His gaze narrows, and I feel its sharpness prod into me. “What?” I feel like I said something wrong with how he’s glaring.
“Making juice don’t make me domestic. It means I know how to take care of myself.”
“I guess I just meant the men I worked with and dated in the city were just not like small-town guys, that’s all.”
His jaw ticks as he hangs the second dish towel off the edge of the sink, resting his tailbone against the counter, arms still folded. “I got a career. Just ‘cause I don’t wear high-waters and skeevy silk shirts don’t mean a mechanic ain’t a career.”
I sit up in the chair, heat and sickness washing through me, making the delicious breakfast in my stomach churn. “No, I didn’t mean–” I take a breath. His eyes aren’t angry, and his tone isn’t aggressive. Despite the fact I’m on edge from the idea that I’ve offended him, he’s not sending angry vibes. “I’m sorry,” I say anyway because I don’t know what to say.
“You slighted me just now; you know that, right?”
I nod and wrinkle my nose, now feeling humiliated on top of sick. I should’ve skipped breakfast. “I do, and I’m sorry. It’s just–”
“The way you talk to people,” he finishes. He pushes off the counter and wanders into the living room, where he takes a seat on the couch. I know because I follow him in, sitting on the floor in front of the fire.
Producing a book from the side table, Atticus blocks me from his view and begins reading. I’ve never spent time with a man so… blunt. Like, he’s doing him and saying what he really thinks and feels, and he isn’t faking or lying or changing for anyone.
And as much as it can shock me sometimes, another part of me feels so comfortable with him because of it. Like I know he won’t let me off the hook, and as hard as it is to sometimes face my less desirable qualities, it’s so much easier, too. I admitted things to him last night that I kept from Beck for months. With him, I feel like I can be my honest and open self. For the first time… ever.
“I’m sorry about that comment, Atticus. Breakfast was amazing, and it just surprises me to be with–well, not with, with, you know what I mean–a man like you. So independent and self-sufficient.”
He keeps his book in front of his face. “They don’t make ‘em independent and self-sufficient up there in the city, eh?”
I chew the inside of my cheek, really taking time to answer. I'm now realizing I do a lot of talking without thinking, and that’s a pretty annoying quality to be on either side of.
“My ex,” I start, but then opt to make my words broader because I really don’t want to talk about that asshole in any specific terms. He’s not worth the energy. “The men I dated in the city,” I amend, “and again, I know we’re literally just stuck in a cabin together so I’m not comparing you to them in any sense other than skills,” I say, still staring at the cover of his book. “They told me to get them stuff. Ordered me to bring them things. There was a lot of delegating and not a lot of doing.”
“Spoiled brats. I wasn’t raised to make people do shit for me. My Mom had me cooking at age nine, even though she stayed home. Taking care of yourself isn’t a city or small-town thing. It’s a self-respect thing.”
I always thought my ex didn’t respect me–I mean, come on, he didn’t–but it never occurred to me that he couldn’t respect anyone because he didn’t respect himself. “That’s… weirdly really true.”
“It ain’t weird.” He pauses for a second and clicks his tongue, making a sound of irony.
“What?”
“Nothin’,” he grunts before turning the page.
Not wanting to disturb him since hedidsleep on the floor and cooked me a huge breakfast, I decide now is the time to take my shower. And if it means parting with his sweatshirt, well, that’s what it means. Pretty sure it would be supremely weird and mildly creepy if I just put it back on and kept wearing it.
After grabbing toiletries from my bag, as well as my clean clothes, I make my way into the tiny cabin bathroom. Pulling the curtain back, I take in the tiny shower stall. I don’t even know how Atticus will fit in here, seriously. Once I have the water on and heating up, I strip out of my clothes and pile them next to the clean clothes near the sink.
Then I do what I always do.
I stand in front of the mirror completely naked and analyze my reflection. Smoothing my hands over my stomach, I turn sideways and survey my profile. My hands go to the little pooch in my gut where breakfast rests. I look a little bloated this morning, and between the wine and the breakfast, I expected this much.
What surprises me is the smile on my face. I expect to find a scowl glaring back at me, but she’s smiling.I’m smiling. And after my shower, I’m still smiling. Maybe it’s the comfortable company. I can’t even believeAtticusis making me feel so…good.
The smelly man with the greasy hair and the affinity to grunt instead of use words… he’s making me so happy. And he’s not even trying. Hell, I’m not even trying. I just… am.
When I’m combing out my hair in the small bedroom, Atticus comes in and rifles through his duffel bag. “Gonna shower,” he grunts. “And then I’m gonna shovel snow for a bit in case Beau and the rest of them make it up.”
I stop mid-comb. I’d assumed they’d make it up here today, that the storm would slow down enough. But when my eyes flick to the window, and it’s completely covered in white, I wonder if that’s even possible. “Is it still snowing out there?”
He grunts.
“Is that a yes grunt or a no grunt?” I ask, poking his side with the butt of my brush. He doesn’t even flinch. God, with a body like that, I wonder how hard I’d have to claw down his back before he felt it.
“It’s snowin’ still, yeah,” he answers after digging out a pair of sweats (another!), a henley, a beanie, and… boxer briefs.