Chapter 37
“How did traveling all the time mesh with your nonnegotiable bedtime?”
Arthur keeps his eyes on the highway, palms relaxed on the wheel as he guides us away from Green Valley and into the mountains. Knowing that he was going to be the driver and that this vehicle wasn’t fitted with dual steering, I have on my hearing aid so I can converse with him without wrenching my neck. My “going somewhere new” comment must’ve struck a chord with him because the same evening we talked about visiting India, Arthur asked me to go camping with him.
That was an easy yes.
“Parked before sunset. Didn’t like driving in the dark anyway.”
I bite my bottom lip to hide a smile as I imagine Arthur telling everyone at a campsite to quiet down ’cause he was heading to bed.
And a true bed it is. Arthur fully refurbished this van the year after he graduated high school. He also spent the time working shifts at the Payton Mill and saved every dime. Then, he took off on the road for a few years, traveling the country on his own.
Apparently, when he started running low on money, he would take the odd job, or—get this—he would busk. He’s a talented musician, but I’m having trouble envisioning Arthur set up on a street corner, serenading passersby.
But it worked, I guess.
“Why do you have such a rigid sleep schedule?” I press. “Is this some past trauma, and I’m going to feel like a shitty person because I’ve teased you about it?”
His beard twitches. “No sleeping trauma.” He pauses, but I don’t think he’s refusing to answer my question. Just that he’s looking for the right words to explain it.
“My mom died young,” he starts, and I can’t help a guilty groan as my head falls into my hands.
“It is trauma,” I wail.
Arthur starts chuckling, and I peek from between my fingers to find his beard crinkling.
“It’s not. Let me tell it.”
“Okay. But if it does end up being trauma, I humbly offer you an apology blow job.”
His body tenses, and then he gives a stiff nod. “You’re right. It’s trauma.”
I reach over to poke his side, earning another smile.
“I was saying,” he continues, “my mom died young. I’ve always known life can be short. And sleeping late feels like part of the day is wasted. Like I missed it. But the end of the night? That’s just winding down. Or when people make mistakes.”
He clears his throat, probably not used to stringing so many words together. But that’s the great thing about being close to Arthur. You get to hear his grumpy grunts and have an in-depth conversation with him.
“So...you go to bed early and wake up early because daytime is when it feels like life is happening for you? Did I get that right?”
He nods, throwing a quick glance my way before refocusing on the road. “Makes me seem like an old man,” he says.
I shrug. “I don’t mind. Means I get your chair.”
His beard shifts as his jaw works, but he only grunts in response.
“It really is a cozy chair. Great for studying. And napping.” Feeling devilish, I add one more activity to the list. “And touching myself.”
His knuckles go white on the steering wheel. “You don’t.”
“Don’t worry. Not every night. Just some nights.”
“Fuck, Robin.”
I clench my thighs at the words and glance behind my seat toward the bed in the back. I am thoroughly looking forward to breaking that sucker in.
But, for now, maybe I should avoid giving the driver a boner.
“Time for some Hangar Talk!” I announce while connecting my phone to the Bluetooth.
A minute later, a set of voices comes from the speakers. And while I find their discussion interesting, it also takes the edge off the lust I feel, being stuck in close quarters with Arthur.
At least for now.
We arrive at the campground just after noon, giving us time to park, use the facilities, then head for a trail. Arthur arranged this outing in part because I told him I’d been planning to go on the Kraut family’s annual Thanksgiving hike. Every year, they backpack for three days the week before Thanksgiving, camping along the Appalachian Trail. Obviously, I’m no longer going. But Arthur must have picked up on my disappointment in missing the event because next thing I knew, he was pulling his van out of storage and dusting off his trail maps.
We’re only here for the one night and sleeping in a campground instead of on the trail. Still, I’m so grateful for the sweet gesture that I could cry.
Arthur always seems to know what I need or what small thing might make me happy. And he does that thing without question or hesitation.
I never expected someone to understand me so well.
His soulmate is a lucky bitch.
I try not to hate that future person, but every day, it gets more difficult. When I kiss Arthur now, I find myself bordering on desperate, wanting to make it the best kiss of his life.
And then I fight off disappointment when he breaks away with only a slightly dazed look instead of an aha, you’re my life partner expression.
Doesn’t matter if I believe in that soulmate stuff or not. He does. Doesn’t matter if I kiss Arthur until my lips bleed. He feels no magical spark.
I constantly remind myself that this is a good thing. Arthur and me in the long-term is a terrible idea.
Instead of a brief shadow over the Kraut family, I would become a lifelong rift. The tight-knit group I fell in love with would be wrenched apart by my continued presence.
Enjoy being with Arthur in the now, then part ways when the time is right.
That time will probably be when Malcolm announces Thomas is officially the future owner of Green Valley Aviation.
No point in me lingering after that.
A few months ago, I was eager for my boss to start talking more seriously about retirement. But now, I wouldn’t mind him holding off a little longer.
Give me an excuse to linger.
