“I was the youngest kid, so a lot of my hobbies were simply extensions of things the others were already doing. I never loved soccer, but the other two were already playing... I went to the same extracurricular programs as them, but no one really stopped to ask me what I wanted to do. And I know that sounds kind of whiny. It wasn’t a bad childhood, and we were rather privileged. It’s not like my parents heaped the pressure on, at least not any more than my friends and cousins experienced. But it was easy to follow my sisters to the same magnet school, aim for my dad’s alma mater to make him happy, follow my friends to business school, make everyone proud with the MBA. It was easy, and I won’t say it wasn’t fun because parts of it really were, but it wasn’t me.”
“What would have been more you?” Quill’s eyes seemed to bore into Owen, like they might discover answers he wasn’t aware he had.
“I’m still figuring that out,” he admitted. When he told people about the bucket list, he usually kept it light, avoided dwelling on the restlessness driving him, the sense that he still hadn’t found the person he was meant to be. And sure, he was having a good time, checking items off, but nothing so far had done much to ease that clawing in his gut, the little voice that whispered that there had to be more to life that he simply hadn’t found yet. “But I do know that whatever I end up doing after this time off, it’s going to be for me, expectations be damned.”
“Good for you.” Quill’s voice was firm. “And nothing wrong with easy. My grandfather died my senior year of high school. All the way through, I’d been planning to go army, get myself the hell out of town as quickly as I could, figure out which rating would keep me outdoors the most, then his chunk of change landed in my lap. I went away to college because it was the surer route to working outdoors without having to dodge bullets. Don’t beat yourself up for having some fun and easy years or for not knowing all the answers. Life’s not a one-time multiple-choice test.”
“Yeah.” Owen’s throat went tight. Coming from Quill, that was a long speech, and it humbled him, both the vision of the kid Quill must have been and the sincerity of his words. Rare for him, he wasn’t sure what else to say, what else he could add that wouldn’t be trite.
Almost as if he too needed a break from the heavy turn the conversation had taken, Quill pushed up from the couch, voice a shade too bright. “So, how about it?”
He gestured at the lone window, the one above the sink, which let in what light there was from outside.
“How about what?” Owen could be up for just about anything that didn’t require more soul-baring conversation. Much as he loved to talk, he didn’t care for how raw and open he felt after sharing so deeply with Quill.
“You said you couldn’t wait to try snowshoeing again. How about now? I should check the outbuildings again before the storm gets worse, make sure there are no trespassers.” The resignation in Quill’s tone underscored his general attitude to rule-breakers, something Owen was coming to admire about him. Quill wasn’t someone who seemed to take a lot of glee in busting people, always coming back to issues of safety and well-being. Like now, Quill was undoubtedly more concerned with would-be campers out in the elements than he was about enforcing the necessary laws. “We can also look at the generator again together. I won’t chase you away this time.”
It was a clear peace offering and Owen was quick to nod. “Sounds great. Want me to make you some more coffee for your thermos?” Quill’s classic green thermos stood upright in the drying rack at the side of the sink. Quill must have really been in a hurry to avoid Owen that morning if he’d left it behind, which was a sobering thought, one that tempered Owen’s enthusiasm. “You don’t have to take me with you. I could explore on my—”
“Not in this storm.” Quill cut him off with a curt shake of the head. “Safety in numbers, and you’re still getting your bearings. Besides, I’m looking forward to seeing you fall.”
Quill smiled then, the rare almost-boyish grin he kept hidden under the gruff exterior, right along with whatever playful impulses he had. Owen would give a lot to see that side of Quill more.
“Ha. We’ll see about that.” He matched his joking tone to Quill’s, but his pride was determined to not prove Quill right. They bundled up quickly and retrieved snowshoes from the same downstairs room that also stored their skis and other winter gear. Quill insisted that Owen borrow a pair of his gloves which were thicker than Owen’s own. There was something intimate about the gesture that made warmth curl low in Owen’s belly, almost like Quill had left his fingerprints behind.
