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I want him to be stupid.
I want him to kiss me.
Desperately.
I want him to say screw it, push me against this counter, maybe lift me up onto it, and bury my lips under his until I can’t remember my own name.
But Archer exhales a loud, ragged breath and stomps away to a wine fridge, pulling out a bottle.
“In true Italian style,” he says, holding it up.
I force a laugh and gesture to the dishes. “I hate to break it to you, but there’s not much Italian about this. The guy I worked for was on the Trade Committee. He had so many dinners with Italian officials from the EU last year.”
“Chicago style, then.” Humor replaces the hooded darkness of want in his eyes. “There’s beer if you prefer?”
“Wine’s good. I’m not a big beer drinker.”
“If my little brother heard you say that, he’d have your whole life figured out.” He fetches two wineglasses and fills them. “Patton thinks a person’s drink of choice is their whole personality.”
“Better than astrology, I guess.” I laugh. “You get along pretty well with your brothers, huh?”
“They’re complete assholes, but still decent guys when they need to be. We’re closer than we used to be, I’ll admit.” He brings out toppings of all kinds—mushrooms, peppers, red onions, pepperoni, prosciutto, the works—and turns the sauce down to a simmer. “What about you, Winnie?”
“No siblings. Just me and my folks.” I don’t mention how lonely it was growing up in that big house with two control freak parents who were too busy for their daughter.
Mom had nannies from the day I was born, for heaven’s sake. But when I got older, she cut them loose. I think she was too paranoid about Dad having an affair like so many other rising stars in politics.
My childhood was a constant churn of new faces. Superficial relationships and glad-handing and smiling for Dad’s campaign ads as he climbed the political ladder.
More than anything, it was being fabulously alone and learning to cope with it.
Maybe that’s why I like Solitude so much.
I’ve beenconditionedto be lonely. I just didn’t think too hard about it until now.
“I wish I had a sister, sometimes,” I say into the silence. Archer watches me intently, and I’m not sure I want him reading any of the deep melancholy thoughts drifting through my head. “You know, someone my age, or maybe a little older.”
“With two jackass brothers, I’d say you were lucky. Siblings are hard work.”
“Brothersare hard, but sisters do stuff together. They can actually bond.” Even as I say it, I know it’s wishful thinking.
Maybe Ilikethe idea of having a sister because Lyssie is basically a sister from another mister, and I always wanted something like that.
“Have you always lived in Springfield?” he asks, shifting gears.
“I mean, yeah. I traveled around a bit. DC and Virginia, you know. Lots of trips across the country and sometimes abroad. I spent a few months in New York once while the boss hobnobbed with his old-money donors.”
I enjoyed it, too, but I don’t think I’d like settling there. It was a massive change, going from a big fish in a small pond to feeling like plankton in the ocean.
New York City eats you up and spits you out, even if you’re a United States senator. If you’re a staffer, you’re total fish food.
After a while, I hated the anonymity in the city, this huge, teeming place where it felt like no one cared. What started out as my big adventure became pure claustrophobia.
Just give me my little house somewhere with my bees, please.
Peace and quiet and cool fresh air.
If I’m lucky, a family to go along with it, and a man to come home to who’s huge and bold and kindhearted, a man like—