"Some beef jerky, some powdered donuts," said Clayton. "Mostly I drank coffee."
Now Kyle shook his head, as if in dismay over Clayton's lack of sense, and Clayton got the feeling that Kyle was about to go into babysitting mode. Which would be okay. Clayton found himself almost leaning in to the litany of care and generosity that he was sure Kyle was about to deliver.
"I'm going to show you to the guest room, and then you can take a shower while I heat up some beef soup with noodles. It'll help you fall asleep."
"How's that then?" asked Clayton.
"You will have a full stomach, you'll have eaten some protein instead of just sugar," said Kyle.
"Got any goat's milk?" asked Clayton before he could stop himself.
"As a matter of fact, I do," said Kyle with a lift of his chin. "I stocked up for this blizzard so I wouldn't run out."
Clayton nodded and then held out his hand as if to tell Kyle that he could lead the way. But then Kyle pointed at Clayton's feet, and his lace-up work boots that were dripping melted snow on the braided rug.
Obediently, Clayton undid the laces, and then carried the boots to the little mat by the door where Kyle's own boots were. Then, sock-footed like his host, he followed Kyle down a short hallway that went between the kitchen and the decorated living room.
There, Kyle switched on the lights. The guest room was small, but the bed looked soft, with a line of fluffy pillows leaning against the wooden headboard, and a snowflake decorated quilt over what might turn out to be a pile of thick, woolen blankets. He'd be as warm as a rabbit in a winter den.
"That's the guest bathroom there," said Kyle, pointing. "Plenty of towels and whatever you need. Where's your stuff?"
"In the car," said Clayton. "I'll go get it."
"You will not," said Kyle, sternly. "You are the guest. I'll go get it, you take a shower, and after we'll have some soup, okay?"
"Can I even argue with you about this?"
"Maybe another time," said Kyle. "For now, you need to do as you're told. You've got circles under your eyes that are so dark it looks like somebody drew them with black ink."
Clayton nodded, and Kyle went out of the guest room. Clayton could hear him stomping on his boots to go out in the snow and cold once more, and slowly took off his socks and started unbuttoning his flannel shirt. Then, when Kyle droppedoff the green duffle bag, he closed the door behind him as he left.
Clayton reached out a hand.
The bag was ice cold to the touch, and he shivered, thinking of Kyle braving the storm so his guest wouldn't have to. Well, with a host as nice as that, with such beautiful blue eyes, Clayton was going to be as obedient as he ever had been. He started shrugging off his clothes as quickly as he could, grabbed his toiletries from the duffle bag, and started the shower. Stepping into the stream of hot water, he sighed.
Maybe his Christmas plans weren't going as he'd thought they would, but maybe they'd turn out all right after all. And how could they do otherwise, in a house like this, which looked and smelled just like Christmas? Everybody he knew was safe at home, and as for Kyle?—
Clayton closed his eyes and turned his face up into the warm water that was coming down like a comforting rain. He didn't know what to make of Kyle, but everything about him had been good, so good, that arriving at the small house overlooking the South Platte River was like its own kind of miracle that Clayton had not been expecting. Maybe that he didn't even deserve. But he'd find out soon. After all, he was stuck in this little holiday box of a house that seemed stocked to the roofline with a sense of wonder, of warmth, of welcome. Well worth the twelve-hour drive in a blizzard, for sure.
CHAPTER 7
Clayton vaguely remembered eating beef noodle soup, and he vaguely remembered going back to the guest room, but he didn't remember turning off the light, getting into bed, or falling asleep. But it was morning, and he was standing next to the bed where he'd slept so soundly it barely looked like he'd disturbed the bedclothes at all.
Through the half-drawn blinds over the long window, he could see that it was still snowing. Sideways. A vague grey glow came into the room, and though it might have cast a chill over the air, it was obviously struggling against a very good furnace, because Clayton was warm. Even barefooted, he was warm. Where the hell were his socks?
Wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, he stumbled out of the guest room, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes, and went down the dimly lit short hallway to the kitchen. Where, in a blaze of warmth and comfortable smells, Kyle was standing at the white stove, which was a gas range, as evidenced by the blue and orange flames.
He'd obviously shaved and showered, for his face was clean and clear, and there was a bit of a nick along his jawline, anddrops of water clung to the ends of his shaggy, russet hair. He was cooking something in a pan, and there was an honest-to-god pot of coffee percolating on the stovetop.
"I hope you like oatmeal," said Kyle, looking up at Clayton with a smile on his face. "I was going to make pancakes, but it seemed like the morning for this, so here we are."
"Are you making bacon, too?" asked Clayton as he came a step closer.
"Yes," said Kyle in a way that made it seem as though Clayton was a crazy person for questioning this. "Of course. Bacon, oatmeal, coffee, and fresh oranges. What better breakfast is there than that?"
"None that I can think of," said Clayton.
He'd evidently stepped into a dream state where everything was so carefully thought out it was almost unreal. Normally his mornings consisted of running out of his small apartment to grab something from the nearest fast food place, and then doing the same during the day while driving his rig from location to location. Shaving time on each delivery in every way he could, which included not sitting down at a table to eat. Which was, evidently, the very thing they were going to do that morning.
