Page 57 of Loving at 40

Archer has been included in this year’s activity, and Noah might be attending as well. For tonight, Archer and I snuggle on the couch once the girls are asleep. He’s been quiet today, distracted even, and I shift when he doesn’t laugh at something funny on the romantic comedy I conned him into watching.

“What’s wrong?” I tip my head to better look at him then sit upright.

“Nothing.” But his eyes tell the truth. Something’s on his mind.

“You can tell me.” I tease, nudging him with my shoulder, but when he doesn’t respond, I add in a more serious tone, “You can talk to me.”

Archer turns his neck to look at me, his lips twisting a bit to the side.

I read the struggle in his eyes. “Another hard topic?”

When he doesn’t say more, I reach for the back of his neck, cupping his nape in my palm, and massage the tightness. He’s so tense. As I work at the strained muscles, his head slowly lolls forward.

“Feels good, babe.”

“Scoot forward,” I say, climbing on the couch to wedge behind him. The fit is snug with my back pressed against the cushions as I straddle the outside of his thighs. My hands slip under his T-shirt and swipe it upward.

“Whatcha doing, ’Locks?” He glances at me over his shoulder, but when my hands hit his shoulder blades, kneading and squeezing the taut muscles, he has the answer. He reaches over his head for the collar of his tee and pulls it forward, removing the covering. We stay quiet for a few minutes while I work at the tension in his upper back. With my legs nestled against his outer thighs, one of his hands comes to my knee.

“Loved my motorcycle.” His hand strokes up my leg. “Would love to have taken you for a ride on it.” His voice drifts, lost in thought, and I don’t miss the use of past tense.

“What happened to the bike?”

“My leg.” He has already explained the nerve damage. He’d need control of those powerful legs. Riding is a risk.

“What did you love best about riding?” I ask, hoping maybe telling me something positive about the experience will lessen the sadness in his voice.

“It’s going to sound silly, but the wind in my hair, sun on my face. Just being free to roam and race.”

My fingertips move upward, pressing harder at the base of his skull and working upward to the top of his head. He doesn’t have long hair, keeping it close to his scalp with hints of gray everywhere, especially his temples.

“That feels so good, babe.”

“Bet the women loved to ride with you.” Archer stiffens under my touch. I pause for a second before slipping back to his shoulder, using both hands on the left one to dig into the tight muscles.

“Not many women on my bike, babe.”

My stomach still drops because the implication is clear. He’s at least had one or two. Never been in love. I found it difficult to believe. Certainly, women fell for him. He was fit and sexual and growing older has enhanced his good looks. How had he gone so long without that special woman at least once in his life?

“But there was at least one?” Someone important had once been behind him on his bike. His back flexes under my touch in answer to my question. His hand continues stroking up my thigh, back and forth, rubbing at my skin more than massaging me. I switch to his right shoulder, working it with both hands as well.

“No one important,” he whispers, giving me the hint there was someone. I lean forward and press a kiss to the back of his neck without missing a beat in my massage. Then I separate my hands and use my thumbs at the top of his spine. He cleared his throat. “Sometimes being undercover, you do things you aren’t proud of, say things you can’t unsay.”

I remain silent, allowing him to tell me what he will.

“The job called for pretending, acting if you will. You had a position to fill and be empty of your emotions. What was fake had to feel real.” His voice drops. “It could get confusing.”

“Did you fall in love when you weren’t supposed to?” I’ve read my share of forbidden romance novels, and I was working off a hunch.

Archer twists at the waist, and my hands pause on his back. “It wasn’t love.” His voice is frost, his tone sharp as his dark eyes narrow at me, imparting a truth he doesn’t need to clarify. This topic is hard.

I nod with a weak smile and return to massaging him, digging my thumbs into his back as I examine the tattoos on his shoulder. A crown. A snake. Insignias that could mean anything. Had Archer been undercover in a gang? Had he gone that deep into a role? The idea was like something out of a movie.

“She was just a woman,” he mutters. “I try to wipe her from my thoughts.”

I don’t like that Archer is thinking of her, as I sensed he is from this conversation, and I better understand how he must have felt the other day when I said Ryan’s name. It stings to think someone else is on his mind when my hands are on him. Still, the heartbreak in his tone has me reacting. I press another kiss to his back. And then another. And another. Working my way from left to right, shoulder to shoulder, I suck at his skin, sipping at the ink until I tuck into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. I nip him there, and he tips his head, softly chuckling.

“Tickles, babe.”