Bree, Archer started, but he didn't seem to know how to go on. I didn't need him to though. Just my name held so lovingly in his hands made my heart feel lighter.
Archer's eyes moved over my face before he asked, That's why you left? That's why you drove here?
I shook my head. After my dad was murdered, I found out that he had let his life insurance policy lapse. He had let a lot of things slide while I was away at college. I wasn't really surprised. My dad, he was the salt of the earth, the kindest man you'd ever want to meet, but he was about as disorganized as they come. I let out a small laugh on an exhale.
I looked at Archer and his eyes encouraged me to continue. There was something about the way he was looking at me–an understanding in his eyes that calmed me, strengthened me.
When I found out I would have to sell the deli to pay for all the funeral expenses, and the other bills associated with the business, I just… went numb, I guess. It didn't take long before I got an offer on the business, but it hurt so badly to sign the paperwork, that I could hardly breathe. I shook my head again, not wanting to return to that day, even in my mind. It was like losing another piece of my dad. He had owned that deli all my life–I had practically grown up there.
Archer took my hand in his for a brief second and then let it go, saying, I'm sorry. I had heard those words before, but looking at him in that moment, I knew that they had never held as much weight as they did when Archer spoke them.
Did they arrest the man who killed your father?
I shook my head. No. The police told me that the guy who shot my dad had most likely been a strung-out junkie who didn't even remember his crime the next day. I paused for a minute, thinking. Something had never felt quite right about that… but the police were the experts. Still, I sometimes found myself looking over my shoulder even when I didn't immediately recognize that I was doing it.
Archer nodded, furrowing his brow. I drank him in, feeling lighter, like I had shed something I didn't realize I had been carrying. I smiled a small smile at him. Way to ruin your cooking lesson, huh?
Archer paused and then smiled back at me, his straight teeth flashing. I noticed now that one of his bottom teeth was slightly crooked and something about that made me love his smile even more. I wasn't even sure why–maybe it was just one of those perfect imperfections. He had a crease in each cheek, not dimples exactly, just the way his cheek muscles moved when he smiled. I stared at those creases as if they were twin unicorns that he'd been hiding from me under his beard. Magical. My eyes moved down and lingered on his mouth for a second. When my eyes finally moved to his, his widened slightly before he looked away.
I went and got your bike and your coolers while you were sleeping, he said. I put everything in my refrigerator. I think it's fine. It was on ice.
Thank you, I said. So rain check on the cooking lesson? I laughed, putting my palm on my forehead and groaning slightly. I mean, if you'll let me back on your property again?
He smiled at me, not saying anything for several minutes. Finally, he lifted his hands. I'd like that. And I promise not to string you up from a tree next time.
I laughed. Okay, deal?
He grinned, the beauty of it knocking me on my ass, and then said, Yeah, deal.
I kept grinning at him like a loon. Who the hell knew that this day would turn out with me laughing? Not the girl who had been caught in a trap and strung up in the woods and lost her mind in front of the beautiful (as it turned out), silent man.
I sobered when he swallowed and my eyes moved to the scar at the base of his throat. I reached out to touch it gingerly and Archer shrunk back, but then stilled. I looked up into his eyes and let my fingertips very gently graze the injured skin.
"What happened to you?" I whispered, my hand still at his throat.
He swallowed again, his eyes moving over my face, looking as if he was trying to decide whether he was going to answer me or not. Finally, he lifted his hands and said, I was shot. When I was seven. I was shot.
My eyes widened and I brought one hand up and covered my mouth. After a second, I brought my hand down and croaked out, "Shot? By who, Archer?"
My uncle.
My blood ran cold. Your uncle? I asked, confused. The one who lived here on this land with you?
No, my other uncle. The day I lost my parents, my uncle shot me.
I don't… I don't understand. Why? I asked, knowing that my expression conveyed the horror I felt. On purpose? Why would–
Archer stood up and let his hair down out of whatever had been holding it away from his face. He walked to a small table behind the couch and picked up a small tube of something. When he walked back over to the couch and sat down next to me again, putting the tube on his lap, he said, I'm going to put some of this antibiotic ointment on your scratches so they don't get infected.
I guessed that he was done talking about himself. I wanted to press, but I didn't. I knew better than anyone that if you weren't ready to talk about something, no one should try to force you to.
I looked down at my arms and legs. There were several small scratches and a few larger ones. They stung very slightly, but nothing serious. I nodded okay to Archer.
He opened the ointment and began using one finger to rub a little bit on each abrasion.
As he leaned closer to me, I inhaled his clean, soap scent, something masculine and all Archer right beneath it. His hand stilled and his eyes darted to mine and held my gaze. Time seemed to stop and my heart sped up right before Archer broke our gaze and looked away, putting the top back on the small tube and setting it down in his lap.