Chapter 8
EIGHT
Archer’s feet moved before he had the chance to tell them to stay still. Any protests that might have risen up in his mind died a quick and painless death. Before he was able to take a full breath, his foot was crossing the threshold and he was inside Scarlett’s house.
It smelled like her. He inhaled deeply as he closed the door, kicking his shoes off before she could change her mind.
She watched him, head tilted. “You look like you need a hug.”
“You offering?”
“Well, I have it on good authority that I’m a Grade-A hugger.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Scarlett laughed and slipped her arms around his waist. It happened quickly. Suddenly, she was pressed up against him, all that soft flesh warm and giving against the front of him. He felt her hands spread out on his back, felt her exhale as she rested her cheek on his chest.
He brought his own arms around her, leaning his cheek on the top of her head as he closed his eyes. For a few moments, all he felt was Scarlett. Her warmth, her softness, the steady beat of her heart, the scent of her all around him.
Then, too soon, she pulled away.
“There,” she said, smiling as she took a step back. “That’s better.”
“Yeah,” Archer croaked, struggling to give her a smile of his own. He hadn’t wanted it to end, but now there was space between them. The kind of space that proclaimed, “We’re just friends!”
He cleared his throat and tore his gaze away from her eyes that saw too much to study the living room that opened up to the right. It was filled with plants, books, and what looked like second-hand furniture. The couch was dark orange, which was not a color Archer would have picked, but it looked great against the dark foliage of her many house plants and the rich, warm tone of the wood floors. She had a tasseled lamp that looked like it could have come from a grandmother’s living room, right next to a tiny modern sculpture of a woman’s headless body. Another lamp was made of stained glass, a jewel sitting atop a tiny side table.
There were fresh flowers, which wasn’t that surprising, but they looked like they were on their last legs. She probably couldn’t wait to regain access to her shop.
“What do you think?” Scarlett asked.
He met her gaze. “About what?”
“About my interior design style.”
She said the words casually, but there was a little kernel of…something…in her voice. Some small edge of vulnerability that Archer would have missed if he hadn’t been so attuned to her every nuance.
But he was attuned to her. Over the past couple of days, it had seemed like every light shone on Scarlett differently, revealing new angles, new curves, new expressions and emotions and complicated thoughts. She was a woman with depth, and he wanted to mine every inch of it.
He cast his gaze back over her living room, assessing. Her home was a little shabby, a little cluttered, but obviously dotted with all the objects that brought her joy. She enjoyed curating her decor, rearranging things, finding new ways to create pretty little vignettes for her eyes to rest on. It felt old and new, all at once. Lived-in, yet beautiful.
All that was obvious at a glance, but he didn’t know how to put it into words. So instead, he said, “It’s very girly.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” The wrinkle between her brows was adorable. Archer wanted to brush his thumb over it until it went away.
He leaned against the corner of the wall that opened onto the living room and said, “It’s not a bad thing. It’s pretty. Very you.”
“That sounds like you’re calling me pretty, Mr. Jones,” she teased.
“Am I not allowed to call you pretty?”
“I don’t enjoy empty compliments.”
“Who said it was empty?”
Her cheeks flushed, and she spun on her socks to give him her back. “You hungry? I made chicken. There’s lots; I always make enough for leftovers.”
“Don’t change the subject, Scarlett.” Archer followed her down the hallway. A curling strand of hair had fallen against the nape of her neck, and Archer studied it as they walked. “I was in the middle of telling you how beautiful you are.”
Scarlett clicked her tongue. From behind, Archer could see that the tips of her ears were red. “Are you allergic to anything? I’ve got baked chicken thighs, rice, and Greek salad.”
“No allergies,” he said, stepping into the kitchen behind her. It was a bright-yellow space, with old off-white appliances and an oven that looked like it had needed to be replaced ten years ago. The kitchen was U-shaped, taking up the entire space to the right of the entrance where he stood, with a small round table to the left. Directly across from him, an exterior door led to a small backyard.
He noticed the weatherstrip at the bottom of the door was nearly falling off, and a few of the cabinets were crooked. It wasn’t perfect, but it was comfortable. It felt like a home.
Still, he couldn’t resist nodding to the offending cabinets. “You told me your hinges weren’t in need of attention.”
Scarlett glared at him, which was glorious. “Are you volunteering your skills to fix them?”
“You got a screwdriver?”
