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I stay still on the seat, hoping that he’ll go away. I can make up a lie tomorrow, maybe say that everything got patched up nicely – anything to prevent him from finding out that my sister just broke my heart for a second time in two months.
“I can see that your lights are on, Harper.”
Goddamn it. I push back the chair and the sound of wood scraping against wood rings loud in the silence. Then I make my way over to the door and rest my hand on the knob. Count to five, steeling myself, and then I pull open the door.
The past two hours of misery momentarily disappear.
He’s standing just behind the step, his hands tucked into the front pockets of a pair of deep navy suit pants, razor-sharp lines pressed down the centre of each leg, and the muscles of his quads make the fabric cling obscenely. My eyes move upwards to take in his white shirt, pulled across his pectorals in an expansive stretch. It’s rolled up over his forearms and opened slightly at the top, as if his large body just couldn’t be contained.
The wind howls violently around him but he stands completely still outside my door.
When I finally peek up at his face his gruff coating of stubble and the hard look in his eyes almost makes me lose my balance. I have to take a long inhalation to get some oxygen flowing through my brain.
I make a small coughing sound as my eyes drop back down his torso, the sight of what he’s wearing making my breathing turn shallow.
“Are you… are you wearing suspender braces?” I ask him, my voice rasping.
He pulls his hands from his pockets and runs his thumbs up the backs of the belts. Then, after a moment, he suddenly lets them go with a harshtwangand they snap hard against his pecs in a loud erotic smack.
I blink fast, trying not to stare so obviously.
“Yeah,” he says simply. Then he looks over my head for the first time and his expression turns blank. He looks back down at me. “Am I early?” he asks, confusion in his tone.
I remain silent for a good ten seconds, my eyes on the pink points of my shoes. When I look back up at him I catch the exact moment that understanding dawns on his face. His brow drops and his jaw steels hard.
He looks so angry that I actually take a small step back.
“She didn’t turn up,” he says flatly.
It’s a statement, not a question, and my chest burns painfully. I rub at the sting and his eyes briefly flick down to my trembling fingers.
He nods slowly and then, after a beat, his eyes flash over to the gate about twenty feet away to his right, opened in preparation for Holly’s cab. Suddenly he’s cursing, storming across the gravel, and shoving the gate shut, the chain wrapped around his fists as he leashes it around the pole and entwines it through the gate.
Then he’s hulking back over to me with a face more thunderous than the weather behind him.
I chew on my lip as I try to will away the prickling behind my eyes, keeping my gaze averted whilst I pull myself together. When Mitch finally gets his arms around me and I look up at him, his expression has recomposed completely. He’s calmed down in the space of ten seconds, collecting himself so that he can take care of me.
I release my bottom lip and make a little sniff.
“You do all that cooking back there?” he asks me quietly.
“Yes,” I say breathlessly, reaching my arms around his neck and gripping my fists around his suspender braces, where they’re cutting firmly into his engorged shoulder muscles. His pecs are swollen, hard, and only a millimetre away from my mouth.
He glances behind me again, over to the oven, and he nods his head. “You did a great job.”
I shake my head weakly, my energy melting into nothingness as I take in the scent of his warm beautiful skin.He got dressed up, the most formal that I’ve ever seen him, to hold my hand whilst I said goodbye to my sister. That knowledge alone was worth the effort I put in.
“I probably did too much,” I admit as his hands stroke over the soft back of my cardigan.
“Looks perfect to me.”
“Would you… would you like to come in?” I ask him nervously.
He looks back down at me, first at my eyes, then my lips. Then he grunts, “Yeah.”
We walk backwards, me almost stumbling over my kitten heels and him sturdier than an army Major. He knocks the door closed with the back of his bicep and when we reach the oven he pulls it open. A puff of steam comes out. He scopes the spread, lifting away the scorching foil with the backs of his fingers, and he makes a gruff sound of approval.
Then he closes the oven door and looks down at me.
