One Night with her Bachelor(15)

“So not too warm for you. Same question. What are you doing here?”

“Checking up on you.”

His brows shot up as he led her to the living room.

“Seriously, that’s what I’m doing. You looked like complete shit at Christmas, and it’s been eating away at me.” She sat down on the living room floor next to his fireplace. “You know, if it’s inconvenient that I drop in on you like this, you could always move to civilization so I could call you. Or send an email. Even a place that has carrier-pigeon service would beat this rat hole.”

He pointed at his arm chair, the only chair in the room. “Sit here, not on the floor.”

“Nope.”

He glanced between her and the empty chair. The floor had to be cold and uncomfortable. “Why not?”

“Because it hurts my heart that you have one chair in your living room, one chair in your kitchen. I want you to see how ridiculous this life is. If you want me to sit on a chair, buy another one and let’s sit together.”

He shrugged and sat in the arm chair. “Suit yourself.”

She heaved a deep sigh. “Gabri, look at yourself.”

He made a big show of looking down at his chest and lap. “Hey, look at that! An incredible specimen of manliness. Thanks for pointing it out.”

“When was the last time you washed your hair?”

“With soap?”

“Soap! No, with shampoo.”

“Oh. Uh, probably sometime in the nineties.”

“Ew. Do women actually let you touch them?”

Not for a very long time. But he didn’t care about that. Really. Didn’t care at all.

“I can smell you from here.”

Surely that was an exaggeration. “Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting company today, ’manita,” he said, hoping the little sister would either placate her or remind her that he might only be five minutes older, but he was still older.

He should’ve known better.

She counted his failings on her fingers. “Gross hair, even grosser beard. Is that a squirrel burrowing in it, or is it just really knotted? Dirty jeans. Plaid shirt.” She leaned forward and peered at the sleeve with narrowed eyes. “Is that blood?”

“Yeah. But don’t worry—it’s not fresh. It’s from a few weeks ago.” And it wasn’t his; it was a fish’s. Probably wouldn’t make her any happier.

Her jaw softened, and she gave him a look so full of horror that he had a flash of déjà vu. He’d seen that look before. In fact, he’d seen it a lot recently. Every time he’d gone into town, people had looked terrified until they’d realized who he was. But then their looks morphed into something even worse.

Pity.

One reason he saved his trips for nighttime.

Mila’s expression skipped pity and jumped straight to disgust. “I have to be honest with you. If you’re going for the lumbersexual look, you’re really failing.”

“Lumberwhat?”

She ignored him, as usual. “What’s going on with you?”

“I’m living every man’s dream, that’s what’s going on.” He spread his arms wide, as if they were surrounded by acres of pristine land instead of a ten-by-twelve room with bare walls and one chair. “A cabin in the woods. No one telling me what to do or when to do it. Complete freedom. I own the land. I own the house. No bank—just me. I’m off grid, so I don’t rely on anyone but myself.”

“I saw bananas in your kitchen. And sliced bread. You grow those, do you?”

“I don’t like your tone of voice, young lady,” he teased, but the underlying hardness in his voice warned her to back off.

She gave in with slumped shoulders and an unhappy face. “Fine. Be a statistic. Let yourself drown in fear—”

“Fear!” He jumped out of his chair so quickly she started, and the momentary terror on her face drew him up short, turning him into a block of ice. Coldness dripped through his veins and cracked his heart. He’d scared his sister. For one second, she’d thought he would hurt her.

For one second, he’d wanted to.

He turned away and sucked in a deep breath. “You should go.”

“No.”

“Yeah, you really should.”

Silence seethed behind him for several long moments until he heard her shift. He felt her presence grow closer, his nerves lighting up like an animal sensing danger. She moved until she stood in front of him and stared up at him with eyes so like his own he could never look at her without wondering how much she saw into his thoughts and how much he just assumed she knew.

Her voice soft and serious, she said, “I’m not giving up on you. You’re better than this, Gabri. So much better.”

“Don’t patronize me, Mila. And don’t you dare pity me.”

She drew back, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “Pity? No. Sympathy, yes. You’re dealing with depression and post-traumatic stress. You think I haven’t been there? My events might not have been as dramatic as yours but, buddy, you know I was there.”

Yeah, he did. He’d lived every step of it with her until she’d self-destructed so badly she’d needed a complete do-over.

And she’d done it, too. She’d dragged her life out of the trash heap and started caring about herself. Now she was running the camp she’d inherited from their dad about a hundred miles east of Los Angeles. She spent her summers helping kids out of emotional maelstroms like the one she’d been caught up in. And during the rest of the year she helped former soldiers, sailors, and airmen like him screw their heads back on straight.