I shook my head. No, Archer. It wasn't your fault. I shook my head again. No. And anyway, as much as I'm sorry that I flipped my lid, I laughed, embarrassed and Archer smiled a small smile at me, maybe I… needed that. I don't know.

His brow furrowed. Do you want to tell me about it?

I fell back on the sofa and breathed out. I hadn't talked about that night with anyone, except the police detectives on the case. Not a single person. Not even my best friends. They only knew that my dad had been shot by a robber and that I had witnessed it, but not the rest, not everything. But for some reason, I felt safe talking about it now. I felt safe with Archer. And there was something about telling the story with my hands that was comforting to me.

We were just about to close that night, I started. The guy who usually worked the front counter at our deli had already left and my dad was there doing some bookkeeping. I was in the back baking bread for the next day. I heard the door chime and it took me a minute to wash my hands and dry them off. Once I did, and I went to the kitchen door, I could see through the small window that there was a man holding a gun on my dad. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I continued.

My dad saw me in his peripheral vision and he kept signing, 'hide.' The man was screaming at him to give him money. My dad couldn't hear him, though, and so he didn't respond. I took a deep breath as Archer watched me with those eyes that never missed a thing, taking in my words, his silent support giving me the strength to continue.

Before I even had time to process what was happening, the gun went off. I paused again, picturing that moment in my mind and then shaking my head slightly, bringing myself back to the present–back to Archer's compassionate eyes.

I found out later that it hit my dad in his heart. He died instantly. Fat tears fell out of my eyes. How could I have more tears? I took another calming breath.

I tried to hide in the kitchen, but I was in shock and I stumbled and fell and he must have heard me. He came in after me and, I shivered at the memory before continuing, his eyes were bloodshot, dilated, he was shaky… He was obviously on something. I paused, biting my lip. But he looked at me in this way and I knew what he was going to do. I knew. I looked up at Archer and he was sitting so still, his eyes boring into mine. I took another deep breath.

He made me undress and he… started tracing my face with his gun, each feature. Then he moved down to my breasts. He told me he was going to… violate me with the gun. I was so terrified. I closed my eyes briefly and looked to the side, away from Archer. I felt his fingers on my chin and he turned my face back to him, and something about that gesture felt so loving that I breathed out a small, choked sob. It felt like he was telling me that I didn't need to be ashamed, didn't need to turn away from him. My eyes met his again.

He almost raped me, but before he did, we both heard the sirens–and they were getting closer. He ran. He ran out the back door into the storm. I closed my eyes for a second and then opened them again. I hate storms now–the thunder, the lightening. It brings me right back there. I took another deep, shaky breath. I had just told all of what happened that night, and I had survived.

Bree, Archer started, but he didn't seem to know how to go on. I didn't need him to though. Just my name held so lovingly in his hands made my heart feel lighter.

Archer's eyes moved over my face before he asked, That's why you left? That's why you drove here?

I shook my head. After my dad was murdered, I found out that he had let his life insurance policy lapse. He had let a lot of things slide while I was away at college. I wasn't really surprised. My dad, he was the salt of the earth, the kindest man you'd ever want to meet, but he was about as disorganized as they come. I let out a small laugh on an exhale.

I looked at Archer and his eyes encouraged me to continue. There was something about the way he was looking at me–an understanding in his eyes that calmed me, strengthened me.

When I found out I would have to sell the deli to pay for all the funeral expenses, and the other bills associated with the business, I just… went numb, I guess. It didn't take long before I got an offer on the business, but it hurt so badly to sign the paperwork, that I could hardly breathe. I shook my head again, not wanting to return to that day, even in my mind. It was like losing another piece of my dad. He had owned that deli all my life–I had practically grown up there.

Archer took my hand in his for a brief second and then let it go, saying, I'm sorry. I had heard those words before, but looking at him in that moment, I knew that they had never held as much weight as they did when Archer spoke them.

Did they arrest the man who killed your father?

