The second it’s on my skin, I feel like I belong to him, even though I don’t. I can’t. I never could. Still though, it feels like I do, and I like it here. I like the thought of this big, burly, inked-up, wild man protecting me.
That’s still something I’m trying to understand, considering I’ve spent most of my life crushing on suits and ties. I mean, there’s a huge difference there.
When I’ve brushed my hair and sprayed on deodorant, I open the bathroom door and watch the steam rise and roll out of the room as I breathe in whatever’s cooking for dinner.
“Sit,” he growls under his breath as he flips something onto a plate and turns toward me. “Do you like syrup? I have maple and an apple butter that Mrs. Robinson made me for Christmas. It’s pretty great.” He lands a stack of pancakes in front of me on the table and steps back, grabbing a small plate of bacon and a glass of orange juice.
“The apple butter sounds good,” I say, mouth already watering for the crispy fried bacon in front of me. “You’re not going to eat?”
“I ate earlier.”
“Well so did I.”
“And now you need more.” He nods toward the plate as he hands me the jar of apple butter with a handwritten label. “Come on now. Eat.”
I smile and sit in the chair he’s pulled out for me, breathing in the warm vanilla pancakes. It’s been so long since I’ve had a hot meal. Usually, I end the night with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a package of cheese crackers.
He pulls out the chair next to me and grabs a jar of whiskey from the fridge. It’s unmarked, unlike the ones at the distillery.
“Is that something new you’re working on?” I say as I bite into the bacon.
“Yeah. It’s something I thought I saw my dad make once. It’s,” he pushes the jar toward me, “kinda shit. I need to find his book.”
For the last week or so, Archer has been obsessed with finding his dad’s old whiskey recipes. Apparently, back in the day, he was known for making whiskey that had the whole mountain abuzz. He passed away without telling anyone where he’d left it.
I slide my knife into the apple butter and slather it onto my pancakes in a heavy-handed strip. “Where do you think it could be?”
“He used to hang out at this old hunting cabin near the river’s edge. I don’t know if it’s there, but it’s as good a place as any.” He readjusts his hat and draws his hand down over his beard in this super-hot, masculine way he does. “If I can find his book, maybe I can draw some of the locals into the distillery. The old timers will want a taste of Dad’s whiskey and maybe some younger folks will follow them in for the novelty of it all.”
“You could post the recipe search on social media, let people get invested in the journey.” I slice into the pancakes and slide them into my mouth with my own little sigh. “If you told the story of your dad and got people all excited for some ancient recipes, I bet you’d fill the distillery up with more folks than you can handle. Also,” I moan, leaning my head back, “these pancakes are so good… and this apple butter is absolute perfection. They definitely don’t make stuff like this in the city.”
He watches me for a long moment as though he’s memorizing the look on my face. This is also something new. I’ve never had a man look at me like this before. Heck, I didn’t even know this look was an option. “Why did you leave the city? No bullshit.”
I swallow hard and lift the orange juice to my lips, letting the sweet nectar wash everything down as I think over how I want to respond to this very straight forward question. On one hand, I’m not ready to go into details. On the other, there are a few questions of my own I want answered, and maybe if I’m vulnerable, he will be too.
“I was dating this guy,” I take another bite of pancake and cover my mouth so I can keep talking, “and everything started out good. He was smart and funny and super successful. We gotalong great. Then, we moved in together and he just,” I shrug, “changed.”
“How so?” Archer brushes at his beard as I speak, his gaze focused on mine like he’s intently listening to every word I’m about to say.
“All the sudden my emotions became a problem. He got very defensive over every feeling I had. Like, he kept saying I was criticizing him but… I was confused by his actions and I need clarity. Then, that turned into him mocking me when I cried and—”
“He mocked you when you cried?” Archer stares toward me, his jaw tight. “What the fuck?”
“I put up with it for way too long.” I shrug and take another bite of the apple butter pancake.
“How long?”
“A year.”
His eyes widen. “You spent a year living with someone who mocked you for crying?”
“He only mocked me for crying about him.” I laugh under my breath at how ridiculous that sounds looking back. “I don’t know… I gave him excuses, and I really believed at one point that I was the problem. That if I could just stop feeling things, if I initiated the sex he wanted, we’d fix everything, and life would go back to good again.”
“Jesus Christ, princess. That’s fucked up. Was he pressuring you?” A muscle flexes in his neck as he speaks.
“I don’t think so. I mean, he mentioned how uninterested in sex I was and how it was strange that I never initiated, but again… I believed the hype. I mean, he was twenty-six, he’d been with other women, and I’m a virgin. Of course he’s going to feel frustrated after a year, but I just couldn’t do it. I kept telling him I was getting closer, but that was a lie. I didn’t want to have sex with him. I actually thought I was asexual until—”
I let out a heavy sigh as I glance away from the massive man in front of me. The one that makes me want to do things I’ve never thought of doing. “Anyway…what about you? Mrs. Robinson and Rosie told me you have a daughter. What happened between you and her mom?”
