Chapter Twenty-Three Remi
Chapter Twenty-Three
Remi
Since the day I’d bought her, I was the only one who’d ever sat behind the wheel. Seeing a man drive Betty was odd under normal circumstances, but these were not normal. And it wasn’t just a man driving my car—it was Archer Evans.
I didn’t need to use his full name, of course. These past couple weeks, I’d learned exactly how human he was. But some situations required formality, you know?
This situation required all the emphasis I could obtain, because he looked massive in the seat that was mine, his legs spread to the sides and his wrist draped over the top of the wheel as he took us the rest of the way to his own home.
Analise stayed quiet, and when I glanced into the back seat, her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open as if she was sleeping.
My heart and my head were on conflicting sides of the whole Should I stay quiet or Should I talk to him about what I just witnessed debate. My head was firmly camped on the side of Shut up and stay out of it because it was none of my business and would only risk deeper entanglement.
My heart, though, that was a different story.
My heart felt all soft and squishy as I watched him drive with that stoic look on his face.
Resignation looked really good on Archer, though I doubted he wanted to hear it, given what he’d clearly resigned himself to.
My heart wanted to make him feel better. Wanted to help in any way I could.
“You were telling the truth, then,” I started softly.
Looked like my heart was going to reign victorious, at least in this.
He glanced briefly in my direction. “About what?”
“You weren’t the one who ordered all the donations for the shelter.”
His mouth softened, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror as he checked on his sister. “Did you think I was lying?”
“Yes.”
His smile faded, a troubled pinch appearing in his brow. “That’s not good either.”
“I assumed you didn’t want the attention.
Or for me to assume there were strings attached.
” I leaned my head back and watched the trees pass through the windshield.
Fewer buildings now, more woods, and I prayed that his house wasn’t an ugly rich person’s house like his dad’s.
“But you did lie by omission,” I pointed out. “You knew who ordered it.”
“I did.” Archer kept his gaze forward, like he felt too raw to look at me for an extended period of time. “But you didn’t ask me that.”
“That’s true.”
“She just felt so bad, you know? It was eating her up that I was the one there doing all the work.” He shifted in his seat, or as much as he could in the small space. “I might have mentioned something about a wish list for the shelter.”
Something warm unfolded under my skin, skimming my veins as it raced from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. “‘Mentioned it’?” I said lightly.
His jaw clenched. “Okay, fine, I sent her the link.”
I hid my smile behind my hand, turning to stare out the passenger window. “I see.”
“I didn’t think she’d use the credit card he gave her, though.” He sighed. “She’s got one from me for emergencies, and I guess I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. I don’t always think things through,” he admitted with a wry grin.
“So I’ve heard.”
The car slowed near an opening in the trees. The single-lane road disappeared into the woods, and I found myself holding my breath as he followed the slight curve in the path that led to his house.
The road widened. So did the opening in the trees, and the warm skimmy thing turned into a full-fledged wave of Holy shit, I might be in trouble.
It wasn’t ugly. It wasn’t huge or ostentatious.
It was warm and welcoming, buttery-yellow light coming from fixtures on the deep-green siding that covered the porch area.
The three garage stalls took up the majority of the front of the house, and I recognized the stacked-rock facade from the picture he’d sent me as he was weeding.
It was only one story, and the raised porch was held up with beautiful stained-wood columns that arched off into the spaces between each one.
“It’s gorgeous,” I breathed.
He pulled the car into the driveway, parking it in front of the entrance. “You sound surprised.”
“I am, I suppose.” I scrunched my nose. “I expected something big and obnoxious.”
His eyes were warm, and I was glad to see the haunted look disappear, even for a moment. “Like me, huh?”
“I haven’t found you obnoxious for at least a week.”
Archer laughed quietly. “Do you want to come in?”
“Yes.” I sucked in a breath. “I fear my curiosity is overriding my better judgment.”
“Won’t get any arguments from me.” He reached back and gently touched his sister’s leg. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
Analise groaned, blinking sleepily as she sat up and then yawned. “Can I go to bed now?”
Archer and I traded a quick look.
“You sure you don’t want to talk?” he asked.
She shook her head, eyes closing again. “We can talk tomorrow,” she murmured. “Is that okay?”
