Snapshot Read online

  I moved hastily to dive under the covers and hide myself. What was I thinking? I wasn’t—I was just scared and exhausted, the fear carrying my numb mind to drastically invade his privacy. He shut off the lamp and climbed under the covers on his side. The blanket of darkness between us felt like a blessing, and my body relaxed, as did my mind. My jaw cracked on a yawn, and I snuggled farther under the covers. I still clung to the pillow that separated us.

  “Thank you,” I whispered into the dark abyss. “Good night, Xander.”

  “Good night, Rosie.”

  Butterflies tiptoed around my stomach as he said my name. He shifted to better find sleep, and I let my eyes drift close, giving myself over to dreamless rest.

  Tease

  I blinked my eyes open to find the early-morning light had colored the room in shades of brown and orange from the diamond-print curtains that covered the window. As the fog of sleep cleared my mind, I realized I was warm yet uncovered from the waist up. Correction, I was snuggled into something—somebody warm. My spine stiffened.

  Xander and I were in the middle of the bed. Like two magnets, we were drawn to each other in our unconscious states. He was on his back, his arm stretched underneath me, curved around my waist where his hot palm sat at the top of my ass. My ass that was only covered in cotton bikini panties. Half of my body was on top of him, and his opposite leg pinned the leg I’d slung over him. I was trapped.

  I knew the second I tried to move that I’d wake him. There was no way to get out of this without being embarrassed. Especially when his dick was hard, pushing against my hip through his flannel pants. I knew it was normal for guys to wake up that way, but his thigh pressed up between my legs addled my brain and gave credence to thoughts better left alone. My heart beat a steady tattoo as I fought the urge to move my hips—to utilize the pressure and relieve the feelings he was stirring in me. I could feel my heartbeat in the throb between my legs. It echoed in my head like a warning siren, screaming at me to move—away or against, I didn’t know.

  I just sucked it up and went for it. Feigning a stretch as I woke, I arched into him, using his thigh to relieve the pressure. I was going to hell for this. I bit back the moan that tried to escape. His hand resting on my ass flexed and followed my movements. My body froze when his other hand came down, sliding up my rib cage. His hand stopped just as his thumb traced the curve under my breast.

  Tingles raced through my veins, sending a shiver throughout my body.

  “You are enough to test the will of a saint by standing across the room.” His voice was deep and gruff. “If you don’t want to break my will, you should stop.”

  My mind warred with itself. Move. Don’t move. Move away. What to do. In the end, it was too much. The level of need I felt for his presence at night coupled with a need for his body. I gave in to one; I couldn’t give in to the other. I slowly began to pull away.

  In a blink, I was on my back and he was between my legs, hovering over me but not touching me. His cornflower-blue eyes searched mine. My chest heaved as I struggled breathlessly for air. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Closing his eyes, he shuddered and when he opened them, he spoke.

  “We should see to the chickens first.”

  Then he was gone, the door to his bathroom shutting behind him before my eyes could catch up. I grabbed the pillow and the quilt, rushing upstairs before he could read the embarrassment on my face.

  Chickens

  I’d been a country girl since the day I was born, having lived in seventeen small Texas towns in my twenty-three years of life. But I’d always been poor. So, while I’ve known many people with chickens and farms, never had I been near one. And that’s what was going through my head as Xander opened the gate to the chicken pen, motioning me to go ahead of him.

  I stepped inside the empty area and suddenly felt nervous at the idea that I had to care for something living. Xander handed me the bucket of chicken scratch. At least that’s what he called it. It was a mixture of corn and seeds and tiny brown nugget-looking things.

  “You need to open up the coop and let them out, first thing,” Xander said.

  He walked over to the coop and pulled a pin that locked down the little door. As soon as he did, the rooster was there, waiting to strut out and down the ramp to the yard. He was followed by the hens. The hens were pretty, with black coats of feathers covered in white speckles. They started walking around me, pecking at the ground like they expected the food to be there already. It spurred me into action, and I reached into the bucket, tossing a handful of scratch on the ground.

  One hen ignored the food on the ground and looked up at me expectantly. My brows furrowed. I bent at the knees to reach down and touch her.

  “That is Laney. I named her for my sister.”

  My eyes found blue ones, watching me. Two questions struggled to come out of my mouth at once. I settled on one. The easier one.

  “You name your chickens?” I laughed.

  I found it hard to believe that he could tell them apart. They were all mottled in black-and-white feathers. There wasn’t anything that I could see that distinguished one from another. He smiled with a nod. That beautiful smile where white teeth gleamed at me. His front two teeth were a little crooked, an imperfection in an otherwise perfect face. It made him seem more human.

  “Yes, she is Laney because she is fearless and curious, and seeks out love more than the others. She reminds me of my sister.”

  There was such love and pride in his eyes as he spoke. A small part of me was jealous. No one would ever look like that when they spoke about me. One of the many downsides of being alone in the world.

