Page 45 of Hounded

I’d been a best man once, consumed with jealousy and heartache. I had no interest in filling that role again.

While I debated where to set the laundry, Indy moved to the DVD cabinet. “NotGhostagain,” he muttered. “I’m an ugly crier.”

Wandering into the kitchen, I hefted the bag onto the countertop beside an open loaf of bread and a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I didn’t mind the mess, and Indy didn’t apologize for it. He closed the movie cabinet and raised our copy ofDirty Dancing.

“This looks good,” he said.

Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey embraced on the movie cover, and I knew already I was in for an hour and a half-long commentary on Patrick Swayze’s “impressive mullet” and Indy asking if I could lift him like Johnny does with Baby in the big dance number. I could and had, but that wouldn’t stop Indy from demanding that I prove it.

While he powered on the television and loaded the DVD player, I padded over to the sofa and lowered myself onto it. The coffee table was crowded into my leg space, so I gave it a gentle nudge, being careful not to upset the litter of plastic gloves, bowl, and brush from Indy’s days-ago dye job.

The opening credits rolled across the TV screen while Indy skipped past on his way to the kitchen. “Movies call for popcorn, which calls for drinks,” he chattered. “What can I get you? I have milk and water.”

I looked across to see him peeking over the open door of the fridge, and I should have gotten up and walked out because I wanted this too damn much. In a minute, he would be beside me on the couch that was cramped in the best possible way. I knew every way we fit together on it. Him in my lap or tucked between my legs, me reposed with my head against his chest, hearing his heart, feeling him breathe…

Stay, my hound begged.

For the night? I hadn’t been invited.

Forever? Pain stabbed my heart.

“Or,” Indy chimed, reminding me I’d left him waiting for a response. “If those don’t appeal to you, I have milk and water.”

“Water,” I replied.

He went for cups, then the faucet, then clattered around in the cabinets until he found the popcorn and started the microwave.

The opening scene was playing when he returned with a heaping bowl and two glasses. He struggled to place them on the cluttered coffee table and finally squeezed them in beside a tray of nail polish. With him bent over in front of me, I found myself studying the dimples in his lower back above the waistband of his jeans. It was like his skin remembered my thumbs pressing in there, holding on while he rocked against me.

He dropped onto the sofa, leaving a few inches between us. For once, he looked as uncomfortable as I felt, sitting bolt upright with his hands in his lap and his focus fixed on the television.

Neither of us reached for the popcorn or the drinks. Milk for Indy, keeping up his gallon-a-week habit in this new lifetime, and my water. We didn’t budge or speak, and it was unlike Indy to keep quiet for long.

Ten minutes in, I stretched my arm along the back of the couch behind Indy’s shoulders, trying to be sneaky and failing. Indy glanced my hand hanging near his bicep, then at the gap like a canyon between us. A sly look overtook his features as he scooted over until his hip bumped into mine.

He fit there, tucked against my side with his head tipped onto my chest. I curled my arm around him, and the sense ofcomfortreturned anew. It was like I’d been suffocating for weeks, and I could finally breathe.

I wasn’t watching the movie. The scenes flashing by were entirely unimportant when compared to the warm, soft body pressed against mine. I sniffed at his curls, missing the scent of him, the aura that was masked. To keep him safe. To keep him mine.

Indy pitched forward enough to catch my gaze. “Can I play with your hair?” he asked.

Sully used to tease about the way Indy fussed over me. She said it was the bird in him exhibiting a behavior that happened between mated pairs. Allopreening. I didn’t mind. It was a nice contrast to the harsh treatment I received in Hell and, after the past weeks of self-imposed isolation, I welcomed it.

I nodded, and Indy leaped to his feet while shooing me with his hands. “Switch me spots.”

Sliding forward, I made room for him to squeeze in behind me. He couldn’t possibly have seen the television with me blocking his view but, like the snacks, the film went forgotten as Indy raked his hands through my hair. His fingertips dragged down my back and brushed the nape of my neck with gentle touches that gave me goosebumps.

He snugged one leg around each side of me, his knees drawn up and hugging into my sides. I relaxed into him, so consumed by the closeness that I wanted to ignore it when he chased one of those across-the-neck touches with a kiss.

I swiveled to face him. “What happened to not trying anything untoward?” I asked.

Indy held up his hands with his palms out. “You send mixed signals. Hot then cold…”

My frown gave him pause.

“Okay, mostly cold,” he corrected, “but a guy can hope.”

The promiscuity was not new. Neither was the intimacy. And I had invited it, desperate to recreate what we’d lost. But Indy didn’t have that sense of history. He was filling a void he didn’t understand with a man he didn’t know.

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