Arctic Heat (Frozen Hearts)

by Annabeth Albert

  But if Owen felt it, he was damn good at not letting on, finishing up his little demonstration and flitting away, taking the onion with him back to whatever he was doing at the stove, leaving Quill to take a few steadying breaths before resuming his task. He needed to get a grip—Owen had promised not to hit on him and indeed had stuck to that. It was all on Quill that he couldn’t put the attraction behind him.

  He tried to force himself to focus on the ginger and not Owen’s scent next, taking his time to get the piece peeled and cut finely, stupid impulse to impress Owen, show him he was plenty able to hold his own in the kitchen. Meanwhile, Owen kept up a steady stream of explanations as to what he was doing until finally Quill had to laugh.

  “Do you have aspirations of being on one of those cooking shows?”

  “What?” Owen stopped mid-stir, cheeks darkening. “No. Sorry. Bad habit of chattering. My family used to tease me that I didn’t know to get dressed without narrating it. Silence doesn’t exactly come easily to me, annoying as that probably is.”

  “I didn’t say it was annoying.” Now Quill felt bad, his clumsy attempt at a joke having fallen flat. “Just that it reminded me of a TV chef, how you know your stuff and make it nice to listen to.”

  “Oh, well in that case...” Owen resumed smiling. “If it’s fun, you can totally pretend you’re my assistant on Cooking with Owen Live. Bring the carrot over here and I’ll demonstrate how we get the rice noodles ready next.”

  “Not sure cooking’s supposed to be fun.” His mother had always made cooking seem like the worst chore, complaining and harping at his father until he started escalating things, volume increasing until Quill had to sneak away.

  “Sure it is. You should see my mom when we’ve got a house full of people. She’s happiest with a crowd to feed.” Owen put the dried rice noodles in a large bowl, adding water. “And she’ll get us all in on it, making dumplings or cookies or something like that. My grandmother was like that too, humming to herself as she made the broth for pho.”

  “That wasn’t how it was in my house.” Quill’s chest pinched, old pain at what had come so easily to others. “More like my mom would smash dishes if she had a big group waiting to eat.”

  “Really?” Face thoughtful, Owen stirred the soup.

  “Yeah.” Quill’s neck heated, same as it had when he was younger, not wanting others to know how dysfunctional his family could be. “It wasn’t always that bad. Some nights my dad worked late, and she’d make breakfast for dinner. She did good pancakes.”

  “But sometimes it was bad?” Owen’s face softened, sympathy clear in his eyes.

  “Sometimes,” Quill admitted. Even now, after decades of distance, he swore he could hear their raised voices, whatever that night’s fight was. He could still smell the inside of the closet in his room where he’d liked to hide until the arguing was done and his mom would come coax him out, sing to him when he was younger, give him a snack when he was older. Quick to anger. Quick to recover, at least back then. “Like I said earlier, she and my dad were young when they had me, and then my sisters followed quickly after. Part of it was them being...less than mature, but part of it was just escalation of the drama that all relationships have over time. Their personalities didn’t help any, but all couples have their bickering.”

  “False.” Laughing lightly, Owen poured in a box of broth. “Again, you haven’t met my family. My parents are ridiculously happy with each other. I’m sure they’ve had arguments, but never that I’ve seen. They totally ruined me for relationships because I kept expecting it to be that easy—find a soul mate, settle into forever, laugh a lot.”

  “Hah.” Quill had to snort. “Soul mates are a myth.”

  “Maybe.” Owen sounded far sadder about that fact than Quill was. “And maybe my parents simply got lucky, but that didn’t stop me from wanting it, trying to find a relationship that didn’t feel like work. But that’s easier said than done, you know?”

  “They’re all work.” Of that, Quill was convinced.

  “Said exactly like someone married to the job.” Owen rolled his eyes at Quill. “Not that I don’t get that impulse. After my last relationship, I’m kind of out on love myself. I wouldn’t turn down a soul mate, but I’m done twisting myself into knots and trying too hard to make something out of nothing.”