  “That one over there is Adéla”—he pointed to a chicken by herself at the far reaches of the feed I’d tossed out—“because she reminds me of a girl in primary school that used to spend her time alone on the edge of the playground, never playing with the kids. These three are Ilona, Darina, Květka… three girls who lived on my street growing up that I would see every day, together, always whispering. The rooster is Blažej—it means babbler, because he never shuts up. Always crowing.”

  “Where’re you from?” I asked, curiosity overwhelming me.

  He smiled. “I grew up in Prague.”

  My eyes widened. What would bring someone here after growing up in such an old city with a wealth of history and culture? So many questions ran through my head.

  “Czechoslovakia?” I asked, and he nodded. “Why—how’d you end up here?”

  “You do not know much about my country, do you?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t think I could even point it out on a map. Really, I only knew the city Prague was there because of some long-ago geography lesson I’d had. Just like I knew that it was a history-rich city with museums and beautiful architecture, because that’s what I was told in school. But that’s about all I remembered. He nodded, lips pinched like he expected as much.

  “I wanted something of my own,” he said simply, spreading out his arms, palms up. “We do not get such choices back home.”

  The way he said home, with such longing spiked into the word, sent a shiver down my spine. I wanted to ask why it was important enough to live half a world away. What happened to his family? Were they still there? Why would he choose a lonely life on a farm? But in the end, I asked none of it because I didn’t want to pry.

  “You remind me of Laney, a little bit.”

  My brow furrowed in confusion. “Huh?”

  “Not in the way you look. My sister is blonde with the same eyes as me, but you both have the same quiet curiosity.”

  That was… that was very insightful for a man. Most guys my age had never looked closely enough at me to notice that. It made me wonder…

  “How old’re you?”

  His brows rose at my random question. “I am thirty-two. You?”

  “Twenty-three,” I answered.

  The question of if that nine-year difference bothered him niggled in the back of my mind
in the ensuing silence. But why would he care? Why did I care? There wasn’t an age limit on rescuing someone from a murderer. He reached down, petting the Laney chicken as she approached him.

  “After you feed them, you have to collect the eggs,” Xander said, breaking the silence.

  He motioned for me to follow him and walked around the back of the chicken coop. There was another latch there, and he lifted the whole back wall up. Propping it up with a board attached to the inside of the coop, he ducked under the wall. I followed.

  A strong hit of ammonia, laced with something… just not right, surrounded me. It was overwhelming. Who knew chickens smelled so bad? I held a finger under my nose as I held my breath. There was a row of hay-filled nests, an egg, sometimes two, in each one. He reached out for the empty feed bucket in my hands, and I gave it to him. We filled the bucket with the eggs, and I began to see why he ate so many eggs. If we got that amount every morning, we would never run out.

  “That is all there is to it,” Xander said, ducking out from under the propped-up wall. He closed it. “I should get to work on the truck.”

  I nodded in agreement as he took a step back. He turned and walked out the gate to the chicken yard. He held it open for me, and I jumped through before a hen escaped with me.

  “You don’t have to clean the house. But I do look forward to dinner.” He smiled, and my legs trembled a bit in response. He hesitated for a second, like he’d say something else, but never did. He pursed his lips and left in the direction of the garage. I watched him for a moment, before turning on my heels and walking back to the house, bucket of eggs in hand.

  Routines

  I found a boom box radio in his closet. I was, of course, looking for his laundry to put into the washer and dryer. But it was like the clouds parted and heaven shined down on my activities that day, because I could—at last—listen to good music. I was no longer stuck with the old country crap he listened to. I got enough of that everywhere I went—this was Texas, after all.

  The only downside was that I only had one mixtape with me and there was no signal to a decent radio station. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, however. I carted that thing all over the house with me. Jesus Christ, there was dust everywhere. You would think that no one had lived here in ages, it was so bad in some places.

  Otherwise, Xander was a neat freak. All his dirty items were in the hamper. His closet was organized by type of item, color, and length. He’d put a lot of thought into where his clothes should hang. And that wasn’t even touching on his dresser organization. He folded his underwear. I was not a slob by anyone’s standards, but I didn’t see the point in underwear folding. Was anyone going to see me in my underwear, notice a wrinkle, and turn their nose up with a cringe and call me a bum? No.

  It was getting close to lunchtime, so while I pulled the warm clothes from the dryer, I thought to stop and make him a sandwich. I set the laundry basket on the end of the counter, the radio snuggled into the bed of clean clothes, playing “Kiss” by Prince. I bopped around the kitchen, pulling out the things I needed, and dancing. Which was more like a reenactment of the words to the song, but whatever.

  I’d borrowed a cable-knit sweater of his that was way too oversized, but it kept me the right amount of warm. It was long enough to cover my cutoff shorts completely and hung off one shoulder. My hair was pulled up in a shitty bun on top of my head, but it was doing the job of keeping my long hair out of my face. It was very Flashdance, though I didn’t have an ounce of dance talent in my body. Except my hips. They swayed with the sexy beats of Prince’s music.

  I was spreading mayo and making kissy noises like a champ. I located the potato chips and dropped some on the plate, then stopped for a dance break, singing along with the impassioned climax of the song. I bent over, grabbing the pitcher of sweet tea I’d made earlier and turning to set it on the island, when I saw him.

