by Nina Lane
My heart pounded fast and frantically, like a moth fluttering wildly around a hot light bulb.
“Give me ten minutes,” Archer said. “And we’ll be on the road.”
I swerved my gaze to him, my breath catching. The light in his eyes burned brighter. I felt it in him too, that rush in his blood at the thought of getting out there, navigating through the darkness with only a scant idea of where we were going or what we’d find once we got there. Pulled by a storm.
We went outside, and I stopped at the van to grab a change of clothes while Archer locked up the Butterfly House. On our way to the trailer, I told him about the meeting with Harold Clement.
“I’m sorry.” Archer gave the back of my neck a gentle squeeze. “But maybe it’ll be the next one.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “I guess it’s fall seven times, get up eight. That’s what Liv and Allie always say.”
Not all that easy to do, though, when your ass was bruised from hitting the ground so many times.
Archer stopped and wrapped me in his arms, hugging the disappointment right out of me. I couldn’t be disappointed when I was about to embark on a storm-chasing adventure with the man I… really, really liked. A lot.
In the trailer, Archer took a shower while I changed into jeans and a knit shirt. He threw his stuff into a duffel bag and picked up his worn notebook from the counter.
“Ready?” he asked.
“I’m ready,” I said, pushing to my feet. “Let’s do this.”
We went back outside and headed toward the van.
Archer extended his hand. I tightened my fingers around the car keys. We stared each other down for a second before I held out the keys. I dangled them over his outstretched hand.
“For the record,” I said firmly, “I’m ordering you to drive.”
Amusement flashed in his eyes. “Message received.”
“And I’m in charge of the playlist.”
“I order you to be in charge of the playlist.”
I dropped the keys into his hand. We got into the van and started out of Mirror Lake. It was close to ten as we entered the highway heading south. I plugged my phone into the stereo and turned it on.
“So what’s the detour?” Archer asked.
I looked out the window. I was sort of knotted up inside about this, but again there was no turning back.
“I need to drop something off at my mother’s near Chicago.”
I felt his glance of surprise. “We’re going to your mother’s?”
“Just for a few hours. It’s not on the way, but I mapped out a route.” I forced myself to look at him and gauge his response.
He was silent for a minute, as if trying to unravel all the reasons why I’d even suggest that he visit my mother with me. I wasn’t sure of them myself.
“Is that a problem?” I asked.
“Not for me,” he said. “I assume she knows we’re coming.”
“Of course.” It was only a half lie. She knew I was coming, but I hadn’t yet told her about Archer in case he’d balked.
When we stopped for gas, I stepped around the side of the building to call my mother and tell her I wasn’t coming alone. Thankfully she didn’t interrogate me about Archer aside from asking how I knew him. When I told her he was Dean’s brother, she made a noise of happy surprise that caused a rustle of unease in me. Soon she’d find out that Archer and Dean were nothing alike.
My stomach tensed the longer we drove. I busied myself with a forecasting model so I wouldn’t have to think too much about the fact that Archer was the complete opposite of the type of man my mother always wanted me to be with.
Several hours later, Archer pulled the van into the driveway of a one-story ranch house in a tranquil, Highland Park neighborhood. My mother came out of the front door before Archer had even stopped the engine.
In a tailored, navy dress with her graying hair pulled back into an elegant chignon, she looked achingly familiar and reassuring. Just the sight of her flooded me with relief.
I hurried out of the van and went to hug her. “Hi, Mama.”
“So happy to see you,” she said, tightening her arms around me. “Dochenka.”
I breathed in her tea-rose scent, welcoming the hard embrace that put the world back into balance. No unpredictable storms here—only solid ground and stability.
My mother pulled back to look at me, giving me the once-over before taking my face in her hands.
“You look tired,” she said. “Beautiful as always, but tired.”
“It’s just been such a busy semester.” I eased away from her to turn toward Archer. “Mama, this is Archer West, the man I told you about.”
I saw her gaze flicker over his faded jeans and leather jacket, but her smile didn’t waver as she extended her hand to greet him.
“Come in, come in,” she said, waving us toward the house. “I have tea and cookies. You must be tired after the drive.”
Inside the house, my anxiety eased further. I’d bought the house for my mother a few years ago, and it contained all the things that I’d grown up with in our two-bedroom Chicago apartment and, later, the tiny house my parents had bought when I was a teenager. A few icons hung on the walls, embroidered shawls were tossed over the chairs, and well-worn books lined the shelves. Even though I’d never lived here, it still felt like home.
The scent of black tea and walnut cookies filled the air. If I’d been vaguely worried about any awkwardness, my concerns were allayed the moment we sat down.
Archer was easy company—polite, gracious, and entirely comfortable carrying on a conversation with my mother about her house, her shop, even her life in Russia and experiences immigrating to the US. He drank three cups of tea and ate about a dozen tea cookies, which pleased my mother to no end.
“I like a man who eats well,” she remarked, patting him on the shoulder and pushing the plate of cookies toward him again. “My cooking I learned from my mother years and years ago. But Kseniya never had interest in cooking. She was more interested in watching The Weather Channel with her father.”
