admit that sometimes I’ve thought about Archer, and wondered what it would be like if he was in bed with me. Would he be content to enjoy that closeness, rather than turn the light out and fall asleep two seconds later? I’ve imagined him lying behind me, snuggled up, arms wrapped around me. Would he kiss my neck, nuzzle my hair, let his hands wander, spend time arousing me? Would he enjoy the sensation of touching someone as much as I do, and want to revel in the beauty of feeling another person’s skin the same way?
He stares at his glass for a long, long time, and I start thinking he’s not going to reply.
Gradually, I cringe at my outburst. I’ll blame it on the alcohol, even though I still feel far from drunk. I think my inner agony is soaking up all the wine and leaving me stone-cold sober.
Then he turns his head and looks right at me. “You know why.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“Because you’re Jude’s girl.”
I look back at my glass. He means it’s not polite to touch your best mate’s girlfriend. It’s the perfect Archer answer—loyal, steadfast, and true. It doesn’t matter that I’m insisting it’s over with Jude. In his head, he’s painted me as taken, and I know that will never change.
I’ll probably never discover whether he finds me attractive. Even if he did, he’ll refuse to admit it to himself, let alone to me. He’s the type of guy who’ll be regimental about ignoring his feelings, and who’ll practice avoidance tactics like some men practice the guitar.
It does mean I’m safe with him, though. I should be thankful for that. He’s protecting me from myself, when I’m tired and tipsy and lonely and sad. He’s a true friend, and I shouldn’t criticize him or look down on him for that.
“I understand,” I say softly. “And I do appreciate it. There are very few honorable guys out there today, and I’m glad to have one of them as my friend.”