  “What happened with your last...person?” Quill was far more curious than he had any right to be.

  “Boyfriend. You can say the word. It’s not contagious, promise. Anyway, things were going great, and we were talking about moving in together. Then I got the cancer diagnosis.” Owen’s shrug held a world of regret in it, making Quill’s hands clench, already wanting to find this bastard, tell him a thing or two. “He drifted away, not really breaking up until it was obvious he’d checked out, and I called him on it.”

  “Passive aggressive bullshit. At least there wasn’t screaming, but still, that sort of treatment isn’t right.”

  “Oh, there was yelling once I realized what he was doing.” Somehow Owen managed a laugh even though Quill didn’t see the humor. That was the problem with relationships. Someone always ended up loud and disruptive, making relationships far more trouble than they were worth. “Okay, now the soup is almost done, and you can add the rice noodles. Drain them first.”

  Strangely, Quill kind of liked following Owen’s directions. After having to be in charge out in the field, so much riding on his every decision and move, knowing Owen could handle the food let him relax in a way he hadn’t anticipated, invisible fist loosening its stranglehold on his chest. And watching Owen move was its own sort of pleasure, the way he almost bounced as he cooked, similar to the dancing he’d been doing earlier. And that had been a sight, one he hadn’t been able to appreciate at the time with the urgency of the situation, but now the memory made him smile.

  “What?” Owen’s forehead crinkled. “Do I have something on my face?”

  “Uh...” Geez. Quill apparently couldn’t even manage a smile without looking off. “No. Just...hungry,” he finished weakly, not wanting to admit how much he was enjoying himself.

  “Good. Get two big bowls, and we can serve it. I do chopsticks plus a soup spoon, but you might want a fork for the noodles.”

  “I can eat with chopsticks.” Quill enjoyed Owen’s look of surprise more than he should have. “I had a...friend in college. He and his friends loved trying different places. Insisted on teaching his country bumpkin...friend chopsticks.”

  The memory of JP made his mouth go dry, faint bitter tang that even the years hadn’t been able to erase—he’d always made fun of how Quill liked to order the same food over and over while he tried something new every outing.

  “A...friend?”

  Damn it. Of course, Owen had picked up on his unfortunate pause.

  “Friend,” he said more firmly. He’d already shared enough personal stuff for one evening, more than most coworkers knew about him, that was for sure. And reminding himself about the coworker part of this equation, he took a seat with his bowl of soup at the far end of the table, away from Owen.

  “Tell me about Quill in college.” Owen pursed his lips to blow on his soup, making Quill’s groin tighten and making it tough to concentrate. “I’m picturing you all full of warnings and reminders for your friends, doing a safety lecture before a bar crawl...”

  “Nah.” Quill studied his soup, knowing his cheeks were undoubtedly dark. “I was more reserved, I guess you could say? Too quiet, really. My friends were all more lively.”

  “Ah. You were shy.” Owen’s eyes were sympathetic, but he smiled like he’d had some sort of internal bet with himself that he’d won.

  “Maybe a little,” Quill allowed.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being shy,” Owen said with the confidence of a guy who’d never had the label hissed at him by an unhappy parent or school bully. You’re too shy, Quil
l. Stop being such a weakling. You’re not a little mouse, boy. You give those boys a piece of your fist. His father’s coaching hadn’t made any difference, hadn’t been able to give him confidence to stand up for himself. That had taken years, a conscious effort to transform shy into stoic, to leave that kid behind.

  “Soup’s good.” Quill was ready to change the subject. “Not too spicy.”

  “Yeah, it came out well.” Thankfully, Owen finally settled in with his food, fewer probing questions about Quill’s life, and more small talk over food and recipes he might like to try.

  The soup was good enough, full-bodied and rich with ginger and garlic, that they each had seconds, and as he took his empty bowl to the sink after, his stomach was pleasantly warm even as the rest of him was reminding him of the long haul down the trail with the stretcher, his arms and legs still burning. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work the kinks out, resorting to rubbing his own neck.

