Fragile Lives: A small-town, age-gap, brother’s best friend romance (Little Hope series Book 4)
Fragile Lives: Chapter 13

Crap. Crappy crap!

I think as I run around the place, trying to come up with a way to get out of here. There is no way I can stay in this shoebox with him sleeping next to me. I just freaking humped his leg! How embarrassing is that? Now he clearly knows how I feel about him, and that’s a whole lot of feelings overwhelming me at the same time. I’m usually very good with suppressing my emotions and letting logic rule me, but when he’s around, it’s like my nervous system goes haywire and completely out of control.

I provoked him one hundred percent, making us both uncomfortable. We’re stuck here together, in this awkwardness, because I couldn’t control my emotions and keep my big mouth shut. Just great. I was looking for a quick escape from my big problems, but it feels like I’ve got even bigger ones here. No-o-o, I didn’t get that; I brought it on myself. And I don’t even have anything to say in my defense—the moment his face turned ferocious, I knew I was a goner. I wanted to see what his experienced hands—and mouth—could do to me, and he was so close to becoming unhinged. I saw that. I felt that.

With every angry word falling from his mouth, I yearned to inch closer and feel his sheer, unrestrained power. I yearned to feel his anger directed at me. I wanted to feel how far his emotions could bring him, because he was absolutely right: everyone loves him. Archie this, Archie that, he did this, he did that. He’s always all flirty smiles and lopsided grins. But not with me, no. I get angry stares, flared nostrils, and a heavy stare from under his thick lashes as if I’m his biggest enemy. So, I just snapped…and wanted him to snap too.

When I felt those waves of the real him, I just acted. Stupid, stupid, stupid Leila! I sit in the chair and grab my head in my hands. Stupid Leila!

The engine of the snowmobile outside tells me he’s back. I nervously look around as if I’ll run away through the window or something. Nope, I can’t. We’re truly stuck here.

A moment later, he comes back inside and drops my bag and my purse on the floor by the door.

“I grabbed them both. I didn’t know if you need the little bag,” he says, avoiding my eyes.

“I do, thank you,” I answer politely, and he just nods.

I rise from the chair—and not very gracefully since I lose my footing and nearly fall back.

He looks around, clears his throat, and finally faces me. Oh-oh, this can’t be good.

“Look, Leila. I’m sorry, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have let it go that far.” His voice is full of remorse, his face a picture of self-loathing.

“Stop it right there.” I can see the desire to argue flash across his face, so I raise my hand to stop him. “I was there too, and I was the one to make the first move. It was consensual.” I pause, brows furrowing. “I hope.” I add since I was the one who pretty much forced him into our unfinished coitus. Such a shame; I wouldn’t mind going further.

“I’m older and should have—” he continues, berating himself, oblivious to my words. I want to growl so he can snap out of this state he’s in.

“Oh, shush.” I wave my hand at him, and his brows jump. I have a younger brother, and yet everyone treats me like the child of the family. I hate it. “I made the first move, and we leave it there. It was no one’s fault; let’s move on.”

He leans against the wall and crosses his big arms over his chest. He looks positively curious about what will come out of my mouth next.

“I don’t know how long we’ll be here, but to survive, we need to forget this,” I point at him and then myself, “ever happened. Do you agree?”

He nods.

“Great,” I sigh in relief. “Also, thank you for letting me stay here.”

He quirks a brow in amusement, keeping silent.

“I know you didn’t have a choice, but still. Thank you.” I start chewing on my lip, finished with what I wanted to say.

He nods again and pushes from the wall. Taking off his goggles, he hangs them from the hook by the door.

“So, what do you want me to do?” I ask nervously, trying to figure out how to pass the time without getting in his face too much.

His eyes dip to my lips, and his nostrils flare at my question before darting back to mine, but I saw it. I saw it the moment it crossed his mind.

“Can you make some coffee?” he asks.

“Sure,” I reply eagerly, happy to have something to do. “Do you want me to make yours or mine?”