She waved at one of the drawers on his side of the kitchen. He opened it to find the most pathetic collection of tools he’d ever seen. She owned three cheap screwdrivers, a hammer, and the tiniest level he’d ever seen. Grabbing a Phillips head, he opened the cabinet and got to work. It only took a few minutes, and then he stepped back to admire the now-straight cabinet door.
Scarlett’s fingernails sparkled as she tried the door, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Maybe you should come around more often,” she noted. “I’ve been meaning to set up some shelves in the garage for over a year.”
“Say the word, Scarlett, and I’m here.”
Their eyes caught for a moment, and then a buzzer went off. Scarlett turned to the oven and grabbed some potholders from where she’d left them on top of the stove.
Leaning against the counter opposite her, he watched Scarlett pull a sheet pan of roasted chicken thighs out of the oven. A delicious, fragrant scent teased his nose, and he groaned, realizing he was starving.
There was something comforting about being in this kitchen, with this woman, watching her dish up two plates with food she’d cooked. It was like entering some kind of fantasy, one he’d never really acknowledged before. A beautiful woman, taking care of him, feeding him, making him feel like he belonged here.
Archer found the cutlery drawer and set the table in the nook on the opposite side of the room, then brought the salad bowl over.
Scarlett set the plates down, then crossed back to the kitchen and bent over to look in a bottom cupboard. Archer couldn’t really see the shape of her in her loose clothing, but he still couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was mesmerizing. Curved and soft and beautiful. Being in her home, when she was dressed to stay in, felt like a rare privilege. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex.
She turned, holding a bottle of wine. “I only drink red. How do you feel about Syrah? Too heavy for this meal?”
“You pour it, I’ll drink it,” he said.
Scarlett grinned and brought two glasses to the table. She filled them, touched the rim of her glass to his, then told him to dig in.
The table was round, and they sat across from each other. Still, when Archer extended his leg, his foot nudged hers. Just like at the Barlows’ place, he decided not to pull away when she didn’t immediately retreat. His heart kicked when Scarlett reached for her glass, her gaze flicking to meet his.
The touch of her foot against his was making his pulse pick up. He’d completely lost his mind.
“This is delicious,” he said, pointing to his plate. The chicken was succulent, the rice was fragrant, and the salad was crunchy and tangy.
“It’s one of my old reliable recipes,” Scarlett said, dodging the compliment once more. One of these days, he’d get Scarlett to actually acknowledge it when he praised her. “I make it once every week or two because it tastes just as good reheated.” She sipped her wine; her foot still hadn’t moved. “How was your mom?”
Archer couldn’t help his sigh. “I don’t really feel like talking about that, if you don’t mind.”
The curiosity was written plainly in Scarlett’s gaze, but all she did was dip her chin. “Sure. So… Are you ready to go talk to Ralph tomorrow?”
Archer huffed, leaning back. He picked up his glass and watched the play of the light on the red liquid. He’d come here after a long, stressful, emotionally fraught day. Now he found himself ensconced in her warm, happy kitchen, fed, watered, hugged, and treated like he had a right to be here. There was something sacred about the moment, and Archer didn’t feel like ruining it by talking about the murder of a horrible old woman who probably had it coming a hundred times over.
His gaze slid to Scarlett’s, and he gave her a wry grin. “I don’t particularly feel like talking about that either.”
She clicked her tongue, spearing a cherry tomato. “Well, how about you pick the topic of our dinner conversation, then?”
Laughing, Archer put his glass down. He tried to find a topic that would tell him more about Scarlett but wouldn’t ruin the casual intimacy of the moment. “Where do you find your furniture? It all seems to coordinate, but it doesn’t match.”
“I’ve been collecting it for years. Antique stores, secondhand sellers online, sometimes yard sales. I like treasure hunting.”
“Is that where you got that?” He nodded to the stone at the base of her neck.
Scarlett’s fingers moved to touch the purple pendant. “No. This was my grandmother’s.”
Something in her voice—a slight trembling—told Archer this was not an entirely safe topic. Still, he wanted to know everything there was to know about her, so he had to ask. “Were you close with her?” He used the past tense, because Scarlett had.
Scarlett took a sip of wine. Her leg shifted so her calf rested against Archer’s instead of only her foot “I was. My mom had me young—really young. She was sixteen and there were complications with my birth. She didn’t make it. My dad wasn’t interested in being involved. So my grandmother raised me. My grandfather had died by then, so Grandma was mom and dad and grandma and grandpa all rolled into one. She died when I was thirteen, and I was basically carted back and forth between distant family members until I crashed on a friend’s couch for the last year of high school. Her parents were saints for taking me in, because I didn’t come out of that experience unscathed. I worked my ass off to get scholarships and loans, and then made sure that I could take care of myself from then on.”