  “Feeling it?” Owen asked, coming up behind him. “You must be—you had more of the weight the whole way down, and I know my muscles haven’t ached like this in years.”

  “Yeah,” Quill admitted. “Have you checked your phone? Any word on her condition from Norma?”

  “Checking now.” Still standing way too close, Owen pulled out a different phone than he’d had back in Anchorage—this one a sat phone, a similar model to Quill’s own, and more likely to get coverage up here. He held it up to his ear to listen to a message before sharing, “Good news! The doctors do suspect a stroke, but she didn’t end up with any broken bones, and Norma says Helen’s alert and feisty as the doctors decide on the best course of treatment for her.”

  Relief evident in his voice, he clapped Quill on the shoulder, a warm pressure Quill felt all the way to his toes.

  “That’s good.” Quill’s voice came out far huskier than he’d intended, throat tightening further when Owen didn’t drop his hand but instead dug in with his thumb.

  “Damn. You are tense. How about you let me help?” Using both hands, Owen steered Quill back to the table, applying gentle pressure until Quill sank into his chair. He followed Owen’s directions as easily as he had while cooking even as his mind bounced around like a branch in a wood chipper, rational thought starting to flee as Owen started a gentle massage.

  “Uh...” He grasped for the last of those logical responses, knowing he needed to do something even as the baser part of him was wallowing in how good Owen’s touch felt. “Bad idea. We shouldn’t...”

  “It’s a great idea,” Owen countered, not stopping the work of his sorcerer’s hands, finding knots in Quill’s neck that had been there decades. “And all I’m proposing is a simple, friendly massage, not a hot-and-heavy make-out session. The sort of thing friends do for each other all the time.”

  Quill wanted to drop-kick the swift rush of disappointment that coursed through him. He refused to let himself want more kissing, especially not if Owen had changed his mind about wanting that too.

  “I don’t have friends like that,” he hedged, traitorous body refusing to pull away.

  “Maybe you should start.” Owen did a thing with all ten fingertips that had Quill all but humming his approval.

  “Us and friendship is a bad... Hell. That feels...” He gulped, trying to stay with one train of thought. “Terrible idea.”

  “Ha.” Owen let out a warm chuckle as Quill fought a losing battle against giving in to this wonderfully awful proposition. “Come on, Quill. Let yourself enjoy this. What do you have to lose?”

  Everything. He had everything to lose but still couldn’t get the gumption to end this conversation and head to his room, far away from massages and cozy companionship, wanting more time with Owen too much. He was so, so screwed.

  Chapter Nine

  Please say yes. Owen was trying not to go for the hard sell, so he stilled his fingers while he waited for Quill’s reply. He had no intention of turning this into an unwelcome pass, not when things were finally easier between them, tension melting away under the shared experience of cooking together. The post-rescue adrenaline didn’t hurt either—they’d been through something together now, same as how coming through a big deadline as a team in his old job had bonded people. Quill had been most impressive in his handling of the situation, and Owen did have a certain amount of gratitude toward him, not to mention sympathy for his aching muscles.

  Owen wasn’t lying. He’d rubbed plenty of friends’ shoulders over the years, and while he could undoubtedly do a far better massage with less clothing and a bed or other flat surface, he also knew himself and there was only so much temptation his resolve to not push Quill into something sexual could take. Quill shirtless would lead to using oil, which would lead to slippery, heated skin begging for kisses...

  Yeah. Not going there. But a nice friendly back rub to put ignoring each other behind them and establish a more congenial tone going forward seemed like a great idea, not the mistake Quill feared.

  Silent for several long moments, Quill finally shuddered, shoulders relaxing into Owen’s touch. “You’re too damn good at this.”

  “Is that a ‘yes, please keep going’?” Owen couldn’t resist teasing.

