“Is it still coming down?”
“Yes,” he answers, then stuffs a forkful of pancake in his mouth.
“Any chance you think they’ll plow the roads today?”
After swallowing his bite, he says, “Nope. There would be no point. It’ll just get covered again in thirty minutes.”
We eat in silence for several minutes. The only sounds come from our utensils scraping our plates and the low voice of the meteorologist on the TV.
“I still don’t have a signal on my phone,” I say, when the quiet becomes awkward.
“Lines are probably down. Happens a lot around here when the weather gets bad.”
I push some eggs around in my syrup before I look over at him. “I really am sorry you’re stuck with us. I’m sure you don’t care to have strangers invading your house.”
He gives me a look that tells me he’s tired of hearing me give my thanks, so I clamp my mouth shut. That is, until the quiet grates on my nerves again.
“You said you’ve lived here your whole life. Does that mean you grew up in this house?”
He sets his plate down on the coffee table in front of him.
“No. My parents had a house in town. This was my grandparents’ place.”
“Oh.” I put my plate beside his and turn in my seat, bring one foot up and tucking it under me. “Do your parents still live in town?”
“They moved to Tennessee a few years ago.”
He doesn’t seem too bothered by my questions, so I continue.
“Do you have any siblings?”
“Just my sister.”
I run my fingers along the smoothness of the couch. I hate to have idle hands. I constantly have to be doing something with them. My poor cuticles look terrible and would probably give a manicurist a heart attack.
“What kind of work do you do?”
His brows drop as he moves his eyes from me to the TV. “Why all the questions?” he asks.
Embarrassment has my cheeks turning pink, and I turn so I’m facing forward again.
“Sorry,” I say softly. “I just figured since we might be stuck together for a few days, we may as well get to know each other a bit so we’re not complete strangers.”
I get up from the couch and pick up my plate. I guess my line of questioning is over. I understand his reluctance. He doesn’t know me, why would he tell me about his life, even if we are staying here in his home. As long as he doesn’t act like a psycho and is nice to my kids, there’s no need for me to know more than I already do. Once the snow melts enough for them to remove the tree, clear the roads, and pull my car from the ditch, we’ll be leaving. It’ll probably be months before I see him again, if I do at all.
When I reach down for his plate, he stops me by placing his hand on my arm. His fingers are warm to the touch, and I feel a weird charge where he’s touching me. The hand he used is the one with the scars and my eyes linger on them for a moment before I look to his face. He’s looking at his hand touching me.
After several seconds, he loosens his fingers and pulls his hand back. He slowly lifts his head and the look in his eyes conveys confusion. I just don’t know what he’s confused about.
“I’ll get it,” he says, his voice gruff.
I nod, then take my plate to the kitchen. I’m at the sink rinsing my dish when he walks up beside me. On the outside I appear calm, but on the inside, I’m reprimanding myself for pushing him with questions. I already knew just from the rumors and the way he acts that he’s a private person. I should have known he wouldn’t like being grilled about his life. Even though I told him w
e should get to know each other since we’re practically living together for the next couple days, my real excuse is I’m curious about him.
He’s silent for a minute as he stands there. I don’t turn to look, but I feel his eyes on me.
He puts his plate in the sink, then says, “You cooked, I’ll wash.”