Once they headed out, it didn’t take more than a minute before Owen stumbled and tilted precariously. Quill grabbed him, put out a steadying hand that felt far too good on Owen’s arm.
“Lightly,” Quill reminded him. “Idea is to stay on top of the snow, not to trudge through it. It’s not gliding like skiing, but you still have to let the snowshoes do the work of keeping your weight up while you get a rhythm going.”
“Yeah.” Owen tried again, this time with marginally more success, following Quill away from the center to skirt the perimeter of the buildings, pausing every so often for Quill to check locks. Owen was undoubtedly slowing him down and was far less graceful than Quill, who moved like he’d been born to this. Quill didn’t complain though or try to hurry him up, and the more they traveled, the more Owen couldn’t hold back his joy.
Unlike the panicking chill he’d had back at the apartment, this was the good kind of cold, the kind he loved so much because it made him feel that much more alive and vital. As they crested a hill, he turned, taking in the buildings below them. Breathing deep, he marveled in the view. Blanketed in fresh snow, it looked like a nineteenth century postcard, gray skies giving it a black-and-white-photography vibe with few signs of modern life, wear covered by the mantles of icy white.
“Damn. Wish I’d brought my camera.” He’d accidentally left his phone back on the charger next to his bed, not that that would do any good without electricity.
“Yeah.” Something in Quill’s voice made Owen turn toward him. Closer than he’d thought, Quill’s shoulder bumped his, and his quizzical expression gave Owen pause, made him swallow hard. Quill studied him like he was only just now discovering something key about him, like a second head or rogue tail. Then Quill’s eyes seemed to zero in on Owen’s mouth and his breath caught.
For a long moment, his belief that Quill was about to kiss him built with each inhalation of crisp air, and he braced himself for the perfection of the contact, the bite of the cold air, the warm man next to him, and the limitless potent energy between them.
“Come on,” Quill said at last, and Owen leaned in right as Quill moved the fuck away, shaking his head. “Buildings need checking.”
Hell. Owen had to take a second to breathe deep, steady himself, before he followed. He grieved the loss of the kiss that never was with an intensity he usually reserved for an investment gone majorly south, feeling its absence down to the arches of his chilled feet. The moment had been right fucking there for the taking. Hell, he’d had actual kisses, lengthy make-out sessions even, affect him less than that one missed opportunity.
Fuck. I am so screwed. Or rather, he was so very unscrewed, and that was the entire problem. And how in the hell he was supposed to sleep next to Quill that night, he had no clue.
Chapter Eleven
Quill had almost lost his damn mind back there on the ridge, almost kissed Owen, and as they headed back to the center where warmth and a long night ahead waited for them, he honestly didn’t know if he could be that strong a second time.
And it wasn’t that Owen had looked particularly sexy in his many layers of winter gear. No, it had all been about the joy in his eyes, the way he’d looked out over the place Quill loved with every gnarled fiber of his being. Owen’s reverence and awe had hit a deep, powerful chord within him. A resonant bass note of understanding that made his soul, not hi
s lips, not his libido, want a piece of Owen.
Owen might not be sticking around, but he got this place in the way few others did, saw what Quill saw, and that was heady stuff. Enough to make Quill stand too close, wanting...hell, he still wasn’t sure exactly what, but he’d pulled back in the nick of time.
As they let themselves back into the entryway of the center, he tried telling himself that he’d saved them both a load of embarrassment. Maybe Owen didn’t even want to kiss again. But that was a load of bunk. He’d seen the recognition in Owen’s eyes, the quick acceptance of the almost inevitable...
No, pulling back had been all Quill and all about his tenuous hold on his sense of self-preservation.
“We can heat up some cans of soup on the woodstove,” Owen suggested brightly, apparently oblivious to Quill’s inner turmoil. Which was good. He didn’t need both of them in knots, even if some petty part of himself wouldn’t mind not being the only one out here floundering.