“I don’t have coffee,” he glances at me sheepishly, “but I smelled yours when I came in.”

“Sure.” I jump to action, grateful to be useful.

He goes for the doorknob and twists it, and on some instinctual level, I sprint after him and grab his arm. “Where are you going?”

It’s not me; I don’t behave like this. I’m usually a picture of calmness and common sense. Until he showed up on that bridge all those nights ago. Now all bets are off, and I turn into a hysterical, illogical banshee every time he enters the room.

His attention switches to my hand on his and then returns to my face. He doesn’t try to shake me off. “I need to get some wood for the fireplace. It’s going to be a really cold night, and the generator won’t stay at max heat for long. I’m usually okay with the cold, but—” He doesn’t finish, but it’s clear that he meant with me here, he’ll need to use more heat considering I’m always cold. I don’t even think he owns a warm jacket.

I instantly feel guilty.

“I got some extra gas; it’s in the trunk of my car.”

“Okay.” He nods, still not attempting to remove my hand. “But we still need firewood. I’ll be back.”

For some unexplainable reason, I still clutch him. “I promise,” he adds firmly, keeping his eyes on mine.

“Alright.” I drop my hand and hide it behind my back, embarrassed by my weird reaction to his proximity.

He opens the door again and walks outside. When the door is shut, I rush to the window to see where he’s going. The dim light on the front porch allows me to follow his figure to the side of the house. He comes back a minute later, and I rush to the kitchen as if I were there the whole time. He drops the wood by the fire and goes to hang his coat up before proceeding to the bathroom, disappearing for a few minutes. When he comes back out, he’s wearing different jeans and the same shirt. Hmm, what was he doing in there?

He returns to the fireplace and squats.

His ass is taut in his dark jeans, his shoulders looking impossibly wide in the gray turtleneck sweater he’s wearing. How can a guy be so hot wearing a turtleneck, for fuck’s sake? And yet, he is. Even from the back. His hair is short, but the black strands at the nape of his neck touch the collar of his sweater, where I see a tiny part of his tattoo peeking out. When he stretches to arrange the wood in the fireplace, his sleeve rolls up, revealing more ink. It’s colorful and large, and I instantly want to roll his sleeve up more to see what he’s hiding. I’ve never seen Archie shirtless, and I don’t think I can survive the sight, to be frank. My libido gets crazy with just a sliver of his corded forearms showing. What will it do when his abs and chest are on full display? I just know it’ll be epic. I hope he sleeps in long sleeve shirts and wide pants.

Gosh, I hope not.

He suddenly turns to me, catching me checking him out. I jerk back and nervously move around the kitchen, making coffee. I’m sure my cheeks are aflame, matching my hair color. Just awesome. Now he thinks I’m a stupid, horny teenager.

I rummage through the tiny cabinets, making more noise than possible considering they’re practically empty. As the coffee drips, I keep myself busy, scared that if I stop for even a second, I’ll continue ogling him. It’s an arduous task because the man is gorgeous.

I mentally roll my eyes and start putting away the groceries, noticing that we only have the things I bought at the store, a few cans of cat food, and bottles of alcohol.

“Where’s all your food?” I ask, surprising myself more than him. “Your human food?”

“You’re looking at it,” he replies without turning to me.

I glance back at the shelves, expecting food to magically appear, but there’s still nothing. “It’s just booze in here.”

“Exactly,” he replies with a smile.

“Were you planning on eating anything while you’re here?”

“Are you auditioning to play my mother?” He throws me a funny glance.

“No, jerk.” I suffocate the desire to go and shake him so hard his teeth clack. “That’s what normal people do.”

“Ask each other about their eating habits?”

“No,” I reply with a growl. “They care about other people.”

With that, I turn away, expecting some snarky remark, but it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel his stare on the back of my head. The man is weird.

Once the coffee is done, I pour a mug and ask him, “How do you take it?”

“Black.”

Figures. I fill the mug to the brim and carry it to him. He’s still squatting by the fire, staring at the flames. His hands hang from his knees.