We hike three miles to an overlook with a waterfall, able to reach the destination in good time because of our light packs and the comfortably cool day. When I sidle close to the edge, wanting to feel the spray of the water, Arthur grabs hold of my backpack, as if worried I might go tumbling. The protective move has me snorting, even as a satisfied glow lights in my chest. When I see a nearby rock with a flat top, I drag Arthur over to it, step up on the assist, and ply him with a kiss attack.
He doesn’t put up a defense, only mutters a curse when I break away, panting.
I look forward to the van.
But when we get back to the campsite, both of us are sweaty and hungry. The place has a rudimentary building with a basic shower. I don’t bother washing my hair, just pile it on top of my head, and I soap off the stickiness of the day. Dry and wearing clean clothes, I find a freshly showered Arthur has managed to build us a fire in the pit at our site. The logs crack and blaze and stave off the chill of the oncoming night.
“Dinner is hot dogs,” Arthur announces, handing me a skewer and pulling a package from a cooler.
“Sounds good to me.”
After trekking through the woods for hours, the simple food tastes like a feast. I cook two for myself, slathering them in condiments, and groan when the hot meat touches my tongue.
And, yes, I might have made the noise slightly more theatrical when I realized Arthur was watching me. But the pleasure was still genuine.
The amazing man came prepared with pasta salad and even a box of Daisy’s doughnuts for dessert.
“Hell”—I laugh at the sight of the box—“you’re treating me like a queen!”
I can’t tell if it’s the light of the fire or if Arthur blushes, but the big guy ducks his head and mutters something I didn’t understand.
I lean closer. “What was that?”
His chest expands and deflates on a sigh. “You deserve to be treated like a queen,” he says, plenty loud enough for me to hear this time. “You work hard. At your job. Then with school. And you’ve been fixing things around my house. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
Oh. I thought I was being sneaky.
But it wasn’t much. Just his kitchen sink. And a few light switches that needed rewiring. And a screen door that needed to be rehung. And a couple of loose boards on his back deck that were begging for a handful of nails to keep them in place.
Small things. Growing up, with usually just my mom and me, I got used to being the handyperson around the house.
Arthur circles the fire to kneel beside my camping chair, offering the sweets to me like a devoted knight pledging his fealty.
My throat goes tight, and I wonder if I’ll be able to swallow a doughnut.
I’m still going to try.
I pluck a chocolate frosted one from the box, but before he can stand and move away, I slip my hand around the back of his neck. Holding him in place.
“You deserve to be treated like a king. But I . . .”
He tilts his head, waiting for my answer. And here comes an insecurity I’ve never wanted to admit, but has festered ever since I found out about Daren. “I don’t think I’m good at the girlfriend stuff.”
Arthur’s brows dip, and like earlier, when he told me about his sleeping habits, I try to explain this not easily definable part of myself.
“I’m not a caregiver,” I say. “I take care of myself, and that’s kind of it. I mean, you know, I don’t cook unless it comes with a pack that has instructions. I know there are different settings on the washing machine, but I have no idea what they mean, so I wash everything together and refuse to buy anything white because I know I’ll ruin it. When someone is sick, I have zero clue what to do. Honestly, if you had a cold, I’d probably panic and call 911.”
A spark of humor shines in Arthur’s eyes, and of course he thinks it’s funny. I’m not his soulmate. He doesn’t have to put up with me for the long-term.
“Don’t laugh.” My voice cracks, and I’m horrified to feel the pressure of tears behind my eyes.
But Daren’s voice is in my head. All his small complaints about me never making a real dinner, or taking care of the house, or making him soup or whatever when he was sick.
I thought they were tiny things that bothered him. Quirks of my personality that he either got over or learned to love. Little inside jokes.
But maybe they were fuel for him to find someone else.
I know it wasn’t my fault that he cheated. I know that.
But knowing something and feeling something seem to have become disconnected in my body.
Because I realize there’s a part of me that wonders if it was my fault.
“Robin.” Arthur sets the doughnuts aside and leans forward, clasping the back of my neck and pressing his forehead to mine. “Any man who earns your love is a king.”
I huff a watery laugh.
Then, you, Arthur Kraut, I think to myself, deserve the biggest fucking crown in the universe.
Because, somehow, the moody postman has gotten me to fall in love with him.
But I can’t tell him that. In this vulnerable moment, it would gut me to have him—gentle as it would be—reject me.
So instead, I say, “I think you’re the best man I’ve ever known.”
His dark eyes meet mine, then drop, and I’m certain he’s blushing now.
I think I’ll keep you. As long as I can.
I slip my hand from his neck and straighten in my chair, and then I glance at my bare wrist.
“Oh. Look at that. Getting close to your bedtime.”
Arthur’s thick brows crinkle in confusion.
I almost roll my eyes at how innocent this bear of a man can be sometimes. “We’re sharing, right? I only saw one mattress back there.”
And I made sure to pack some condoms. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Arthur never lets himself finish when he treats me to an orgasm. Tonight’s mission is to change that. I want to pay him back for all the pleasure he’s given me. I want to see him break apart.
As if he could hear my thoughts, Arthur’s eyes flare, and then he grumbles something like an affirmative and starts cleaning up our campsite.
Very fast.