“Soup sounds good.” Quill stowed his gear but left his coat on until he was upstairs in front of the heater. They’d spent way too long in the generator room, pointless fiddling with the lifeless hunk of metal that had served no purpose other than chilling them further. After stoking the fire, he warmed his hands back and forth while Owen produced a pan and two cans of soup.
“Here.” Quill had a can opener on his pocketknife, and he made fast work of the lids. They made a way-too-comfortable team, and it wasn’t long before they were back on the couch, big bowls of soup in their laps as they ate in quiet companionship. The soup was tomato, a classic that never got old for Quill, but this time it was Owen’s closeness that warmed him through, not the familiar flavors.
“This is nice,” Owen observed. He’d doctored his bowl with various herbs, and the rich smell of oregano assaulted Quill’s senses, made the comforting and timeworn new and edgy again. This...thing happening between them was many things, but nice wasn’t the word Quill would have chosen. Disturbingly cozy perhaps.
But he wasn’t going to try to explain that, so he simply nodded. “Yeah. Yours smells good.”
He knew by now that food was an easy topic to get Owen going on, and sure enough, he smiled wide as he held up the spoon. “Yeah. The herbs make a big difference in cutting the canned taste. Want to try?”
“Nah.” No way was Quill letting Owen feed him, so he shook his head even as his throat tightened, a bizarre want rising in his chest.
After they’d rinsed the bowls and pan, the late-afternoon sun was all but gone. Quill brought out his emergency propane lanterns and lined up the flashlights they might need later before returning to the couch. He told himself that it was because it was the warmest spot in the room, but the real draw was Owen, who’d been busy exploring the shelves that lined the far wall, and was now sprawled on the end of the couch, shuffling a deck of playing cards.
“Do you play?” he asked Quill.
“Yeah,” he admitted. Lying to get out of further interaction felt low, and besides, he was already here. Might as well give his hands something to do other than itch to touch Owen. “Fifteen years with Hattie meant a fair number of hands of gin rummy. Played a lot of speed and spades in college, and my grandfather and I used to play blackjack and other games on camping trips.”
Those were some of the warmer childhood memories—Grandpa letting him win, no bickering or fighting out at the hunting cabin, big mugs of hot cocoa in front of them. He still missed that old cabin, missed the escape it had represented. And much as his family was complicated now, he missed the way Grandpa had unified all of them, a larger-than-life patriarch holding them together.
“My grandmother is the one who taught me rummy.” Owen offered him a winsome smile that rewarded Quill’s honesty with more warmth than the roaring fire. “Want to play a few hands?”
“Sure.” Quill arranged himself so that he faced Owen and turned up one of the lanterns on the coffee table so that they could see the cards.
“Good. I did way too many solitaire games while in chemo.” Not surprisingly, Owen assigned himself dealer first, shuffling with ease and dealing them each their ten-card hand.
“What did your oncologist think of your bucket-list plan?” The question had been on Quill’s mind awhile now, a nagging worry about Owen’s continued health.
“She loved it. I sent her a postcard from Space Camp this summer, and she hung it in the office.” Owen arranged his cards in a fan, mouth twisting as he studied them. “Testicular cancer has a pretty low recurrence rate, even cases like mine where both surgery and chemo were indicated. Obviously regular checkups are key, but I saw her in September, and everything was looking good.”
“And you don’t have...uh...lingering effects from the treatment?” Quill’s neck went hot and itchy as Owen raised an aristocratic eyebrow. Fuck. Too personal a question, but he couldn’t call it back before Owen answered.
“Are you asking if I can still get it up? Pretty sure I answered that question for you already...” Owen’s eyes sparkled in the firelight, and at the memory of their kiss, Quill’s body sparked like a stray ember had hit it. And yeah, no way was he forgetting that Owen had been impressively hard.
“Not that.” God, even Quill’s ears were warm with embarrassment. “Meant if you had pain... Never mind. It was prying.”
“It’s okay.” Owen reached over and patted Quill’s knee. “I was a little snappy there. It’s more that I hate it sometimes because as soon as I say what type of cancer it was, a lot of people think it’s open season to talk about my balls. And most know enough to know that treatment usually means removing the cancerous one, and I hate that look on their faces.”