  He was leaning against the wall that divided the kitchen from the living room. Arms folded over his chest and smirk on his face, he was watching me. I came to a complete stop, the tea sloshing over the edge of the pitcher.

  I looked down to my socked feet, speckled with tea. I knew my face was red. I could feel the heat radiating off it.

  “I made you a sandwich,” I mumbled. “Let me get you a glass for your tea.”

  I set the pitcher down and hustled to the cabinet that held the glasses, but as I reached up, his hand beat mine to the nearest one.

  “Thank you,” he said, his other hand grazing my hip.

  He was right behind me. I could feel the heat rolling off him. The smell the engine grease and cedar lingered in the air around him. All my muscles locked up and I found myself frozen, half leaning over the counter in front of him, my hand still up in the cabinet.

  Touch me.

  My cunt throbbed as I imagined him pushing me down on the counter and thrusting inside of me. The sound of the clinking ice as the tea filled his cup was a faint background to the porn in my head. I heard his plate clatter as he set it down on the dining room table, and I snapped out of it.

  I quickly moved to grab the clothes basket and sat across from him, folding his clothes and towels. I even folded his damn underwear. He watched me, but I didn’t dare meet his eyes. He probably knew what I was thinking and thought I was just a silly girl. And if he didn’t, he would read it on my face. I’m a horrible liar.

  Maybe if I tried changing the subject—not that there was a current subject outside of my wayward thoughts—but if I could get my thoughts on track… Thanksgiving. The holiday should be the next day—assuming I hadn’t lost track of the days in my restless state. I was scheduled to work that day, since most of the other waitresses had families to celebrate with. I usually picked up holidays to help them out. Plus, there was bonus pay involved, so it wasn’t totally altruistic.

  “Thanksgiving is tomorrow,” I said, offhandedly.

  “Ah, the American holiday.”

  I’d forgotten he likely didn’t celebrate it. “Yes.”

  “Did you have plans?”

  “No,” I answered, pausing to gather my thoughts. “Well, I was supposed to work, but I won’t be. I was just thinking that we could celebrate. But I wasn’t thinking about…”

  “What do you need?”

  I steeled myself to meet his eyes. “We don’t have to—”

  “I really want to.” He nodded earnestly. “I would like to learn the local customs.”

  His genuine interest made the awkwardness fade into the background. And making a traditional dinner would take my mind off the killer and get it on something more productive. This was a good plan.

  “Well, I was looking through the pantry today and it seems like we have the makings of a full meal. Except one thing—a turkey.”

  “Thanksgiving is a meal?” The pinched line between his brow brought a smile to my face.

  “No, there are other things.”

  He raised a questioning brow.

  “There is a parade and football game on TV. We all say what we’re thankful for at dinner. It’s really just about being with family.”

  “So why do you not have plans to be with yours?” His deep voice was flecked with earnest curiosity.

  “I don’t have a family.” I ducked my head, looking at the shirt in my hands. “Haven’t for a long time.”

  The pregnant pause and questioning look was enough for me to know that he was asking without asking. I didn’t want to talk about it. I could count on one hand the number of people that knew my story. But I wasn’t sure why I had the urge to tell him, lingering in the back of my mind. A haunting urge.

  “My mama was sent to prison for killing my stepdaddy. My real dad didn’t even know I was conceived. And I have no siblings. I’ve been on my own since I was twelve.”

  “You are an impressive woman.”

  My head snapped up. His look wasn’t teasing—it was serious. He was being serious.

  My jaw hung loose as I searched for a response. “That’s�
�that’s one I haven’t heard before.”

  “To have lived through that and still have the joy for life I’ve seen when you think no one is looking. You have grace under pressure. And a healthy dose of caution and instincts. Strength and courage. I’m not surprised that you have made it this far on your own… It is impressive.”

  My mouth opened and closed a few times, struggling for a response before I settled on “Thank you.”

  “An honest assessment doesn’t require thanks, but you are welcome, Rosie.”

  He smiled as he got up and went to wash his dishes, leaving them in the rack. I sat there, stunned. Not moving, not blinking. No one had ever made me feel like where I came from was a source of strength before. Gathering my wits, I grabbed the basket and pulled it toward me to finish folding the laundry. He paused at the door.

  “I promised that I have something for you today. When you finish up in here, come meet me outside.”

  His face was an unreadable mask, but he watched me as if waiting for an answer.

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  The screen door clacked shut, and he was gone. I leaned back in the chair, almost as if I were melting.

  Sharpshooter

  After I finished the clothes and put them away, I made myself a sandwich while taking inventory of what Xander had that I could make for our Thanksgiving dinner. The pantry in this old house was large. There were lots of home-canned vegetables in glass jars, and a few store-bought items. I was ecstatic to find a can of pumpkin pie filling. I wasn’t expecting that he would’ve had something like that. He didn’t seem like the baking type. My only thought was that someone else had stocked this pantry. But who?