“How’s that?” he asked, voice rougher and lower than usual.
Quill took a long inhale and exhale before straightening. “Good. Really good. Feels like I could sleep for a year.”
“Excellent.” The way his blood hummed, Owen doubted he’d be able to sleep himself for hours yet, but he was gratified to be able to get the perpetually on-duty Quill to relax.
“Are you still...uh... I should return the favor. Doubt I’m as good as you, but...”
“I’m good.” No way was he sticking to his no-kissing promise if Quill’s hands landed on him, expert or not.
“You sure?” Quill’s face creased. “It’s not fair to you.”
The way he was so earnest about being fair told Owen that Quill had some experience with quid pro quo sexual encounters, and reinforced Owen’s decision to not let him reciprocate. The last thing he wanted was Quill offering out of guilt. And Owen liked the idea of being able to give him some no-strings-attached touch.
“Don’t worry about it. And I’m about to be the unfair one and take the first shower,” he said lightly, not wanting to let on that he was near-desperate with the need to go jerk off. God, he needed to get Quill out of his system, get over the hold this man had on him.
“Take all the hot water. I’ll shower in the morning.” Quill yawned again before giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry. You stole all my energy. And...um...thank you.”
The pink on Quill’s cheeks was all the thanks Owen needed. “It was my pleasure. Night.”
He headed for his room to grab a towel before the temptation to kiss that adorable smile off Quill’s face could win out. He wanted to kiss each corner of Quill’s mouth, going slow and deliberate, swallowing his gasps until neither of them could stand it any longer. But he wouldn’t. However, he also wasn’t made of ice. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep promising no deliberate passes, not when Quill had this kind of effect on him. Eventually the heat they kept generating was going to boil over, and damn if he couldn’t wait for the inevitable collapse of both of their resolves.
* * *
Snow greeted Quill in the stillness before dawn, white and pillowy and far more welcome than the regrets that kept stabbing at his conscience. He shouldn’t have let Owen touch him last night. Didn’t matter how good it felt. Or how much he’d needed it. It wasn’t professional and was the exact opposite of keeping his distance. And now he had to move forward knowing how damn amazing Owen’s hands could make him feel and knowing he couldn’t go there again. It was like he’d always imagined a tropical vacation in January to be—a nice idea, but one always had to come back to reality in the end, so why bother getting all used to the sun and sand when they were but temporary distractions?
Owen was like that—all heat and distraction and promise of pleasure—but temporary. So very temporary. He’d be gone even before Quill got acclimated to his presence, so there was no point getting attached, letting himself start to crave everything Owen could offer. Especially not when it left him this unsettled afterward. He didn’t know what to make of Owen not wanting him to reciprocate when he’d been obviously sore too. Didn’t he trust Quill to do a good job? Or was it that he didn’t want Quill to touch him? Like maybe he’d just been massaging Quill out of some misguided sense of obligation?
Quill hated that particular thought. He’d had enough of expectations with JP and his insistence on things being equal, and all his parents’ arguments over fairness and who did what still echoed in his ears. He didn’t need Owen holding his nose so to speak just to try to get Quill to be nicer or whatever his end goal had been.
And with that in mind, Quill hesitated over his notepad at the dining table. What was the protocol for this, anyway? Should he even mention last night?
Fuck. This was why he avoided human interaction. Too damn complicated. Finally, light starting to peek over the horizon, he forced himself to stop dithering, listing a few tasks that shouldn’t take Owen too long, then added a more personal note at the end.
Snow should be coming down off and on all day. Bet you’ll want to get out in it, but stay warm. It’s colder than it looks, with low visibility predicted for the worst of it. You did good yesterday. Thanks for everything. Let me know if you hear an update on Helen’s condition.
There. Surely “thanks for everything” worked without needing to spell out that he appreciated having his muscles turned warmer and limper than the noodles in their dinner soup. God, he really wasn’t sure the last time he’d fallen asleep that easily and slept through to his alarm.