I shook my head. No. The police told me that the guy who shot my dad had most likely been a strung-out junkie who didn't even remember his crime the next day. I paused for a minute, thinking. Something had never felt quite right about that… but the police were the experts. Still, I sometimes found myself looking over my shoulder even when I didn't immediately recognize that I was doing it.

Archer nodded, furrowing his brow. I drank him in, feeling lighter, like I had shed something I didn't realize I had been carrying. I smiled a small smile at him. Way to ruin your cooking lesson, huh?

Archer paused and then smiled back at me, his straight teeth flashing. I noticed now that one of his bottom teeth was slightly crooked and something about that made me love his smile even more. I wasn't even sure why–maybe it was just one of those perfect imperfections. He had a crease in each cheek, not dimples exactly, just the way his cheek muscles moved when he smiled. I stared at those creases as if they were twin unicorns that he'd been hiding from me under his beard. Magical. My eyes moved down and lingered on his mouth for a second. When my eyes finally moved to his, his widened slightly before he looked away.

I went and got your bike and your coolers while you were sleeping, he said. I put everything in my refrigerator. I think it's fine. It was on ice.

Thank you, I said. So rain check on the cooking lesson? I laughed, putting my palm on my forehead and groaning slightly. I mean, if you'll let me back on your property again?

He smiled at me, not saying anything for several minutes. Finally, he lifted his hands. I'd like that. And I promise not to string you up from a tree next time.

I laughed. Okay, deal?

He grinned, the beauty of it knocking me on my ass, and then said, Yeah, deal.

I kept grinning at him like a loon. Who the hell knew that this day would turn out with me laughing? Not the girl who had been caught in a trap and strung up in the woods and lost her mind in front of the beautiful (as it turned out), silent man.

I sobered when he swallowed and my eyes moved to the scar at the base of his throat. I reached out to touch it gingerly and Archer shrunk back, but then stilled. I looked up into his eyes and let my fingertips very gently graze the injured skin.

"What happened to you?" I whispered, my hand still at his throat.

He swallowed again, his eyes moving over my face, looking as if he was trying to decide whether he was going to answer me or not. Finally, he lifted his hands and said, I was shot. When I was seven. I was shot.

My eyes widened and I brought one hand up and covered my mouth. After a second, I brought my hand down and croaked out, "Shot? By who, Archer?"

My uncle.

My blood ran cold. Your uncle? I asked, confused. The one who lived here on this land with you?

No, my other uncle. The day I lost my parents, my uncle shot me.

I don't… I don't understand. Why? I asked, knowing that my expression conveyed the horror I felt. On purpose? Why would–

Archer stood up and let his hair down out of whatever had been holding it away from his face. He walked to a small table behind the couch and picked up a small tube of something. When he walked back over to the couch and sat down next to me again, putting the tube on his lap, he said, I'm going to put some of this antibiotic ointment on your scratches so they don't get infected.

I guessed that he was done talking about himself. I wanted to press, but I didn't. I knew better than anyone that if you weren't ready to talk about something, no one should try to force you to.

I looked down at my arms and legs. There were several small scratches and a few larger ones. They stung very slightly, but nothing serious. I nodded okay to Archer.

He opened the ointment and began using one finger to rub a little bit on each abrasion.

As he leaned closer to me, I inhaled his clean, soap scent, something masculine and all Archer right beneath it. His hand stilled and his eyes darted to mine and held my gaze. Time seemed to stop and my heart sped up right before Archer broke our gaze and looked away, putting the top back on the small tube and setting it down in his lap.

That'll help, he said, standing up again. That's when I noticed his feet and gasped. There were cuts all over them, large and small, and they looked red and slightly swollen. Oh my God! What happened to your feet? I asked.

He looked down at them as if he was just noticing that he was injured. I couldn't find my shoes when I heard you screaming, he said. They'll be fine.

Oh, Archer, I said, looking down. I'm so sorry. You should bandage them. If you have some, I'll wrap them for–

No need. I put some ointment on them. They'll be fine in the morning.

