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We just stare out into the weather. A gust of wind sends some swirling snow into our protected area under the awning.
“Welcome to Denver,” I say. “If you don’t like the weather, just wait five minutes.”
Carter snickers. “Don’t they say that about everyplace these days?”
He zips his puffy down coat and hugs it tightly around him. For a split second I want to be that coat. “Well, come on. I’m not going to bring the car around for you.”
I furrow my brow. “What?”
“You aren’t riding your bike in this. Come on.”
“I’m also not getting into a car with you.”
“What are you going to do, wait hours for an Uber? It’s a ride home Davis. Just a ride home.”
I bristle. He’s right. I won’t be able to get an Uber in this weather. I could call someone else. He steps into my space before I can even finish the thought. He’s too close. His scent wafts into my nose, along with a few snowflakes. The smell of warm spices and woods flood me with heat. I also notice this is a different scent than the one that filled my nostrils seven years ago. Very different. How do I remember that so well? Why do I remember it so well?
“I’m offering you a ride home because that is what a decent person would do. But if you can’t handle that, your ass can stand here in the cold.”
With that, he stomps off toward his Bronco. After another gust of wind rips through me, I step off the curb and follow him.
As I settle into the passenger seat, the novelty of that hits me. I’m always the driver. I’m single, no partner to share driving duties with. And I’m senior staff, and somewhere along the way I became a chauffeur for the new kids when they arrive.
The storm hasn’t been going on for very long, so the wipers make quick work of the snow that has settled on the windshield. Carter hops out and brushes it from the side windows and mirrors. He whooshes back into the seat with another gust of wind and that damn warm, spicy scent, now heavily laden with fresh cold air, and I almost bolt from the car again.
This is why I can’t be alone with him. This. Because my hatred of him no longer wins out. My body rejects all those thoughts. Shoves them right out the damn window. It just reacts to him. I inhale again. I can’t help it. Carter notices the deep breath. But he misinterprets it.
“Is being alone with me that bad?” he asks.
I don’t face him. I can’t face him. I have no response to offer. That’s the other thing Carter seems to do. I can’t find words when I’m with him. Bad is the last feeling on the list of the way I feel about being alone with him right now. Hell, bad isn’t even on the list.
“Just thinking, I can’t remember the last time I was a passenger in a car. It’s kind of nice.” I turn and offer him a weak grin.
“Don’t get used to it,” he scowls. There seems to be no genuine anger behind that scowl, though. I exhale again and we ride in silence toward the dim lights of downtown, partially extinguished by the heavy snow. The silence is not uncomfortable. It actually feels—oddly welcome. I’m comfortable here, sitting next to him, letting him focus on navigating the streets becoming rapidly blanketed in white. The wind rattles the Bronco now and then. His driving skills don’t concern me. He’s a Minnesota boy—he knows how to drive in way worse conditions than this.
Keeping my eyes off of his thigh. Keeping my hand off his thigh. That is way more problematic.
Carter doesn’t have the massive skater thighs the rest of us do. He wasn’t ever a hockey player. His quad muscle isn’t visible through the fabric of his jeans. But I have seen that thigh. Briefly. It was a small glimpse before he spun me away from its view. The thigh hadn’t been my focus that night, anyway. It was not the sort of night to linger on all the glory that was Carter Hughes naked. Neither is tonight.
I tear my eyes away from his leg and catch sight of his hand gripping the steering wheel. His knuckles are still pink, healing from our fight. Ink covers his right hand. Funny that those scrapped up knuckles make that ink even sexier. I know that ink travels all the way up his arm, across his shoulder and down his chest. But that’s all I know about his ink. Only that it exists and it’s sexy as hell. I can’t tell you what any of it is or what it means to him because I didn’t get to linger on that either. Didn’t get to trail my tongue across all of it as he told me stories of what each tattoo means.
Oh, good God, there’s a whole new fantasy.
What I do know is what is visible to me now. A sunburst graces the top of his right hand with the points traveling partway down each finger. In his current state, they seem to reach for those damaged knuckles. Before he can bust me staring at his hand, I lift my gaze and focus on the blowing snow.
“Thank you,” I say.
I’m sorry. That should be in there too. For what? For telling Brady before he did? For punching him? For everything? Because I am feeling sorry for everything. I’m embracing the fact that this horrible event that is no longer a secret only we share, it connects us. Even though the paths we took to deal with it were different, in a way, they weren’t. We share that road. He dove into a bottle. I dove into a sport. Both of us hiding behind an enormous wall of denial and misplaced blame.
“You’re welcome,” he responds without taking his eyes from the road.
The calm silence holds us until he pulls around under the awning of my building. I quickly reach for the door latch. Too quickly. It seems as if I can’t bear another minute in the car with him. And I can’t, but not for the reasons he thinks.
“We can do this, you know,” he says.
I pause. A slight flare of pain hit my healing cheek and makes me wonder if that is true. The flutter in my gut that travels down and awakens my cock. That makes me wonder even more. I turn and meet his eyes. I didn’t mean to lock onto them. Hadn’t meant to let my eyes wander to his lips and back again. I lose control of my quickening breath and the hard swallow makes his eyes flash just slightly, and my cock stirs even more.
“We have to do this,” he adds.