  “It’s not a no.” Quill groaned like the admission cost him a mortgage payment, so Owen rewarded him with more purposeful movements, rubbing the broad expanse of his upper back, not simply focusing on his neck and upper shoulders. He was far from a pro, but he’d done this enough to be pretty confident in his abilities. Shoulder blades tended to hold a tremendous amount of stress, so as Quill slumped more forward, he worked there, digging in and finding hidden pressure points. Quill’s breathing deepened, a sexy little hitch to each inhale, barest hint of a moan on the exhale.

  “So...middle name?” Owen grasped at the nearest random topic to distract himself from the blood rushing to his cock over Quill’s reactions. His subtle noises were pure sex, and it was only too easy to imagine Quill in bed, truly letting go.

  “What?” Quill sounded like he’d pounded back a shot, and it was sexy as hell.

  “Your middle name. It can’t be that bad.”

  “It is.”

  “Tell me.” Owen traced the column of Quill’s strong spine with his thumbs.

  “Nope.” A quick peek revealed that Quill’s eyes had fluttered shut. Since Owen didn’t want to ruin his relaxation, he dropped the topic. For now. One more thing about Quill to be curious about, to obsess over until spring. He’d get Quill to fess up at some point, one way or another.

  “I bet your arms are sore too.” He started rubbing Quill’s biceps, intent on working his way toward his meaty forearms and strong hands.

  “That part of the back rub deal?” Quill didn’t pull away, so Owen kept going, working on spots he knew from experience felt good like the upper arms and mid forearms.

  “Sure it is. Repetitive stress injuries were rampant in grad school. I had a flare-up of ulnar nerve pain, and massage helped me a ton. And later I had a boyfriend who was always massaging my hands.” He picked up one of Quill’s meaty paws to demonstrate, a surprisingly intimate gesture, practically holding hands. Where Quill’s sounds had gone right to his groin, this intimacy hit him square in the chest, made him want Quill on a deeper, more personal level. It wasn’t so much that his hand was a little larger as much as how it radiated capability, as if this was a guy who could carry considerable weight, and not simply physically burdens.

  “Can’t say as I’ve ever tried it.” Quill’s eyes were still squished shut, his breathing more audible than the faint whisper of his words.

  “That’s too bad. I mean, I know you and Hattie were isolated up here, but don’t you miss touch?”

  “Not sure.” Quill exhaled hard, chin falling to his chest as his arm lost all traces of resistance. Fuck. He was so hot when he gave himself over to this, let Owen do his thing the way he wanted. That sort of supplication ma
de his brain fizz like champagne, made his head swim to the point that he almost missed Quill’s next words. “Been so long... And even then, not like I came from a touchy-feely family.”

  Something about the longing in Quill’s voice spoke to tender parts of himself that Owen didn’t often connect with. He couldn’t imagine denying himself touch for years on end. Everyone needed human contact, especially people like Quill, who gave so much to others.

  “And your...friends?” he asked, tone cautious as he moved back to the other hand. “No touch there either?”

  Quill was silent for several breaths before muttering, “Complicated.”

  “I see.” And he did—a guy who was closeted or close enough to it, living in a remote area, was probably low on both friends and opportunities. But it still made his jaw clench, thinking of all Quill was missing out on.

  Quill’s muscles were undoubtedly loose enough now that Owen could stop, but an almost primal urge to give Quill more touching drove him to return to Quill’s neck, fluttering his fingers softer now, relishing the feel of warm skin. Maybe Quill could live without pleasures like this, but Owen sure as hell couldn’t.

  Mouth dry, his lips ached to join his hands. He could almost hear Quill’s surprised gasp, taste his skin, feel the heat of his back if he pressed close...

  But he couldn’t. He’d promised that this wasn’t prelude to a make-out session or a come-on, and he wanted to be a man of his word even more than he wanted to sneak that kiss. Quill’s head tipped back, eyes closed, lips offered up like a prize, waiting for Owen’s claim. He caught himself right as he started to lean forward, intent on meeting Quill’s silent demand. Not going there. Reluctantly, he dropped his hands before his rising need led to him doing something irrevocably stupid that might break this lovely spell between them.