“What look?”
“The same one you got a second ago when I said removing. You winced. All guys do. No one wants to be down a testicle, and everyone gets weirdly sympathetic like I had to turn in my man card or something, like the surgery and not the cancer was the worst thing to happen to me.”
“Sorry.” Quill resisted the urge to shift in his seat because he was pretty sure that he had cringed exactly like that.
“The truth is that surgery was less a big deal than the lymph node procedure they had to do to stage the cancer and reduce the risk of recurrence, which was far more complex. I was lucky to get one of the few surgeons in the country who’s skilled at doing it laparoscopically, and even with avoiding an open operation, the recovery still sucked. And the two cycles of chemo were when I had most of the side effects. But everyone wants to focus on the loss of the testicle—even strangers ask me if I can still come.”
“None of their business.” Quill studied his cards because he was curious about that, didn’t know enough about how that worked post-surgery, but he figured he could look it up next time he had internet. It shouldn’t be on Owen to educate people.
“Well...not everyone’s business.” Owen shrugged, voice returning to his usual light tones, but there was also something new there, an edge perhaps, or maybe a challenge. “I didn’t get a prosthetic, so I do usually warn a guy before we get intimate, and sometimes I climax dry, but even though I’m a chatty guy, that’s not exactly stuff I want to discuss with someone’s grandma from Wichita on a random plane flight, you know?”
“Yeah.” Quill’s voice came out rough because his brain had tripped right past logistics to imagining what Owen’s face would look like when he came, how he’d sound, whether he’d maintain his usual talkative take-charge personality the whole way through or whether he’d lose control...
Stop it. Owen was talking about the rudeness of prying people, not giving Quill an opportunity to perv on him.
“Anyway, shall we play? To a hundred?” Owen waved his cards. There was a vulnerability around his eyes that made Quill’s stomach flutter. No matter how flippant Owen tried to play it, this cancer stuff clearly affected him, and Quill wished he had some way to reassure him. The urge to pull Owen to h
im was damn near overwhelming, but more than simply the pile of cards between them held him back.
“Yeah.” He passed on taking the upcard, preferring to stand pat, but Owen quickly scooped up the card. He was a quick, decisive player, which Quill had expected, knocking to score points far more frequently than Quill, leaving Quill scrambling to lay off his deadwood unmatched cards by finding homes for them within Owen’s melds, the groups of cards he was attempting to score from. Not surprisingly, Owen took the first game easily, but Quill came back on the second when Owen over-gambled and Quill undercut his attack, scoring more points even though Owen was the aggressor.
“We should play for something.” Even with the loss, Owen was back to his usual cheer. “A bet maybe.”
“What did you have in mind?” Quill had played for chores with Hattie and various crazy bets back in college, but somehow he didn’t think Owen would be satisfied playing for dish duty.
“Hmm...how about we play for who gets the couch tonight? Unless it pulls out, in which case we can just share.”
A strangled cough escaped Quill’s throat before he could call it back. “No, no hide-a-bed.”
“Darn.” Owen winked at him, the flirtiest he’d been since the training in Anchorage. And damn it, Quill liked it. A lot. “I’ve got a nice arctic rated sleeping bag, so floor won’t be awful, but it might be fun to play for it.”
“Sure.” Quill had every intention of throwing the game so that Owen got the couch. He was the volunteer, after all, and Quill had plenty of experience roughing it. But then Owen dealt the cards, and Quill got a killer hand, and Owen made a crack about Quill’s conservative play style, and suddenly his long dormant competitive side came out of storage.
“Now, this is fun.” Owen grinned at him, even as Quill pulled ahead in points. “You should play like this all the time. Take a few risks. It won’t kill you.”
Quill snorted. “That’s the thing with risks—people never expect them to fail. Better to plan for the worst-case scenario, if you ask me.”
Arctic Heat (Frozen Hearts) Page 10