“Here.” I push the mug toward him.

He looks up at me and carefully takes it from my hands, avoiding contact with my skin.

“Thanks.”

I should go back to my task as far away from him as possible, but instead, I sit on my knees and hide my palms under my butt. He sends me a curious look but doesn’t say a word. We’re watching the fire in comfortable silence until I open my big mouth to make it a little less comfortable.

“Why are you here, Archie?”

“I’m here because I bought this place. Your turn.” His side-eye is heavy.

“No, I mean, why are you here,” I stress my question, hoping he’ll drop this annoying persona for a moment and be real with me. We’ve met before, so I don’t know why he’s so dead set on hiding behind this mask. “It’s such a remote location. And you knew it was going to snow, but you have no food.” I gesture toward the kitchen. “And yet here you are, expecting to be snowed in. So, why are you here?”

He stares ahead. The fire mirrors in his dark eyes, the muscle in his jaw ticks, and his usually plush lips form a thin line.

After a moment, he looks at me, and when he replaces whatever he’s looking for on my face, he speaks. “If we’re going down this road, you’ll have to tell me why you’re here.” I want to say something, but he quickly adds, “Oh, stop it. We both know there’s a reason you’re here. A reason you don’t want to share. Just like I don’t want to share.” His eyes roam my face. “With anyone.”

I watch him darken before my very eyes. I know that last comment was meant to hurt on purpose by showing that I’m no one, just like everybody else, but it comes from a place of pain where he’d rather push someone away than be hurt. I noticed it the first time I saw him on that bridge—it was so obvious to me that I thought it was obvious to everyone. I thought he must have a lot of friends and good people in his life that could help him get out of that hole he found himself in. But the more I look, the more I understand that they don’t see it at all. Not like I do. They don’t see a man lost in his pain; they don’t see someone in desperate need of help, one who hides behind flirty smiles and quick humor. Even my brother doesn’t see it. And for the love of everything, I can’t understand why.

“I’m glad I’m here,” I say, watching his face contort again.

His jaw sets tighter, and his eyes narrow. “I’m not.”

“That’s okay. I don’t want to be liked by everyone. One person somewhere out there is more than enough.” I shrug my shoulders. “It’s not like I can do anything to change the situation, so, yeah,” I shrug again, “I’m glad I’m here.”

“Why?” he croaks.

“Because this is where I should be.” I smile and turn back to the fire, still feeling his eyes on me.

“You’re weird,” he says in wonder.

“I know.” I smile again and push my palms deeper under my butt, attempting to warm them.

He rises to his feet and walks to the bed. Grabbing the white, fluffy comforter from it, he returns and carefully places it over my shoulders.

“Thank you,” I whisper, surprised he picked up on my discomfort.

I expect him to leave, but instead, he plants his fine butt on the floor and sips his coffee.

“Did you talk to Alex?”

I shake my head. If I talked to him, I wouldn’t be in this situation now.

“Right.” He takes a sip. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

I shoot him a look, scared he read my mind. He notices and lets out a laugh. It’s coarse and low and so damn sexy. The place between my legs tingles, making my eyes widen—I just got turned on by the tone of his laugh.

“If you talked to him, he wouldn’t let you anywhere near me. He’d be warning you away from this place,” he explains.

“Why do you say that?” I tilt my head curiously.

He lets out a gloomy chuckle. “Because he knows me, and he was the one who sold me this place.”

“Are you, like, a sex addict or something?”

He chokes on his coffee and starts coughing, trying to stop his laughter. “Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Why else would he warn me off?”

He stops laughing and turns to me. “Leila, I’m not the guy you think I am. I’m really not. And you can’t save me. I don’t need saving.”

“Why do you think I want to save you?”

“Because Alex told me about you.” He smiles dispiritedly and turns back to the flames as if he can replace the truth in them.

“Right,” I snort. “He talked about me so much that you didn’t even know my name.”

