Comeback (The Holland Brothers Book 3)

The apartment is quiet when I get home late Sunday night. I worked at the studio all day and then worked a shift at Lilac Lounge. TVs at the club showed the Mavericks game against Vegas. I wasn’t able to watch much of it, but I kept up with the score and know they won.

Bass vibrates low from Archer’s room as I head into mine. I grab clean clothes and make my way to the bathroom quietly. I shower fast and then am on my way back to my room when I notice the music has changed. Usually when he sleeps it stays on the same playlist. And instead of the usual rock music I’ve gotten used to, it’s something slower with less bass. I pause in front of his door and listen.

I’ve just put my finger on the country twang when the door flies open. I jump back with a yelp. Archer’s brows rise, but he plays off his surprise much cooler than I do. Then again, he’s not creeping outside someone’s door.

“Hi,” I squeak out, heart still racing.

“Did you knock, and I didn’t hear you?” he asks.

“That would be less embarrassing, but no. I was listening to your music.”

His lips quirk into a smile.

“This trash?” He hikes one thumb over his shoulder.

“Why are you listening to it if it’s trash?”

He holds up a finger and walks back toward his bed. He stops in front of his nightstand and picks up his hearing aids. He puts both in and turns down the music before turning back to me.

“I didn’t catch that last thing you said.”

“I was just trying to ask why you were listening to country?” I’m signing the words too, but he reaches out and stops my hands.

“I can hear you now.”

“I don’t mind signing,” I say and sign that as well.

“I like your voice.”

I have tried very hard not to think about Archer as the best kiss of my life since he politely told me that it couldn’t happen again, but when he says things like that, it’s really difficult.

The music flips to another song, this one even twangier and sappier than the last.

“Is this a cry for help?” I ask and motion with my hand, so he knows I mean the music.

His lips curve up at both corners. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought something with a slower beat might help.”

“And?”

“I was just going to get a glass of warm milk so clearly it isn’t working.”

“Warm milk?” A small giggle escapes. It’s so…surprising from this big, muscled guy.

His expression turns shy. “My mom used to make it for me when I was a kid. She’d sprinkle a little cinnamon on top.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Are you just getting home from work?” His gaze moves to take in my wet hair and bare feet.

“Yeah. I had to shower off the smell of Sour Apple Pucker and sweat.”

A deep chuckle shakes his chest, the sound barely audible.

“Want some milk?” he asks.

I nod and then we head to the kitchen. The recess lighting is on but otherwise we’re in the dark and Archer doesn’t flip on any other lights before he pulls a small saucepan onto the stove and then the milk from the fridge.

So that I don’t have to yell or worry about him being able to read my lips, I hop up onto the counter next to the stove. His gaze darts to my bare thighs before he focuses back on what he’s doing.

He pours the milk into the pan and turns on the burner. He pulls a wooden spoon from a drawer and then stirs slowly.

“Congrats on the game. It was on at the club,” I say.

A flicker of something passes over his expression before he attempts a smile. “Thanks. How was work?”

“Sundays are usually pretty dead, but I don’t mind it.”

“Did you work at the studio today too?”

I nod. “I got one coat of paint up on one wall.” It’s going to take several coats and a lot more paint than I thought.

“That’s great.”

Archer stirs the milk continually, stopping after a couple of minutes and checking it by bringing the spoon to his mouth. Satisfied, he turns off the stove and pulls down two mugs from a cabinet. He carefully pours the milk, half in each, then grabs the cinnamon from the spice drawer.

He gives me a boyish grin as he sprinkles it on top of each drink. Once he sets down the cinnamon, he picks up his mug. I do the same.

“Cheers,” he says.

Laughing, I clink my mug against his. He watches as I bring it to my mouth. I sip carefully so I don’t burn my tongue. He takes a bigger gulp, still staring at me.

“It just tastes like warm milk,” I say, then laugh. “I don’t taste the cinnamon at all.”

He shakes more of the spice into my mug, but a little too heavy-handed because a huge clump falls into the top.

“Well, fuck,” he says. “Don’t drink that.”

“I could probably taste the cinnamon now.”

“Like Christmas in a cup.” He offers me his.

“No, I’m good.”

He leans against the counter next to me. He looks tired. Still hot, but like he has a lot on his mind.

“What else did your mom do when you couldn’t sleep?” I ask.

“She’d sing to me. Probably why I always fall asleep to music.” He cocks his head to the side like he’d just put that together for himself.

“What did she sing?”

I’ve missed talking with him. By unspoken agreement, we’ve given each other a wide berth, but the giddy sensation spreading through me tells me that the time apart hasn’t changed much. At least on my end.

“‘You Are My Sunshine’ or sometimes ‘When You Wish Upon A Star.’ Probably others too.”

“She sounds like a good mom.”

“The best,” he says without hesitation. “What about your parents?”

“I have always been a great sleeper,” I say, like it’s some big accomplishment. “My dad read to me at bedtime and my mom would sometimes just lie with me if I had a nightmare or I was sick.” As I think about it, my chest hurts. “I miss them.”

“Why did you come back to Lake City?” he asks.

“My mom made me.”

One of his dark brows quirks up. He’s moved closer. Or maybe I have. His forearm rests against my bare thigh.

“Before she got sick, moving here and opening my own studio is all I talked about. She never wanted me to move home in the first place, but I didn’t give her a choice. I had to be there. Maybe more for my own sanity than for hers. She is a fighter. So strong and stubborn, full of life.”

Archer hangs on my every word. I breathe in deep and let it out slowly.

“Anyway, the day she finished her last round of chemo and rang the bell, she turned to me and said, “Time to pack your bags.”

He laughs again and the sound vibrates through me.

“So here I am.”

“I’m glad,” he says. The air is thick with tension. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I will him to kiss me again, but he catches himself and stands tall, pulling away from me.

“I’m glad she’s doing better and I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thanks.”

He rinses out our mugs and then sets them in the dishwasher. I hop down from the counter.

“Can you sleep now?” I ask.

“I hope so.”

“Want me to sing to you?”

One side of his mouth lifts. “Nah. I’ve got Conway Twitty and Waylon Jennings.”

“Okay.”

We continue to stand in the kitchen, only a foot of distance between us. It would be so easy to touch him. A step forward to press myself against him. A slight lift onto my toes to brush my lips over his.

But he clears his throat, and it snaps me out of it, reminding me that he doesn’t want this or if he does, he’s not going to act on it.

“Good night,” I say, taking a step back.