Page 9

Now, with a silky slip beneath my bulkier—and far more socially appropriate—attire, that achingly familiar humiliation rises up once more. Nils really isn’t anything like my father—not in looks nor bearing. But everything I like about him—his masculinity, the size of his body, and the way he somehow manages to be both stiff and warm at the same time—makes me wonder if he’d be as accepting as I might hope. Most people aren’t. Even the most progressive of people might look at a man my size wearing lacy lingerie and feel hate. I learned very quickly, years ago, how often people’s first response to something they don’t understand is rage.

Catching myself before I add the wrong spice to the pan, I puff out a hard breath. I need to relax. Unless I strip down in front of him, the likelihood of Nils guessing what I’m hiding is slim. Nobody’s first thought when they see a guy isoh, I wonder what little sexy thing he’s wearing below that denim?

“Calm down.” I flinch when the words I’d meant to say in the privacy of my own head come out of my mouth instead.Inside thoughts,my father screams at me.

“Oli,” Nils says, still unmoved from where he’s standing in the doorway. I can’t decide if it feels protective or threatening,and I’m ashamed to even wonder. It’s Nils, the least threatening person I know. The man who murmurs to his chickens and provides careful instructions on how to pet gently enough to not hurt them. The man who apparently brought me a snow shovel, correctly guessing that I do not have one of my own. He’s sweet, not scary.

“I’m fine. Weird day, is all,” I tell him, glancing over my shoulder and smiling. He just stares at me, arms crossed and weight resting against his shoulder as he leans. It’s very sexy. Everything about him—the jeans hugging his thighs and the way a couple of strands of hair have escaped the tie and are curling around his ear—is sexy. I would love to know what he finds attractive and am far too scared to find out. I want it to be me, skimpy nightclothes and all.

“I hope you like spice,” I tell him now, trying to keep my hands busy enough that I’m not fiddling with the collar of my sweater, drawing more attention. “I’m making a curry. Chicken curry, actually. I think I already mentioned that. Do you…do you eat chicken?”

When I glance over at him, his mouth is pressed together, edges curved in a smile. He nods.

“Okay, well, that’s good. We don’t have to tell your chickens. And obviously, we aren’t going to eat them. Although, since we eat the eggs, I suppose we already are? Because that’s the equivalent to eating their offspring, right? Or maybe not…I don’t know. I’m not familiar with chicken ethics. I’ll have to research.”

Nils huffs, the sound doing more to help me relax thananything else. It’s hard to make him laugh, and even when I succeed, it’s a small, easily overlooked noise. Nils is incredibly quiet, which only makes the sounds he does make more appealing. That little chuff of laughter is more precious to me than any loud belly laugh from anyone else.

“Anyway, I made a ton. It must have been fate that you stopped by. Otherwise, I’d have been in a curry-coma tomorrow and snowed in to boot.”

Another soft laugh comes from the doorway, and I grin down at the pan. For a few minutes, I don’t worry about the lacy camisole beneath my sweater or the equally lacy and far more skimpy briefs under my sweatpants. Nils probably won’t recognize lingerie from two centimeters of strap. I’m being ridiculous.

The curry was mostly done before Nils popped into my kitchen and scared a year of life off me. Instead of asking him to sit at the dining room table again, I gesture with my elbow as I serve the food.

“Living room?” I ask. Nils nods, stepping forward with hands outstretched to help. I hand him his plate, biting my cheek to hold back the smile as he takes mine too. I think I must be romantically starved. The littlest things he does make me woozy with delight.

Bringing me a shovel during a snowstorm? Romance. Carrying my plate of curry for me? Romance. Helping me drywall, set paving stones, and repair the heating unit? Romance, romance,romance.

Filling two glasses of water, I watch Nils leave the kitchenwith the food. The way those blue jeans hug those thighs? No romance here, only lust. If only I could feed him curry and then bring him upstairs to burn it all off. Who needs working heat when you could have?—

My humming starts to sound a little bit like a growl as I shake my head. I can’t get hard in these pants because not even Nils would let that go unnoticed. Taking a deep breath, I think unsexy thoughts, like the smell of lobster bait and my father and…women. It works, but probably not for long. Humming “Baby Got Back” under my breath, I take the glasses into the living room to join Nils, skin pebbled where the satin brushes against me.

At the Temptress, Ryan, one muscled arm leaned on the bar top, rests his chin on his hand and smirks at me. He is one of the few people I’ve met whose eyes don’t glaze over after five minutes in my company. Now, whether that’s because he actually likes me or because he works for tips is something I won’t be looking too closely at.

“You coming to trivia night this week?” he asks now, rising enough to nod a goodbye at a patron before bringing his dark brown eyes back to mine. He’s a good-looking guy, and if Nils weren’t around, I might say he’s the best-looking guy in Siren’s Point. As it is, Nilsdoeslive here, and so the honor goes to him.

“Probably. If the weather cooperates. Has business been slow?”

Ryan grimaces, rocking his head back and forth in a so-somotion. “A bit. Locals don’t mind a little slush, and all of you are set in your ways enough to come by for your evening brew, no matter what the weather is doing.” I laugh, glancing over to the corner table, where a group of older men are sipping their drinks, the same way they are every evening around seven. Ryan continues. “Less tourists, though. Not that I’m complaining, since they cause more trouble than the rest of you.”

I nod. I’ve been in here enough to have seen that firsthand. I’m not a regular the way a lot of Siren’s Point residents are, and I don’t come here for drinking or food so much as company. I live alone in a big, drafty house, and during the winter—when the sun sets early and workdays are pretty nonexistent—I get lonely. Cooking for one, watching TV alone, researching paint colors alone…it gets old quickly. So, I come here. I nurse a beer and sometimes a greasy order of fish and chips, chat with Ryan, who I’m pretty sure never leaves this place.

“The roads might get pretty icy tonight. They were already worse than I thought they’d be when I drove in,” I admit. I don’t like driving in inclement weather, even though I can. I was born and raised in the area, but I’ve also spent time living in New York City—two years where I didn’t drive at all. If I never had to drive on black ice again, it would be too soon. “Not that it matters for you, I suppose, since you live here.”

“I got lucky,” Ryan agrees, referencing the apartment over the bar he was able to rent for a steal. He straightens up and knocks his knuckles against the bar top. Eyes on someone over my shoulder, he asks, “The usual?”

Before I can turn around and see who it is, Dryden Roy’ssyrupy voice answers.

“Double,” he says. Ryan nods and walks to the end of the bar. I glance over my shoulder at Dryden, grinning.

“Hey, how’s it going? Did you haul today?”

“Fuck no,” he answers, leaning against the bar next to me and crossing his arms. “I love myself more than I love lobsters.”

I laugh, even though that was a little bit of a dig at Shiloh. Dryden isn’t easy to have a conversation with, and his attitude puts a lot of people off. I like him, though. Somehow, his snippy little comments feel safer than the ones that come from my family or previous partners. Perhaps sarcasm is his love language.

“Shiloh didn’t leave traps out this year,” I remind Dryden, coming to my boss’ defense. He slants me a side-eyed look that saysyeah, but he wanted to. Grinning, I take a sip of my beer and pat the stool next to me. “You better sit down if you’re having a double.”

“Sure, sweetheart,” he replies, like I’m his partner and he’s only sitting down to humor me. I shake my head. Dryden is such an ass. I kind of love it.