Chapter 10
They’ve got their backs to the communications door, knees bent, and asses on cold ground, listening for new transmissions.
Twice more, the same voice and request have filtered through the radio with a description of their location, then it all goes silent again. Theo’s about to suggest they give up after hearing nothing for over an hour when it crackles to life with a different voice. More frightened and forthcoming.
Hello? Is anyone out there at all? The pilot, he was…
we thought he was dead but then he wasn’t.
He bit someone. Tried to…and we didn’t have a choice.
Rabies, maybe? But that doesn’t make sense, does it?
Out here? There were no wild animals. Nothing makes sense.
The person he bit got sick, too, and now there are two less of us.
Please send help. I’m not sure we can make it much longer.
The description of their mountain view is repeated along with another plea before the line goes dead.
“Bit someone?” Nora frowns.
“Sounds weird as hell, but now we’ve got some hint on why the plane went down. The pilot was sick.”
“Sick enough to bite people after surviving the crash. What would cause that? Now they’re out there stuck like we were before we found this place.”
He slides her a wary glance. “You’re not thinking of going to help, are you?”
“No. We don’t even know where they are. That mountain they see could be the one we climbed, or it could be something else entirely. Too risky.”
“Good, because I don’t like the sound of any of that. We have enough to deal with without putting ourselves in a situation where people are biting each other. Help’s coming for them just like it is for us.”
“Is it, though?” she wonders out loud, rolling her head against the door to face him. “Why hasn’t anyone answered their calls? If we got into this room and used the radio, would they be ignoring us, too?”
He sighs. “Bad signal?”
That’s a shitty explanation since they got the signal for this transmission just fine, but she lets it slide. “Maybe. Probably.”
She’s worried and he can’t blame her when he’s just as shaken. “You good?”
“Fine. Hungry. Let’s make those pancakes?”
It’s a decent way to distract themselves from whatever the fuck is going on. It’s not like they can do much about it anyway, so he agrees, holding out his hand for her after he’s risen to tug her up to her feet. “Pancakes. Show me how?”
“One cooking lesson coming right up.”
* * *
They’re making pancakes.
Well, he’s making pancakes and Nora’s watching from atop the stainless steel counter in this tiny kitchen.
Her legs swing as she gives him the occasional instruction on what to add to the bowl and how much.
It’s domestic, which feels strange considering they’ve been fighting for their lives for days.
That’s not exactly the proper setting for brunch food.
He said he wanted to learn, and she’s eager to teach.
She’s just about the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, too.
Relaxed and smiling, a tease on her lips every few words, and those wavy strands of hair he wants to touch framing her face.
He’s having a hard time paying attention to the food when he can hardly take his eyes off her.
She catches him staring instead of stirring, spoon stuttering in the bowl when she looks up. “Eyes on the batter.”
“Right. Sorry.” His spoon starts up again, but he slides her another sideways glance he can’t hold in.
“Dump those in the pan, in circles about the size of a silver dollar, and then come here.”
Fuck. That come here was all kinds of sexy.
Deeper and sweeter at the same time, spoken along with batting lashes, and he can’t finish fast enough before following instructions.
He moves to stand between her parted legs and flounders for a place to put his hands, one newly clear of its sling, while she waits him out.
“Is this part of the cooking lesson?” he teases, finally landing them both on her thighs right above the knee.
“The best part.”
“Hey, what’s your favorite food?” he questions.
She raises a brow. “Really? That’s what you want to say right now?”
“Yeah. Really. Let’s ask all the stupid questions. We’ve been talking about heavy stuff this whole time and skipped all the clichéd shit, so let’s do that now. Why not? Do you have other plans?”
He’d stand on his head if that’s what it takes for her to keep smiling, so when she agrees with a shake of her head like he’s being silly, he takes it as a win.
“Baked ziti. That’s my favorite food,” she replies. “I like Italian.”
She called him over here for a reason. Maybe in hopes he might make good on that kiss they both chickened out of, but he is so far from brave that any hope of it is in a different hemisphere.
The best he can do is trace a light touch across the skin of her upper arms with both hands, feeling the goosebumps rise to meet his fingertips. “I’ve never met a pasta I didn’t like.”
Her eyes go hooded and heavy, her tongue snaking out to wet her lips. “Mac and cheese all day long, please and thank you. How about you? What’s your favorite?”