Note done, he crept down to his small office, checking in with the regional headquarters and getting the full weather report before heading out on his morning patrol. This time of year, the visitor center opened only limited hours on days with a high number of expected visitors like holiday weekends, but that didn’t mean that they didn’t get tourist traffic. Some brave souls would undoubtedly risk the storm for the chance to be among the first to lay down tracks. His patrol was also to make sure that no one had been fool enough to try camping in this. It wasn’t uncommon for RVs to try to use the day lots as makeshift campgrounds or intrepid tourists to want to sneak in some permit-free tent camping. It was up to Quill both to enforce the regulations and to keep the rule-breakers alive.
Enough snow had come down overnight to meet the minimum seven inches or so that he liked to see before taking the snowmachine out for its first spin of the season. He’d dressed with an eye to the newly freezing temperatures—insulated gloves, boots, snow pants, thick parka. A loose, flaky powder was continuing to fall at a sleepy rate as he made his rounds. With the storm expected to continue for at least the next twenty-four hours, even the main roads wouldn’t be plowed until tomorrow at the earliest, which meant hunkering down after his patrol to wait it out.
But that might mean running into Owen back at the apartment, so he took his sweet time putting the snowmachine away, checking its treads and maintenance, making sure their fuel reserves were looking good, and generally putting far more energy into organizing the equipment shed than was needed. The midmorning light, such as it was, arrived gray and without much warmth to raise the temperatures, bringing with it a howling wind that rattled the walls of the shed.
He was starting to think about hot coffee and balancing a break against the chances of running into Owen when the guy himself appeared in the doorway of the shed. He’d bundled up—new-looking coat and colorful wool hat pulled down over his ears. Gloves were too thin though, and his cheeks were already pink with the cold.
“Hey. Sorry to bother you.” Owen gave him a crooked smile. “You got a minute?”
“Yeah.” More like Quill had a couple of hours, but he wasn’t letting on about that quite yet.
“Something’s up with the generator. The lights went out, and it’s getting colder in the center. I stoked up the woodstove, but the space heater in my room is off too.”
“Okay, let’s go take a look.” The generator was a heavy-duty continuous-use one, designed to provide unlimited hours of power each year, not a backup model, which were typically limited to a set number of hours. In addition to electricity, the heat it generated was captured and used to help heat the center, so it was no wonder that the center was getting cold without it running. The generator was housed in a small insulated trailer adjacent to the main building, a trailer that immediately seemed half its usual size with Owen there beside him, marveling at the equipment.
“Wow. This is so much more complex than the emergency ones I’ve seen before.”
“Yup. It’s older, but it was designed for remote, cold sites. It’s seen us through a number of good years. Last year, though, it started to show its age, needed a couple of repair visits. Hopefully it’s something I can fix on my own because no way are we getting someone out here in this storm.”
“We should probably begin by trying to restart it. I would have done that with
out bugging you, but wasn’t sure how.” Somehow Owen managed to be both apologetic and take-charge at the same time.
“Restarting is the right call.” He tried to give Owen credit without bristling too much. Quill had twenty winters under his belt, not to mention time with his grandfather at his hunting cabin. He wasn’t a repair technician by any means, but he’d coaxed more than one generator back to life. “But first we need to make sure the snow hasn’t blocked the exhausts. It’s got two main ones, and it’s designed to shut off if the snow or something else keeps the air from getting out.”
Going outside, he checked each exhaust point, but they were clear.
“Heck.” Owen echoed Quill’s own frustration, their sighs hanging in front of them in the frosty air. “That would have been the easy answer. Now show me how to restart. Please.”
The hastily tacked on please wasn’t enough to avoid Quill’s neck tensing. “I’ll show you, but generators can be tricky. Assuming we get it started, you’ll want to call for me if it fritzes out again.”
