My smirk dropped. I hadn’t meant to say that. I’d been hoping he’d let it slide. Of course, he didn’t.
“That’s between Julien and me. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I picked up the coffee, stabbing the straw through the lid. One sip was all I needed to know Lachlan had gotten my order right. I would have been surprised if he hadn’t. I suspected he didn’t do anything unless he was certain it was the right move—with the exception of sleeping with me, I supposed.
He hummed and rocked in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He wore his signature work boots, loosely laced and untied, worn-out jeans, and a plain black T-shirt. It worked on him in a way it wouldn’t on most men. I checked him out the same way he had me, unabashedly and without shame.
His T-shirt stretched across his massive chest, hugged his thick, work-hewn biceps, and molded over the softness of his stomach. In another life, I would have laid my head there any chance I got. To tell the truth, I was tempted to do it now. But Lachlan would probably rocket out of his chair at light speed if I got anywhere near him.
Since I waspoison.
“What’s with the newspaper?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t think anyone read the paper anymore, much less anyone under fifty.”
I flicked my fingers. “Clearly, you were wrong.”
His head bobbed a few times in acknowledgment. “Is there a story there?”
I eyed him over my coffee cup. His head rested on the high back of the chair. His long fingers were clasped at his abdomen. Idly, I wondered if he ever got uptight. If he did, he never let it show.
“Do you really want to know, or do you feel obligated to sit here and make polite conversation to make up for calling me poison?”
He winced but turned to meet my inquiring eyes. “I have never once felt obligated to make polite conversation.”
I huffed a short laugh. “That must be nice. I suppose, growing up in the woods, or wherever you came from, there wasn’t a lot of social pressure.”
That made him chuckle. “I have a feeling you and I didn’t grow up so differently.” He rubbed his chin again. “There was social pressure. Still never felt obligated. And once I got tall and big and rough, strangers tended to stay away from me.”
I raised a brow. “Which suited you fine.”
He inclined his chin. “Yeah. So, what’s the story with the newspaper? I want to know.”
Giving in, I told him. “There’s not really a story. My mother likes to sleep in, but my dad and I are early risers. He’s read the Sunday paper for as long as I can remember. One day, I decided I wanted to take part in his ritual too. It started when I was four with the comic section. As I learned to read, I moved on to Arts and Style. By middle school, I was devouring the whole newspaper every day instead of just Sundays. Dad used to tell me reading the newspaper armed him with knowledge. For me, it was a comfort. Because no matter how shitty things in my life were, I could pick up the newspaper and read in black and white how tiny I was in the grand scheme of things.”
“Other people’s bad news comforts you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course, you would think the worst of me. No, that’s not what I meant at all. I’m talking about reading an article about advancements in HIV medication that make the virus undetectable. The underdog winning the World Series. A designer from an impoverished part of Tunisia showing her first collection in Paris during fashion week. There’s so much more thanthis.”
He nodded as I spoke, giving me his full attention. “I get that. I really fucking get that.”
I took another sip of coffee, then put it down. “Sometimes it’s vital to remind myself the worldisn’tthe people I see on a daily basis.”
His stare was so steady on me, it was almost disconcerting. It wasn’t hard, but it was penetrating. My breath caught in my throat as I stared back.
Finally, he turned his attention to the porch ceiling. “When I need to get out of my head, I go for a drive. I caught the habit from my dad too. Whenever he needed to get out of the house, he’d go for a drive. A lot of the time, he’d take me if I asked. There was never a destination. That wasn’t the goal. The driving was the ritual. When I turned sixteen and got my license, I took up the habit. Anytime I need to think, clear my head, I get in my truck and drive.”
Lachlan’s eyes were still fixed on the ceiling, so I studied his profile. He’d cracked a small part of himself open, matching the part of me I’d put on display for him, and that surprised me. Thisentireinteraction surprised me. It was too gentle after the brutality of last night’s words.
I had a hard time believing this man wanted to know anything about me. Not after his blunt rejection. Especially not after what I overheard. I couldn’t understand what he was doing here this morning, other than smoothing things over with our friends by going through the motions of apologizing.
“How am I poison?” I asked.
Lachlan startled, bringing his narrowed eyes back to me. “Come on. There’s no reason to go there.”
“I think there is. I want to know why you think I’m poison.”
He took a long time to answer, sweeping his gaze over me as he thought it through. Lachlan could peel my skin off with his stare, it was so hard and searching. If I didn’t really want the answer to my question, I would have saidfuck itand ran for the cover of my house. But I did, so I stayed, letting him flay me with his smooth, melted-chocolate eyes.