Page 50 of Call of the Loon

“Not my nickname!”

He laughed again as he climbed the ladder at the dock, then reached an arm to help her up.

She ignored his hand and climbed up, then stood on the dock before him, soaking wet.

He grinned back at her, his war paint dripping down his face, his eyes glistening with mischief.

It was hard to pretend to be mad at him when he looked that happy. Looked like her Archer.

She crossed her arms. “You better make me a s’more tonight.”

He loped an arm around her shoulder and led her back to the party. “Already have the supplies.”

Chapter 14

Archer

Archer stood on his porch the following day, cup of coffee in hand, listening to the pure nothingness of a Minnesota morning. The air smelt of pine tree sap and the dew that blanketed the grass. He sipped his drink, his eyes moving to Cabin B next door. The back window on the second floor was cracked open, the room still dark. He’d given her the rest of the week off, so he knew she would be sleeping in today. Besides, after the way she’d tackled her to-do list the past month, there really weren’t many other administrative tasks for her to complete. But that didn’t stop him from brainstorming other ways to keep her around, tasks that would keep her in his cabin, sitting at his desk when he returned for lunch, crinkle in her brow as she concentrated on whatever was on her screen.

Yesterday with her felt like stepping back in time. He watched her come out of the timid, reserved shell she arrived in earlier that summer, showing sides of herself he hadn’t seen in far too long. The playful, teasing sides of her. His mind ran through all of the things she said to him—traditions hold us together, we need each other. Even the smallest traditions with her, like sitting with a drink watching the sunset every night or playing corn hole, made it even more obvious how much he missed her. Worse…it made him realize how much he still craved her.

He couldn’t deny that his mind was constantly playing through the few moments when she touched him. Holding his hand at the outdoor bar, or squeezing his arm yesterday before the ceremony. He instinctively went to reach for her hand yesterday at the picnic table, then caught himself before he could do something embarrassing, placing his hand next to her leg instead. He yearned to touch her skin, almost refusing to let go when he threw them into the lake. He watched her come up for air, her red hair slicked back, black paint a mess on her cheeks, and he felt the violent urge to grab her waist under the water and kiss her wet, pink lips. Draw his tongue down her neck and rip the strap of her tank top with his teeth.

Archer closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath, doing his best to ignore the tightness in his pants. God, he wanted her. He knew it was a terrible idea. He wanted her, yet he wasn’t sure if he could trust her again. Not after how she ended things the last time. Not when she ran away from him and said she never wanted to see him again.

“You look far too stressed for this gorgeous morning.”

Archer blinked his eyes open. His father stood before him, holding his Babe the Blue Ox mug.

He gave Astor a shy smile. “A lot on my mind.”

“Well, of course there is.” Astor tipped his head to the Adirondack chairs across the lawn. “Want to talk about it?”

Archer hesitated. No, he did not want to talk about it. He’d been able to keep his father at a distance all summer, and would prefer not to dive into the details. But Astor didn’t even wait for a reply and walked toward the chairs, expecting his son to follow. So he did.

The two of them sat in silence for a couple of moments, eyes out on the water and the early morning golden sun.

Astor let out a contented sigh, like sitting in this chair overlooking the lake, next to his son, was where he was meant to be. Archer couldn’t help but think it was the wrong son, though.