Owen nodded, but Quill wasn’t sure he believed that he wouldn’t attempt a fix on his own first. He talked Owen through a hard reset of the generator—which was more involved than just flipping a single switch like with a computer or appliance. And...
“Nothing.” Owen’s voice echoed off the metal equipment in the silent room. Not even a few creaky groans or rattles. “Connection points? Tell me what to check.”
“I’ve got it.” Quill’s irritation, both with Owen and the situation, boiled over into his voice.
“You know, you don’t have to go it alone all the time anymore. We’re a team.” Owen’s voice was infuriatingly rational and level.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Are we talking about the giant piece of machinery, which undoubtedly does need a second pair of hands, or your back, which also could use a helping hand now and then?” Owen was typically blunt, and Quill should have known they wouldn’t manage to make it the whole day without bringing up last night.
“Both,” Quill gritted out. Despite the cold, his face heated at the memory of the massage. God, how could he have been so impulsive?
Head tilting, Owen considered him a long moment. “You’re embarrassed,” he pronounced at last, somehow able as always to see what Quill tried to keep buried, even from himself. “And you shouldn’t be. It’s no big deal.”
That made Quill growl. Because maybe it wasn’t to Owen, maybe he had a stable of friends he did back rubs for, but Quill didn’t do this, wasn’t cut out for this kind of temptation.
“It can be a not-a-big-deal that we don’t repeat. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to check some things.”
“Fine.” Owen stepped back against the wall. “You want me to leave you to it? I can go check the woodstove, start a kettle for tea and coffee.”
“Sounds good.” Even when Quill was being rude and dismissive, Owen was so damn nice. Quill didn’t deserve him and his repeated offers of friendship, that was for sure.
And as Owen left the generator room, leaving him alone with his whirring thoughts, Quill already knew that he’d have to apologize at some point soon. If he couldn’t get this stupid generator to work, they were in for a long, cold day in way-too-close quarters. Forget electricity—he needed space, space from his confusing emotions, space from Owen and all he represented, and space from this growing sense of dread.
Chapter Ten
Owen had been cold before, plenty of times, but there was something about the panic-tinged cold that made his bones ache, feel brittle with the sort of chilliness that underscored how vulnerable their situation was if they couldn’t fix the generator. They had dry wood, a woodstove, supplies and sturdy shelters, and pioneers had surely survived on far less, but still his pulse galloped, each new worry like a fresh shot of espresso.
Even though he was a tea drinker, he still knew how to make coffee for Quill using water boiled on top of the woodstove and a French press coffeemaker he found in a cupboard. Probably one Hattie had left behind as Quill seemed more than content with his economy drip coffee, which he made eye-wateringly strong and didn’t temper with sugar as far as Owen had seen.
Quill wasn’t a caricature of a grizzled old ranger who ate gravel for breakfast. Nor was he an unfeeling guy. Owen had seen flashes of his quieter, tender side. Indeed, Owen was coming to understand that it wasn’t that Quill didn’t want little luxuries like sweet coffee, but that for whatever reason, he didn’t often allow himself to have them.
But everyone needed sweetness, especially those who tried to tell themselves otherwise, so Owen improvised a mocha for each of them—adding the strong coffee to large mugs with a hot cocoa packet added and some milk he steamed. He’d just finished his creation when Quill’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. He’d removed his boots downstairs but still had his coat on, gloves and hat dangling from the pockets as he rubbed his hands together and headed right for the stove.
“Bad news.” Quill didn’t meet his eyes, but he also didn’t mince words. “I’ve done what I can. I think the problem is a short in the ignition switch. That’s why nothing’s even trying to come online. I talked to a tech. Reception’s terrible so it was a short call, but he can come tomorrow if the roads get plowed or day after as a worst-case scenario.”
Words heavy with regret, Quill sank into the couch in front of the woodstove. The way his shoulders slumped inside his coat made Owen’s fingers flex with the urge to massage him again.
