He waves a hand, unconcerned. “Yeah, I guess.”
“What? When?” Panic squeezes my throat, making my voice high and thin.
“Soon.” He shrugs. “He said he was going to pack after we were finished.” He stands up again and heads toward the interior door. “I need a drink.”
I want to run after him. I want to scream out my frustrations. I want to tell him he needs to stop acting like a child and grow the hell up. Archer has done more for this place in two weeks than he has in three years. The last thing he needs is a drink. But I’ve been down this road. I’ve tried cajoling, bribing, yelling. It doesn’t make a difference. If anything, it will become an excuse to drink more. I can shout and cry until I’m blue in the face, and it won’t change his behavior.
I don’t have the strength to get into it with him. Not right now.
I have other pressing thoughts that are clamoring to be heard.
Archer’s leaving. He said in a week. It hasn’t been a week yet.
Was he even going to say goodbye? The thoughts burn through my already emotionally heavy morning and turn all my stress and anxiety into fury. I can’t believe he’s leaving. He doesn’t have to be in Florida until next week. Why would he go? Why didn’t he say anything?
I grab my coat and slam out the front door, marching through the blizzard, the flakes falling faster, obscuring my vision, the cold air cooling my heated face. I’m surprised steam isn’t shooting out of my ears and melting the snow.
I squint through the blowing snowflakes. His car is still here.
Striding up the porch steps, I bang on the door. It swings open immediately.
“Finley.”
It would be easier to hold on to my rage if he didn’t look entirely lickable and didn’t say my name in that rumbly, sexy voice. His cheeks are pink from being out in the cold. He’s wearing jeans and boots, a coat opened in the front, the snug thermal underneath visible. His suitcase is opened on the end of the bed, half full.
“You’re leaving?” I stomp inside then spin around to face him.
He closes the door.
I cross my arms over my chest, holding my anger and indignation around me like a cloak.
“Are you coming back?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence is submerged in friction.
My heart thuds a dull beat in my chest, my stomach twists.
“It’s for the best.”
I pace away. He’s too close. “No.”
I stare down at his open suitcase, noting the neat packing, everything cleaned and folded with meticulous precision. That’s so like him.
“No?” His expression is confused. Even his perplexed face is adorable and endearing. I avert my eyes. If I look at his face while he tells me he’s leaving forever, I might end up punching him.
“You can’t leave.”
“I can’t?”
“You can’t come here and be all,” I gesture at him, “like this! Then leave and expect me not to get upset about it.” I stomp my foot.
The corner of his mouth tips up.
I stalk over to him and point at his face. “Don’t you smile at me. This isn’t funny.”
He grabs my finger in a gentle grip. “I think it’s sort of funny.” His voice is low and amused. He tugs my finger toward him, forcing us closer.
“Just tell me why,” I insist.