‘I’d like to drop to my knees and taste nothing but you,’ is what he longs to say. “I’m easy. Gimme pizza and I’m happy. Mushrooms and pepperoni. The best.”
“I didn’t peg you for a mushrooms type of guy. I respect that.”
“Why ‘cause they’re healthy? I think that stops being true the moment you put ’em on an oily pizza.”
“Fair enough. I guess I assumed you had more refined tastes. Caviar or clams or something nasty like that.”
He lets a fond smile lift his lips. “She thinks caviar is nasty.”
“It’s fish eggs! Why would I eat that? People only do because it’s expensive.”
He offers her a slight nod. “Refined means small bite-sized plates, and I have a hearty appetite. But you’re not entirely wrong about caviar. If it were two dollars a pound, no one would care.”
“I knew it.”
Her legs open a fraction wider, and he presses forward just enough to feel the contact of her thighs on his hips. They’re playing a dangerous game that’s about to have him embarrassing himself soon if he’s not careful.
“Cats or dogs,” he chokes out.
“Both,” she says, seriously.
“Yeah. Both for sure.”
That must have been the right answer, and she gazes at him as if imagining a litter of puppies tackling him to the ground. “Favorite feeling? Not…that one. It can’t be sex related.”
He stumbles for a reply before shrugging in defeat. She must think him pathetic when he can’t even conjure up one good feeling from his whole sorry life.
“Those head tingles. Those are my favorite,” she says, wistfully. “You know the ones you get when someone’s touching you all soft. Like…having your hair cut, or someone’s nails running along the back of your neck?”
“Nope. I got nothing. Never felt that. Tingles like a shiver?”
He’s curious, but it shouldn’t be a secret that no one’s been touching him like that in a long, long time. Perhaps not ever.
Nora watches him a moment before apparently coming to the conclusion that he’s not bullshitting her in the slightest. “I’ll do my best to demonstrate.”
“You don’t have to.” He balks, biting his lip while his face heats up, and that’s crazy after he was five seconds from grinding against her in the kitchen like they were prepping to star in a soft-core porn. Now suddenly he’s shy.
“Follow me, we don’t have a massage table, so we need carpet for this.
The bed is too low. It won’t take long, these will still be warm.
” She moves past him to slide the pancakes onto waiting plates before turning off the heat and leading him into the bedroom, then pointing to the ground. “Get on the floor.”
He blinks in surprised confusion. “Why?”
“Because I’m about to give you that massage you keep asking for. You’ve never felt the head tingles, and that’s criminal.”
“I have to lay on the floor for this?”
“Yep. Flat on your back. You can use one pillow. Chop chop or I’m rescinding the offer.”
“Yeah. Yes. Okay. Let’s do this.” He gathers his courage and follows instructions to lie down in the middle of the room.
He has a standing biweekly massage appointment to work the kinks out of his sore shoulder, so it’s not like he’s completely unfamiliar with the process, but he’s never had whatever she’s about to do.
For some reason, the fact that she would be massaging his scalp never quite clicked for him until she joined him on the floor so her knees point at the top of his head.
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” he says quickly, surprising himself with how anxious he’s become at the idea of anyone touching him there for more than a brief moment.
“Are you sure?”
“No.” He’s not sure. He wants this massage and especially wants it from her. The sticking point is accepting prolonged contact in an area that’s given him so much pain over the years. It’s too vulnerable a thing to relax into enough to experience any sort of benefit.
“No, you’re not sure, or no, you changed your mind?”
“Go ahead. I’m fine,” he lies, unable to control the hitch in his breath.
“Close your eyes,” she says quietly.
When he does, the first touch of her fingers threading through his hair forces a flinch. It’s silly, but his whole body jerks against his will, and his eyes fly open. The urge to sit up is nearly too much. Embarrassment at his reaction flames hot in his cheeks.
“Breathe.” Her hands pause a moment so he can either get his shit together or get up.
He chooses to close his eyes again and let her continue, though that feels like a terrible plan when her fingers fan out and scrunch against his scalp. Instinct to protect that area has him nearly hyperventilating, and self-preservation forces him to try and sit up and evade contact.
Her palm lands on the middle of his chest, stilling his escape attempt and landing over his most protected scar that resides low enough to remain hidden by his shirt.