Page 61 of Comeback
“Yeah. I had to shower off the smell of Sour Apple Pucker and sweat.”
A deep chuckle shakes his chest, the sound barely audible.
“Want some milk?” he asks.
I nod and then we head to the kitchen. The recess lighting is on but otherwise we’re in the dark and Archer doesn’t flip on any other lights before he pulls a small saucepan onto the stove and then the milk from the fridge.
So that I don’t have to yell or worry about him being able to read my lips, I hop up onto the counter next to the stove. His gaze darts to my bare thighs before he focuses back on what he’s doing.
He pours the milk into the pan and turns on the burner. He pulls a wooden spoon from a drawer and then stirs slowly.
“Congrats on the game. It was on at the club,” I say.
A flicker of something passes over his expression before he attempts a smile. “Thanks. How was work?”
“Sundays are usually pretty dead, but I don’t mind it.”
“Did you work at the studio today too?”
I nod. “I got one coat of paint up on one wall.” It’s going to take several coats and a lot more paint than I thought.
“That’s great.”
Archer stirs the milk continually, stopping after a couple of minutes and checking it by bringing the spoon to his mouth. Satisfied, he turns off the stove and pulls down two mugs from a cabinet. He carefully pours the milk, half in each, then grabs the cinnamon from the spice drawer.
He gives me a boyish grin as he sprinkles it on top of each drink. Once he sets down the cinnamon, he picks up his mug. I do the same.
“Cheers,” he says.
Laughing, I clink my mug against his. He watches as I bring it to my mouth. I sip carefully so I don’t burn my tongue. He takes a bigger gulp, still staring at me.
“It just tastes like warm milk,” I say, then laugh. “I don’t taste the cinnamon at all.”
He shakes more of the spice into my mug, but a little too heavy-handed because a huge clump falls into the top.
“Well, fuck,” he says. “Don’t drink that.”
“I could probably taste the cinnamon now.”
“Like Christmas in a cup.” He offers me his.
“No, I’m good.”
He leans against the counter next to me. He looks tired. Still hot, but like he has a lot on his mind.
“What else did your mom do when you couldn’t sleep?” I ask.
“She’d sing to me. Probably why I always fall asleep to music.” He cocks his head to the side like he’d just put that together for himself.
“What did she sing?”
I’ve missed talking with him. By unspoken agreement, we’ve given each other a wide berth, but the giddy sensation spreading through me tells me that the time apart hasn’t changed much. At least on my end.
“‘You Are My Sunshine’ or sometimes ‘When You Wish Upon A Star.’ Probably others too.”
“She sounds like a good mom.”
“The best,” he says without hesitation. “What about your parents?”
