Rhett raises an eyebrow at me and pats his pocket.
Stop being so nice.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
He nods. “No trouble at all.”
“Okay, then.” I turn to Mira and tell her to stay where I can see her. “At all times. Understand?”
Rhett hands her some coins, and she skips happily away. I watch her go, and I swear, I’m about two seconds away from burstinginto tears. I think if I were alone, I might. But I don’t want to get into all that with my neighbor.
We sit, and the waitress pours us some coffee and takes our order. Mira plays on an arcade machine, but looks over her shoulder every so often, as if to watch mine and Rhett’s progress. It’s like she’s playing matchmaker. If that’s the case, she’s going to be disappointed.
“So, why Gunnison Peaks?” he asks.
I look down at the table. “I was about to ask you the same thing,” I say after a pause.
Going on the offensive is easier: less attention on me.
“Were you born here?” I go on.
“No, I was born in New York. We moved to Colorado when I was a teenager.”
“To Gunnison?”
“No,” he says. “So why did you?—”
“So why this place specifically?” I cut in, determined not to talk about myself.
He stares at me for a moment, gliding his rough finger around the rim of his mug.
“I mean, you live out in the middle of nowhere all alone. Before we moved in, your closest neighbor was, what, three miles, more?”
“More,” he agrees.
“You must like the privacy, the isolation. You must enjoy being alone.”
“I’ve never been… averse to my own company,” he says diplomatically.
Now he seems like he’s being more evasive than me.
“So, why?”
He sighs.
“Sorry, is it a touchy subject?”
He rests his elbows on the table. His enormous hands happen to rest next to mine. For a long moment, his fingers brush against the back of my hands. It’s a tiny point of contact, and it should mean nothing. But after everything, it makes me sizzle, causing jolts of electricity to shoot up my arms.
“You need to stop with the goddamn sorries,” he growls, looking fiercely at me.
I look at Mira, both because I’ll never stop checking on her and because it’s easier than staring at his smoldering face.
“Bad habit,” I admit.
“It’s not a touchy subject. I like being alone. I like being in control. Out here, I’ve got my own power, grow my own food. I’ve got a storehouse with supplies. I don’t have to rely on anyone, and that’s the way I like it.”
“Why?” I ask.