“Of course.”
Archer carried her bag, and I followed the two of them up the front steps that led into the house. There were planters in front of his door, too, but unlike mine, his weren’t empty. They held white geraniums with some sweet potato vine draping over the side in a bright spring green.
It was hard to imagine him planting them himself, but there was a half-used bag of potting soil leaning against the door that led into the garage, so it must have been him.
With the press of a few buttons, the house was flooded with light as Archer ushered Analise toward a staircase that led to a basement. “I’ll be right back,” he told me.
Analise gave me a tired wave and a smile. “Thank you for coming, Remi.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie.”
“I’m really glad you’re here for my brother.”
Archer ducked his head, keeping his expression hidden, and I chose not to respond to that one as they disappeared down the steps.
Loaded. Every part of every exchange tonight seemed to be loaded with a weight I wasn’t entirely sure I was ready to carry. Like studying his house because I wanted to soak in the details that would help bring this man into focus.
As I wandered through the main floor, I shook my head. It was damn-near annoying how much I loved it. If someone plucked my home fantasies straight from the part of my brain that didn’t think about things like budget or plausibility, it would be this one.
There was a mudroom with lockers off the three-stall garage, and a spacious guest room tucked away past the laundry. I wondered how many spare bedrooms he had in this place, if there was a full basement too.
This guest room held a few boxes and a queen-size bed with a deep-green comforter, but nothing else.
The kitchen was big and inviting, but not intimidating, everything done in warm wood tones and creamy whites. The island sat four, and the kitchen table in the area off to the side sat another six.
Next to the kitchen sink were a coffee mug and a small plate. On the island lay a stack of mail and a folded shirt in Buffalo’s colors. Little signs of life that made it easy to picture him filling the space, returning here at the end of the day.
Off the kitchen was a smaller room with a couple overstuffed chairs and a floor-to-ceiling rock fireplace with windows on either side facing out into the woods. It would be a perfect place to read.
For . . . Archer. Not me. I didn’t need to be reading anything in any of the very nice chairs in his house.
I swallowed roughly, then blew out a harsh breath as I wandered out of the kitchen and into the gathering area on the main floor.
Like the guest room, the family room was sparsely furnished, only a long oversize couch facing the television over the fireplace and a few pictures set inside the mostly empty bookshelves on either side.
It needed artwork on the walls and more furniture to make it feel like home, but every inch that I could see was warm. Cozy, even, despite its impressive ceilings and high-end finishes.
Past the stairs that went to the lower level, I could see the entrance to the primary bedroom suite. No amount of curiosity would convince me that it was wise to wander that way.
Seeing his bedroom was a bad, bad idea.
There’d be no bad ideas tonight. Only good, healthy adult choices that would keep my clothes right on my body, where they should be.
As soon as he came upstairs, I’d make sure he was all right, then head home.
I could do this.
If I closed my eyes, I could still hear the thwack of his father’s fist on his face, picture the horrifying way his head snapped back from the force of it.
I’d touched him, and he’d stopped.
Touched him with my own very normal, average hands, and even through the haze of shock and betrayal and anger, he’d restrained himself on my request.
Power comes in different shapes and sizes, and I still wasn’t sure how I felt about the power I seemed to hold over him. I glanced down at my hands, turning them until my palms faced the ceiling. Dried blood was on the edge of my thumb. Archer’s blood.
In the kitchen, I washed my hands with brisk efficiency and found a drawer with a first-aid kit, selecting a small butterfly bandage and some ointment. I pulled open the freezer and quickly found a stack of flexible ice packs—a sure sign of an athlete who used them on a regular basis.
The sound of his feet coming up the stairs triggered a burst of nerves, but I kept my hands steady as I laid the ice pack on the island and busied myself finding a thin towel to wrap around it.
Archer walked into the kitchen while my back was turned.
I tore off a few squares of paper towel and got them wet with warm water from the sink, squeezing out the excess while the heat of his stare built on the back of my neck.
“Sit,” I instructed gently.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The amused tone made me smile, but I smothered it before I turned in his direction. The streak of blood had dried on his cheekbone, and the cut from his dad’s ring was bigger than I’d realized.