Archer heard a lot of secrets hidden in Scarlett’s words. There was grief—so much grief—and the sharp pain of rejection, the shame of having to ask for help, the grit and determination that came from it. He saw all of it written in the shadows of her eyes and the tension of her neck, and he longed to have the right to soothe it away.
“This is all I have left to remind me that I had a family at one point,” Scarlett said, touching her necklace.
“I’m sorry.”
Scarlett shook her head. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago.” She took a bite and then swallowed and said, “You watch any good shows lately?”
The conversation moved onto safer topics, and then dinner was over. Scarlett stood, and Archer missed the heat of her leg against his. He brought his plate over to the sink, then grabbed a tea towel to dry as Scarlett washed. While she scrubbed the sheet pan in which the chicken had baked, her sweater slipped off her shoulder. Archer’s heart sped up as he saw the curve of her breast and realized she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
Before he could stop himself, he readjusted the fabric on her shoulder, his knuckles grazing her skin. It felt like warm silk. Intoxicating. He wanted to feel her everywhere. All the silky, warm, delicious parts of her. But “wanted” was such an inadequate word. He craved it. Yearned. Hungered.
Touching her was an addiction; once he’d done it, he couldn’t stop. He touched her hip when he needed to nudge her over to get to the drawer beside her. He brushed her shoulder when she struggled to reach a high shelf to put her salad bowl away, then let his fingers cover hers when she passed the bowl over.
And when Scarlett thanked him by squeezing his arm, Archer’s cock hardened. A touch on the arm did that to him.
“There’s a new crime thriller I wanted to watch,” Scarlett said, opening her pantry to pull out a bag of peanut M&Ms. She held up the bag and gave him a hopeful smile. “It’s set in Sweden so we’ll have to read subtitles, but you said you’re into noir thrillers, so…”
“I’m in,” Archer said. As if there was even any doubt of his answer.
She gave him a beaming smile and tore open the bag, popping a few chocolate-covered peanuts in her mouth. She extended the bag so he could grab a handful, then led him to the living room.
They settled on the couch. It was a deep three-seater with a round ottoman that Archer claimed for his feet. Scarlett plopped herself on one side, her knees tucked up on the cushions as she spread a throw blanket over herself.
“Share the wealth,” Archer complained, pointing to his blanketless legs.
“Get your legs up here then,” Scarlett shot back, grinning.
It was the most natural thing in the world for Archer to stretch out on Scarlett’s sofa and feel her snuggle in front of him. She spread the blanket over both their legs, then used his arm as a pillow as she wiggled herself into a more comfortable spooning position.
The wiggling was a problem for Archer. A very big problem that was difficult to hide with Scarlett’s ass so very near to the crux of the issue. But if she noticed, she didn’t point it out—and she didn’t move away. She lifted the bag of candy to where he could reach it, then turned the TV on with the remote and navigated to her streaming service.
Archer barely noticed. His eyes were pointed at the screen, but his awareness was all on Scarlett. The length of her pressed to his front as they spooned on her couch. The weight of her head on his arm. The softness of her as she let herself relax against him.
This was heaven. It was hell. It was both at once, because he wanted exactly this with every fiber of his being, but he also wanted more. He wanted it to be his right to slide his hand under her sweater so he could feel the softness of the skin at her waist. He wanted to be able to feel the weight of her breast in his palm. He wanted to push his hips forward so she would know just what she was doing to him. Was she wearing underwear? What if he could simply shove those loose pants down a few inches and be inside her? Right here, just like this.
He squeezed his eyes shut to try to tamp down his urges. If Scarlett knew what he was thinking, she’d never speak to him again. He needed to get a grip. They were friends, and friends sometimes cuddled…right? They could watch a show in close physical proximity in a platonic way. Friends could do that.
The problem was, Archer wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it. Surely Scarlett would hear his heart thumping, wouldn’t she? Or she’d move, and she’d know that he was hard as stone just inches behind her.
“Oh, shoot,” Scarlett said, lifting herself onto her elbow to angle the remote differently. This brought her ass dangerously close to his throbbing cock. “My internet is so terrible.”