“She told me.” Archer glanced at me, his eyes warm.
My mother reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “He was a good man, Alexei. Strong-willed and stubborn, but good. So determined to learn English, be a worthy American. Such a hard worker.”
I stood to gather the empty plates and cups. “I brought you a box of pysanky for the shop. I thought we could stop by before we leave.”
“Of course.” A faint worry darkened her eyes. “You be careful on this trip. It’s been a long time since you’ve done such a thing.”
Didn’t I know it. “We’ll be fine. Archer is a great driver.”
My mother glanced at Archer. “What work do you do, Archer?”
“I repair motorcycles at a garage,” he said. “Cars, too. Right now I’m helping my brother finish work on his house.”
“You remember I told you about Liv and Dean’s new place,” I said to my mother. “Archer is installing the hardwood floor, among other things.”
I sounded like I was trying to prove he did more than just repair bikes. Irritated with myself, I brought the dishes into the kitchen.
I heard my mother and Archer talking as they left through the back door. I went to the living-room windows that overlooked the garden. They walked along the flagstone paths, Archer matching his stride to my mother’s slower one as she pointed out all the plants and flowers.
Something twisted in my chest. I returned to the kitchen to wash the dishes.
Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea. I didn’t want my mother to think my relationship with Archer was actually… significant.
I groaned softly.
“That was not a good sound,” my mother said from behind me.
I turned. “Where’s Archer?”
“In the garden fixing a broken fence. I was showing him my roses, and he offered to do some repairs.”
She joined me in putting the dishes away before she wr
apped her arms around me. “What made you want to go after a storm again?”
“He did,” I admitted.
She was quiet.
“He’s nothing like Dean,” I told her, knowing well how much she loved and admired Professor Dean West. “In fact, he’s just the opposite.”
I waited for her to ask me why I was with him. She didn’t.
In truth, I’d almost stopped thinking of Archer as Dean’s brother. Not only had I taken Dean out of the equation where my relationship with Archer was concerned, I just couldn’t make any kind of a link between them.
Archer was so… Archer. Fire and bad jokes, danger and outright cuteness, scorching heat and scars.
He was who he was. Stood on his own. Blunt, honest. A straight shooter. Making no apologies. No wonder he’d escaped the Wests as soon as he could. He burned too brightly. He’d have suffocated there, in Dean’s extensive shadow and the cold perfection of their parents’ lives.
I knew how that felt, to be trapped by your surroundings. I’d secretly felt that way since starting work at King’s, and I couldn’t help envying Archer for his ability to live life on his own terms. Answering to no one.
“Aren’t you going to interrogate me about him?” I asked my mother.
“Why should I?”
“Because you’re always telling me how you want me to be with a nice man.”
“He seems like a nice man.”
“He is. But he’s had a rough life. He didn’t graduate from high school. He doesn’t have a steady job. He’s not right for me.”
Still she didn’t respond. Irritated, I pulled away from her. I’d been expecting a lecture about how my career was so impressive but that life wasn’t complete without love and family. Then I could respond with the plain fact that Archer and I had no future together.
Because I couldn’t possibly be imagining one, not even in the quietest, most secret place in my heart. Even if I were, reality would slap me upside the head sooner or later. I’d known from the beginning this wild ride would have to end.
Why wasn’t my mother agreeing that Archer wasn’t right for me?
“I need to get some stuff organized in the van,” I said, going past her and through the living room.
I stopped at the fireplace mantel and looked at a picture of my parents and me. My father stood with one arm around my mother and the other arm around me. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans. His expression was serious behind his beard, his dark eyes glittering with strength and intelligence.
Just looking at the picture, I could hear the booming sound of his voice. Smell the pipe tobacco that always clung to his clothes. Feel the weight of his arm on my shoulder.
My father and I had had a contentious relationship, with him always trying to rein in my rebellious tendencies—and me refusing to allow it—but never once had I doubted his love for me.
Maybe that was why I’d pursued being different and defiant. I’d always known that no matter what I did, no matter what boundaries I pushed, my father would always love me.
An ache filled my chest. I walked past the photograph and out the front door. I suddenly felt very alone.
After I checked the forecast models again to make sure we wouldn’t leave too late, Archer and I drove to my mother’s gift shop near downtown. She’d gone an hour earlier and was restocking the pysanky shelves when we arrived.
Her longtime friend and partner, Maria, a plump woman with twinkling eyes and a creased, apple-dumpling face, greeted Archer with a hug before grabbing his arm and taking him on a whirlwind tour of the shop.
I helped my mother with restocking, then we worked on some accounting and mail orders. It felt good to be back to another familiar routine.
“When Vera told me you were bringing a man home, I didn’t expect him,” Maria remarked in Russian as she approached the front counter.
I glanced to where Archer was busy taking apart a ten-piece matryoshka doll. The painted wooden figures looked even more delicate in his big hands.
