No Quick Fix (Torus Intercession 1)

Putting a pod in the Keurig, he paused and turned to me. “You’re wondering about the chandelier, aren’t you?”

“I am,” I replied, smiling at him. “Are you reading my mind, or does everyone find it weird?”

“The latter,” he said, chuckling. “Everyone wonders, and I know it’s strange, but it has always been here,” he told me. “When my wife and I first moved in, we kept thinking as we did our renovations that we’d sell it or give it away, but then—I forget who was here,” he said, squinting, like he was trying to remember, “but they said it was actually cut crystal and that the style of it, waterfall something, was worth a small fortune, and he, or she, wanted it, so we left it up, thinking we’d trade it out for whatever they brought over, but that never happened, and… it just sort of stayed.”

He was lost in thought, and it was nice listening to his voice, the low, husky timbre of it, as he spoke.

“I remember when April was about six months or so, we were right here, she and I, standing next to the chandelier, and she lifted her little hand like she wanted to touch it. I think she was watching the sunlight make rainbows on the wall, and I thought… I’m having a perfect moment.”

I’d never had a perfect moment, not yet, but the dreamy expression on his face, the softness in his eyes and the wistful tone were making me think this was close. Man, was I having a weird reaction to him, the house, and even his cute kid. What the hell was up with that?

“Well, it’s really pretty,” I threw out lamely.

“It is,” he affirmed with a sigh, turning back to the coffee maker. “So tell me, what do you take in this?”

“Nothing,” I husked, admiring the long back muscles flexing and moving beneath his tight t-shirt. He wasn’t as lean as I’d first thought; his shoulders were wide and his chest was defined. Between his long legs and tight, round ass, I was beginning to think I’d need to remind myself—over and over—that the man was straight.

“I’m sorry?” he said, sounding startled, clearly horrified as he turned to look at me over his shoulder. “Did you say you take nothing? Was that a joke?”

I read the disgust on his handsome face and couldn’t miss the glower he was giving me, so I smiled wide. I liked him so much already. He was adorable.

“Just hot bean water? This is what you’re telling me? Seriously?”

I snorted. “Listen, I learned to drink it that way or no way at all,” I explained, walking into the kitchen I felt more at ease in than I had since I’d been back in the world.

“Well, how about this once, you try a little vanilla creamer and see if you go from coffee being something you require to something you actually enjoy.”

I grunted.

“No?”

“Real men drink hot bean water,” I teased him.

“I think real men drink whatever the hell they want to.” He shook his head like I was ridiculous, and I watched him go to the refrigerator and then come back and doctor my coffee before he passed it over.

He waited as I drank some, and I had to give it to him, it was better.

“Well?”

I grunted again.

“All right,” he said, grinning at me, “I’m counting that as a win.”

As he moved around, getting out granola bars and the milk, I wondered if this was breakfast but didn’t ask.

“So, how was your flight?” he asked as he emptied the dishwasher.

I leaned on the counter and watched those muscles of his some more, honing in on the strip of tan skin showing when his shirt lifted as he put bowls away on the higher shelves.

“I drove, actually,” I clarified for him, sipping from the huge mug he’d given me while taking in more details of the room. I never thought I’d be a fan of a white-on-white kitchen—white cabinets and white tile countertops—but somehow, along with the stainless steel appliances, rather than sterile and uninviting, the heart of this house was simple and comfortable. Again, there was a rustic quality to it all.

“All the way from Chicago?” He stopped to glance over at me. “Whyever would you do such a thing?”

“My boss likes us to have our own cars when the assignment is as long as this one.”

He was still squinting at me as he moved closer. “But that’s what expensing something is for. That’s a ridiculous drive. You must be exhausted.”

“I started on Thursday,” I explained, “drove some, and then did the rest yesterday. I’m good.”

“Well, if you need to lie down, you let me know.” He leaned into me and gave me a gentle pat on the chest but then didn’t immediately pull away, instead leaving his hand there, lingering close. I had no idea what to do. Normally I would. Normally I would have jumped him, but this wasn’t that. He wasn’t stroking my chest or admiring the definition I owed to daily trips to the gym instead of soldiering. Emery wasn’t feeling me up. He was just there, close to me, in my space, the two of us in a weird, quiet bubble that I wasn’t totally comfortable with but liked, nonetheless.