Blinking, Archer was finally able to register what was going on on the screen, and he saw a spinning wheel that might have been spinning for quite some time by that point.
It took him a while to think of something to say, and when he finally did speak, his voice was hoarse. “Can you hotspot it?”
“No,” Scarlett answered, slumping back against him. Archer’s breath wheezed out as he attempted to shift his hips back. “It’s connected through the ethernet cable. We could watch on my phone, but that wouldn’t be much fun.”
There was probably some easy solution to this not-so-complicated tech problem, but Archer’s brain was working at approximately two to three percent efficiency.
But if there was no show, there was no reason to be on Scarlett’s couch, snuggled under a blanket, with the length of her pressed up against the length of him. He’d have to leave this heaven-hell situation before he’d even been able to enjoy it.
He’d have to stop touching her.
So he needed to find a solution. There was no way Archer was leaving this couch, not until Scarlett told him she wanted him to go. And right now, she was still resting her head on his biceps, and one of her feet had crept between his calves.
Maybe she didn’t want to move either.
The wheel on the screen kept turning for a few seconds as they watched. Then the screen changed, telling them to check that they were connected to the internet.
Scarlett sighed, then turned the TV off and on again. “We’ll try this, but sometimes it just conks out completely. I need a new internet provider, but I signed a stupid contract, and now I’m stuck.”
Archer hummed. She was so warm and soft and perfect. He’d die if she got up. So he tore his gaze away from the screen and scanned the room, desperate. Maybe a reason to stay just like this would present itself?—
Just behind his head was a small side table holding that tasseled lamp, the naked, headless statue, and a book. He grabbed the tome and looked at the cover.
The words jumped around, as they always did when he tried to decipher something, but he was still able to read, “‘ The Pirate’s Captive .’”
Scarlett’s hand shot out to snatch the book from him, but he jerked it out of her reach, laughing. But the movement made him stretch his body, which made his cock press against Scarlett’s butt. The cock that was still achingly hard and wasn’t going soft anytime soon.
They both froze. Still holding the book aloft, Archer cleared his throat, heat rising up his neck. He shifted his hips back where they’d been a minute before.
“Sor—” He stopped talking when Scarlett shifted too, so her curves once again pressed against him. It became very hard to breathe—but Scarlett didn’t move away.
“That’s”—she inhaled—“that’s a really good book, actually.” Her voice was breathless.
“Is it?” Archer’s mind spun as fast as the wheel on the screen. He held the book in his right hand while his left arm curled around Scarlett’s chest. The movement brought her head onto his chest, so their bodies were completely entwined.
“Yeah. A woman has to run from a bad engagement to an abusive man, so she hires an assassin to kill the fiancé and make it look like a hunting accident. But then the hitman decides he doesn’t want payment in cash, so he…he takes her instead.”
“As his captive.”
Scarlett nodded.
Archer hummed, intrigued. “And the hitman is also a pirate?”
“Well he’s actually a lord, but he does pirating on the side.”
“Right. So he takes her onto the high seas when he snatches her away?”
Scarlett spun in his arms onto her back so she could look up at him, which was good in that it broke contact between her butt and his throbbing groin, but it was bad in that now he could feel the cleft of her ass against his hip, and the arm that had curled around the front of her chest now rested dangerously close to her breast.
She frowned up at him. “It’s a good book. Stop judging my reading material.”
She looked so adorable like that, all mad and righteous and flushed. Adorable and hot as hell. Little did she know Archer would struggle to read any book at all, so the fact that she was reading multiple books at once was nothing short of remarkable.
His thumb stroked the bare skin just under her collarbone. “Sweetheart, I’m not judging a damn thing.” He was mostly trying to keep himself from making a mess of his underwear with all this wiggling the woman was doing on top of and beside him.
“I just got to the part where he makes her scrub his cabin floor, but he feels bad about it. So you know he’s not a total rogue.”
“Well he’s a lord and a pirate assassin, so he’s got some depth.”
She elbowed him. He wheezed, and she didn’t seem sorry at all when she said, “Stop it. It’s good. People make fun of romance because they like to judge things women enjoy.”
“I have to admit, Scarlett, I’m intrigued.” Archer opened the book at the page where she’d used an old receipt in place of a bookmark. The letters swam. He’d be able to make sense of it, but it would take him forever and he’d be left with a pounding headache afterward. So he did the only thing he could. He handed the book to Scarlett and said, “Read it to me.”