“What did you expect?” I asked, also in Russian. I disliked the defensive note in my voice. “A lawyer? Another professor? An architect?”
“Yes,” Maria said without apology. “You are an accomplished, professional woman, Kseniya. Exactly what your father wanted you to be.”
A pang speared through my chest. My mother squeezed my arm.
“Kseniya doesn’t make foolish choices,” she said, giving Maria a pointed glance.
“I didn’t say it was foolish,” Maria replied. “Just unexpected.”
Both she and my mother looked at Archer again.
“He is handsome,” Maria remarked.
“Handsome?” My mother shook her head, her gaze still on Archer. “He’s more than handsome, Maria. He’s what young people would call a complete hottie.”
She said that last word in English, which sent both her and Maria into a fit of giggles. I tried to give them a stern look, even though a smile twitched the corners of my mouth. My mother, after all, did speak the truth.
“He is a hottie,” I agreed in Russian. “In more ways than one.”
Maria nudged me with her elbow. “He is good in bed, hmm?”
“Maria!” My face heated. “My mother is standing right here.”
“Well, is he?” my mother asked.
“I am not talking to you two about this.” I tried to concentrate on the invoices again.
Maria and my mother continued staring at Archer, who was now putting the wooden doll back together and paying no attention to the gossipy Russian women at the counter.
“I can’t imagine he wouldn’t be amazing in bed,” Maria murmured. “Look at the size of his—”
“Archer!” I called. “Time for us to go.”
“Hands,” Maria finished, giving my mother a wink.
While they both dissolved into laughter again, I grabbed my bag and stalked around to the other side of the counter.
Archer put the doll back on the shelf and approached us. If he wondered why Maria and my mother were red-faced and giggling like twelve-year-old girls, he gave no indication as he complimented them again on the shop and said goodbye.
When he started toward the door, I turned to Maria and my mother.
“Yes,” I said in Russian, with as much haughtiness as I could muster. “He does have very big and… remarkable hands.”
Another fit of laughter consumed them. I grinned and hurried to catch up with Archer, who waited at the door. He pulled it open for me, and I went ahead of him down the sidewalk. He fell into step beside me.
“Big hands, huh?” he asked.
Shock bolted through me. I stopped in my tracks. “Um… what?”
He held out his hands in front of him. “Apparently my hands are big and… what was that word? Wonderful?”
I stared at him. “You understood what we were saying?”
He flexed his hands and stretched out his fingers. “Some of it.”
“You know Russian?” I felt like he’d just told me he was from Mars.
“A little.” Archer was starting to look both smug and highly amused. “Mick, the guy who owns the garage where I worked, is Russian. Mikhail. He and his wife Svetlana are from Moscow. I picked up some Russian from them.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You never asked.”
“Argh!” I planted my hands on his chest and gave him a shove. “You! That is so… so devious!”
“Hey, I didn’t even know you spoke Russian to your mother until we got here,” he said. His tone was defensive, but his eyes were bright with suppressed laughter. “And even if I didn’t know some Russian, I totally would have understood hottie.”
“Archer!” My face felt like it was on fire. “You are so… ugh!”
I couldn’t even believe that I was at a loss for words. I shoved him again for good measure and spun on my heel to stalk down the street. I heard him laughing behind me, and loath though I was to admit
it, the warm, rich sound of his laughter resounded right in the middle of my soul.
He hurried to catch up with me. “Aw, come on, don’t be mad.”
“I am furious.”
He poked me in the shoulder. “You’re pretty sexy when you’re furious.”
“I am not.”
“You are, kotyenok moy.”
I stopped. My heart did that crazy twirling thing again. “What did you call me?”
“Kotyenok.” He smiled, his eyes creasing at the corners. “Little kitten, right?”
I nodded. Actually he’d said, “my little kitten.” For whatever reason, the my seemed to make all the difference in the world.
I must have looked dumbfounded because Archer frowned.
“I didn’t just insult you, did I?” he asked. “I thought it was an endearment.”
“No.” I paused to clear my throat. “I mean, yes. It is an endearment. A very… nice endearment.”
“Good.” He reached out to tweak my nose. “Are you still furious, kotyenok moy?”
I tried to glower at him, just to make a point, but of course it was impossible with the “my little kitten,” the laughing, the nose tweaking, and Archer standing there with his boyish grin that was such an engaging contrast to the pure masculinity of the rest of him.
“If you think I’m sexy when I’m furious, I can still be furious,” I told him.
He moved closer, sliding his hands around my waist and settling our lower bodies together. Warmth slipped through me.
“You’re sexy all the time, kotyenok moy,” he murmured, lowering his head to brush his lips across my cheek. “Every second of every minute of every day. I can’t get enough of you.”
“Oh, yeah,” I grumbled. “Lay it on thick and see if that dilutes my raging fury.”
“Okay,” he agreed before settling his mouth over mine in a hot, deep kiss that made me tingle from head to toe.
“Did it work?” he asked when we came up for air.
“Um… I’m not sure yet. Try again.”