“He called you Squirrel,” he says quickly before adding with a chuckle, “Among other things. Now I can see why.”

I hate the childhood nickname that Kenneth gave me when I was little, but that’s not the point. Kenneth called me that, and Aiden did too. But never Alex. In fact, throughout our whole childhood, he purposely ignored me.

“He told me,” Archie continues, “that you like to bring home broken projects and fix them. People like you have a big thing here,” he taps the left side of my chest, right under my collarbone, “and they want to help everyone. But you need to understand that some people don’t want to be saved. You’ll just end up hurting yourself. Do you understand?”

I keep quiet, so he adds, “I’m one of those people. I don’t need to be saved. I know you see me as one of your projects, but you shouldn’t. Put your energy somewhere else.”

With that, he turns away again, sipping his coffee.

Is he wrong, though? I love fixing broken things, and he is that—broken. Is that why I’m so drawn to him?

“Why did you kiss me?”

He whips his head toward me, looking offended. “You kissed me.”

“No, on the bridge when we first met. Why did you kiss me?”

“You’re not beating around the bush, huh,” he murmurs with a chuckle, but I don’t return the humor.

It’s been a question bothering me ever since that night, so I wait for him to respond.

He stops laughing when he notices my stare. I guess he expected me to drop it, but I don’t.

“Because you were too bright, and I wanted to dim you.” His eyes are trained on my face. He said it for a reason, we both know.

He wants me terrified and running for the hills. Or at least to the opposite wall under current circumstances. He tells me he’s a monster, and as the smart girl my mom claims me to be, I should listen to him and make our interactions minimal. His words tell me to run away, but his whole being tells me to stay. I can’t understand why, yet.

It’s definitely not for my good looks and charming demeanor considering I don’t have much of those. Well, I’m not ugly per se, but I’ve heard about Archie’s escapades from Kayla while she was living at his place, plus Alex’s remarks about him being a man who could get any woman—I’d have to be an idiot to think he wants to get in my pants because I’m just so irresistible.

Then what?

Maybe he’s telling the truth about his desire to dim my light. But why does he need that? It’s an unnatural reaction for a human. Is he so used to being alone in a room full of people that when someone sees him, he becomes uncomfortable?

I hate my love for analyzing absolutely everything, but I can’t help myself when the biggest enigma is stuck with me for the time being.

“Why are you like this?”

“Like what?” I blink.

“All nonchalant.” He waves his hand at me. “I just told you something horrible, and here you are, looking at me like you just found a lost puppy and want to adopt it.”

“Not used to women looking at you like that?” I lift a brow.

“Yeah, they’re usually looking for the way to get into my impressive pants,” he replies with a lopsided smile, easily sliding into his charming character.

“Why do you put on this mask?”

“What?” he asks, confused, rearing back.

“Why did you pick this mask?”

“Which mask?”

“That.” I make a circle in the air around his face with my finger. “A carefree boy who never grows.”

His eyes narrow. “And Alex told me you don’t talk much.”

“I don’t.”

He turns toward me and quirks a brow, silently mocking me.

“I really don’t. Usually.” My brows draw together in confusion.

He’s right. Well, Alex is right. I don’t talk much, preferring to stay on the sidelines and watch people. Their body language usually tells me so much about their lives. And since I don’t have my own, I people-watch.

Archie lets out a loud sigh and longingly looks at the bed.

“You sleep there.” He nods toward the unmade bed he just took the blanket from. “Take the comforter. It’ll be cold.”

I look around, hoping for a couch to magically appear, or a second bed, but my Fairy Godmother clearly took the day off.

“Where will you sleep?”

“On the loveseat, maybe.” He looks at the short couch and winces as if the piece of furniture personally grew legs and came to punch him.

“You’re too big. You won’t fit,” I deadpan and realize too late that it’s Archie I’m talking to.

He quickly turns to me with the flirtiest half-tilt of his head. “You think?”

I roll my eyes. “We’re both adults and can sleep on the bed.”