I sighed. Surely ointment would help, but it wouldn't heal him overnight. Not with injuries that looked that bad. His feet looked shredded. God, he had run over rocks and sharp branches and thorny ground cover to rescue me.

I stood up. Can I use your bathroom?

He nodded, pointing at a door right off the main room.

I walked past him and into the small bathroom. Everything was clean and tidy in here too–the sink and mirror shiny and a light lemony fragrance in the air. I couldn't fault his housekeeping skills, that was for sure.

Sitting on the vanity was a bar of soap on one side and on the other side, every form of dental cleaning product available–an electric toothbrush, floss, several different bottles of mouthwash, dental piks, and–I picked up a bottle–fluoride tablets. Okay, so the guy was a little overly serious about dental health. Nothing to fault him for there either, I guessed.

I used the restroom and then went back out to join Archer. I smiled at him. So, I see you're pretty serious about your teeth, I said teasingly.

He smiled back and shook his head slightly, bringing one hand to the back of his neck. His hair hung in his face and I wanted to pull it back the way he'd had it so that I could see his beautiful face better again.

My uncle didn't trust doctors or dentists. He said they'd implant tracking devices if given access to your body. I watched him pull a rotten molar with a pair of pliers once. He grimaced. The health of my teeth became a big priority after that.

I grimaced. Oh God! That's awful, I said, about your uncle pulling his own tooth, I mean. Being diligent about dental health, though–it's a good habit. I couldn't help laughing slightly, and he smiled back at me, seeming more relaxed.

After a second, he asked, Are you hungry?

Starving.

He nodded. I don't have a big selection. I could make some soup?

That sounds great, I said. Let me do it. I promised you a big meal and instead had a nervous breakdown. Really bad manners. I bit my lip, but then laughed softly, shrugging my shoulders apologetically.

He looked at me and chuckled, his diaphragm moving under his t-shirt, but no sound coming from his mouth. It was the very first time he'd done something close to laugh in my presence. I drank it in, loving those creases in his cheeks.

We made dinner in his small, not surprisingly clean, kitchen. Chicken noodle soup and rolls. When I looked in his refrigerator, I turned back to him. Peanut butter, jelly, applesauce? Are you six? I grinned at him.

He didn't smile back, though, just looked at me for a few beats as if considering my question. In some ways, yes, Bree. In other ways, no.

The smile disappeared from my face. Oh God, Archer, I'm sorry. That was really inconsiderate–but he grabbed my hands to stop me and we stood that way for a few seconds, both of us just staring at our entwined fingers.

Finally, he let go and said, Bonus for friends of mine, though–I have twirly straws in that cabinet right there. We can blow bubbles in our chocolate milk. He tilted his head, indicating a cabinet over my shoulder.

I turned around slowly and then turned back to him to see him grinning. I tilted my head to the side. You being funny?

He just kept grinning. I laughed. Good work, I said, winking.

Archer showed me where his pots and pans were and I got busy heating up the soup. The appliances were older, but Archer had installed the most beautiful cement countertops. I'd seen something like it on an HGTV show one time, but they were nowhere near as beautiful as the ones he had done. As the soup heated, I ran my hand along them, marveling at his skill.

We ate at his small kitchen table and then cleaned up, mostly in companionable silence. I couldn't help being aware of him as he moved around the kitchen, his tall, lean body skirting around mine. I could see every muscle under his t-shirt, and I watched his arms flex as he washed and dried the dishes we had used, while I pretended to wipe down the already-clean counters.

When he was done, he turned to me, still holding a dishrag. He dried his hands as we looked at each other, something sizzling in the air between us. I swallowed hard, and I saw him swallow too, my eyes lingering on his scar for a portion of a second.

I looked back up at him and said, I should go.

He put the towel down and shook his head saying, I can't let you ride your bike home in the dark, and I can't walk that distance yet. He looked down at his feet, indicating his injuries. I'll be fine in the morning and walk you then.

I nodded, "Um…" I said, then signed, Okay. I can sleep on your couch.