“It’s okay,” Owen assured him. “At least it’s not January, right? And I know you did your best to get it working. Maybe after you get warmed up, we can go back down, and you can show me what you found, but I doubt I’ll have any better luck.”
“Probably not.” Exhaling hard, Quill scrubbed at his short hair before setting his coat aside. “There’s not much to see—no broken parts that I can see. Even so, I shouldn’t have chased you away earlier. Sorry. I was rude.”
“A little.” Owen would let him own his bad mood even as he forgave it. “But it’s okay. I made you something hot to drink. It’s kind of like a mocha. Might not be coffee-shop quality, but it’s got to beat black and lukewarm.”
“Thank you. That was...sw—nice of you.” Quill accepted the mug from him, taking a long sip before he straightened. “It’s good. Hot. Man, it’s really cold out there now, more so than usual for late October. But you’re right. It’s not January. We should probably both sleep in here, near the stove, but otherwise we should be okay.”
Okay sounded like something of a hopeful overstatement as Quill’s distaste for the idea was clear from his furrowed forehead and tight mouth. Well. Tough. He might hate the idea of consigning himself to such close proximity with Owen, but Owen also wasn’t stupid enough to try roughing it with his arctic-rated sleeping bag and a cold room simply to avoid more awkwardness with Quill. They were grown men. They could go twenty-four hours both without fighting and without jumping each other.
Not that Owen would turn down that last idea, but he also wasn’t going to push Quill. If Quill wanted something, he could damn well ask or at least give a clear sign. And in the meantime, there was no reason they couldn’t make the best of a crappy situation. Grabbing his own drink, he took a seat on the other end of the couch, stretching his feet toward the warmth of the stove.
“Kind of like camping out in the living room as kids. It’ll be fine. And now I both get to test my sleeping bag out and to cross ‘snowed in with no electricity’ off the bucket list.”
“That seriously on the list?” Quill regarded him with too-solemn eyes over his steaming mug. “Right up there with tire blowouts and flash floods?”
“I was joking.” Owen gave in to the temptation to roll his eyes at Quill. “I mean, obviously I like adventure and excitement, but I’m not looking for bad things to happen. And when they do happen, I’ve always found that a sense of hum
or helps.”
Quill snorted like he wasn’t so sure. “Nothing funny about hypothermia.”
“Of course not. But life’s too short to take yourself too seriously. Trust me. I know. I used to be way more serious myself.”
“Sorry.” Quill studied his drink. “I do respect all you’ve survived and that your list helped you find some perspective during chemo. I can’t say what I’d do in a similar situation. I didn’t mean to make light of it. I’m just pissed at the generator and at myself for not being able to fix it. And I know damn well that a bum generator wasn’t on your list, no matter how much you want to joke.”
“Well, stop it,” Owen said firmly. “And my list isn’t so much about finite experiences as it is about a certain mindset. Like I said, I stopped taking everything so seriously. And that’s freeing. I lived so many years not doing things I wanted, living someone else’s life. I’m done with that, and if it means I have to deal with snow or a broken generator or whatever, that’s okay. At least I chose this.”
“Yeah. I get that.” Quill’s voice was more compassionate now, and for a second Owen thought he might reach for him, but then Quill seemed to pull back into himself, hugging the mug closer to his chest. “Did it really feel like someone else’s life all along, or maybe it was more like you met a different self during your illness?”
“Hmm.” It was an incredibly insightful question, and Owen let himself have a minute to give it the proper consideration. “Maybe some of both. I grew and changed the year I went through treatment, but a part of me knew all along that I was following a path laid down by others.”
“How so?” Unlike a lot of people, when Quill asked a follow-up question, he asked it with his whole body, leaning forward, eyes opening wider, breath slowing, like he actually cared about the response, like he was happy to listen and not simply coming up with a witty story of his own for when it was his turn to talk, the way some of Owen’s friends would.
Arctic Heat (Frozen Hearts) Page 9