“Yeah,” he clears his throat before continuing, “I don’t think so.” He glances at the floor in front of us. “I can sleep by the fire.”

“It’s going to be really cold on the floor. Does the closet have anything useful?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go check it out.” His face turns serious. “I didn’t bring much stuff with me—didn’t need it—so I didn’t even check the closet and dropped my bag straight in the bathroom.”

He rises to his feet and offers me his hand. But it’s not to impress me or to show how gentlemanly he is, no. He’s not even looking at me. Instead, his attention is focused on the closet as if it contains the last hope for humanity. His outstretched hand sits there, and I can’t stop looking at it. It’s such a simple gesture, but I’m about to cry. Every time someone offers me their hand to help, it feels meaningful.

Guys in college wanted to show how polite and well-mannered they were so they could get more girls. They made me feel used.

My brothers offered their hands when I fell on the ground while everyone was playing rough. Every time I was reminded that I should stay back so I wouldn’t get hurt. They made me feel small.

My coworkers wanted my hand so they could give it an extra hard shake to show how big and manly they were compared to me. They made me feel undeserving.

So eventually, a hand became something symbolic I chose to refuse every time.

Until now.

I put my hand into his. He easily lifts me, and once I’m fully up on my feet, he lets go and heads to the closet, leaving me in the same spot, looking at my open palm.

He opens the door and steps into the tiny closet. I walk up to him and peek inside. There are a few white towels, a change of sheets, and some old pants hanging on a hook.

Archie sighs heavily. “The loveseat it is.”

“Stop.” I instinctively put my hand on his back and feel his muscles flex under my palm. I drop it, feeling awkward. Really, Leila, when did you become so touchy-feely? “We’ll share the bed. I suppose we can behave ourselves and not hump each other for a night.”

He chuckles and sends me a funny look over his shoulder. “We don’t have a good record of that.”

“We don’t.” I return the smile and go to inspect our nest for the foreseeable future.

It’s a standard queen bed with a rustic wooden headboard. It’s got four pillows, a sheet, and the comforter Archie draped over me when I was cold.

I glance at Archie and back to the bed. Then back at Archie.

Yeah, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all. He’ll take a lot of space, and at some point, we’ll end up on top of each other, I just know it. And as it turned out, I can’t be trusted around the man. Just to be sure that there will be no incidents, I’ll wear my big pajamas.

The big pajamas that I left back at home. I hate sleeping with my legs covered, and I wanted to be comfy, so I packed my favorite white T-shirt that is very much see-through. So, it’s either that or sweater weather in bed. I groan inwardly.

While I’m fighting my inner demons, I don’t notice him watching me with a look of pure torture on his face.

“I don’t snore if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He lifts his head to the ceiling, murmurs something under his breath, and walks to the bathroom. “I don’t know how long the luxuries of civilization will last, so I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Why? Are we running out of gas?” I look at the kitchen in horror. I grabbed a few extra water bottles, but not enough for two people to survive out here.

“Not yet, but if the temperature drops more than this, the water pump can freeze or burst; not sure how it works in this weather, so I’d rather be prepared,” he says over his shoulder.

“Sure.” And before he closes the door behind him, I call out. “Are you hungry?”

“No, thanks. I’ll get a drink later.”

I purse my lips like the midgrade teacher everyone hated at school. He’s got a large frame on him, but he looks like he’s just been drinking and fucking all his life—you know, cardio with some weightlifting. A delicious picture if you ask me, but he’s almost as large as Alex, and Alex is a mountain of a man who consumes an insane number of calories every day. And yet, Archie probably weighs a few dozen pounds less while staying in amazing shape. And even with that, I still can’t help but worry: he came here without any food. Did he plan to drink himself to death?

I walk to the kitchen but suddenly stop, shocked by my own thoughts.

Did he?

I look at the bathroom where the water turns on, trying not to think about the most intriguing man washing his naked body right now. Then I remember how I met him for the first time, and I don’t like where my thoughts are going.