He studied me, something warm and gentle coming into his beautiful eyes and he nodded simply, yes.

**********

While Archer washed up, I made myself at home in his small kitchen and got to work preparing a meal for him. It was the first time I had cooked in almost a year, but I felt nothing except happy and satisfied as I chopped and mixed and prepared, humming as I worked. Archer came in and poured potato chips into a small bowl and took a container of onion dip out of his refrigerator and set it on the counter. Appetizer, he said, smiling.

Fancy. I laughed, and then pushed a few chips aside to get to one that had folded over during the frying process. Those were my favorite. They were slightly crunchier and were perfect to use as a little scoop for the dip. I popped it into my mouth and grinned at him, getting back to work.

We didn't talk much as I cooked, as my hands were busy, but Archer seemed content just to watch me, standing with one narrow hip propped against the counter. I glanced at him a couple times, standing there with his arms crossed on his chest and a small, happy smile on his face.

Several times he pulled me to him and kissed me deeply, and looked awestruck again when I didn't stop him. Then I grinned and found another folded chip and popped it into my mouth.

When dinner was done, I set his small table and we sat down, and I dished up the food. Archer grabbed my hand and said, Thank you for this, looking almost like a little boy who didn't quite know how to express what he truly meant. Thank you, he repeated. I understood what that simple thank you meant though. No one had taken care of him in a long time.

He took a bite and sat back, and his face took on that same dreamy expression that had been on his face after our first kiss. I grinned. Good?

He nodded his head, still chewing. You were right, you're a really good cook.

I smiled. Thank you. I used to cook at our deli. My dad and I came up with all of the recipes. We used to cook and bake together.

I stared off behind Archer picturing my dad flicking flour at my face and then pretending it was an accident. I smiled slightly–the memory bringing a warmth to my chest, not the tightness I had experienced over the last six months whenever my dad's memory came to mind.

You okay? Archer asked, looking at me concerned. My lips curved into a wider smile, and I grabbed Archer's hand, squeezing it lightly.

Yeah, I'm good.

Suddenly rain started falling gently outside the kitchen window and I looked over, furrowing my brow slightly. I looked back at Archer when I saw his hands moving in my peripheral vision.

It's not supposed to storm tonight, he said, obviously reading my mind.

I breathed out, and smiled, relaxing my shoulders.

Archer studied me, grabbing my hand and squeezing it.

I got up and went to his front door, calling to Phoebe, who was already on the porch. I brought her inside and she settled herself on the rug in the living room.

I returned to the table and Archer and I got back to our food, neither one of us saying anything for a couple of minutes as we both continued eating.

After we'd eaten, Archer helped me clear the dishes and clean up the kitchen. As I dried a plate he had just washed, I said, "Archer, something happened at the diner today that I wanted to ask you about."

He looked over at me, his hands in the sudsy water and nodded.

I set the dry plate in the cabinet and signed, A woman came into the diner today and… I paused, thinking about my wording. She didn't threaten me exactly–more like a warning, I guess. But she told me to stay away from you.

Archer was staring intently at my hands, and his eyes darted to my face, his brows furrowing. He cocked his head to the right, but he looked wary almost as if he knew what I was about to say.

Victoria Hale? I said and immediately, his jaw hardened and he turned his head, looking down into the sudsy water. He was still for several seconds before he brought the pan he had been scrubbing up out of the water and threw it into the other, empty side of the sink, causing a loud, sudden clattering sound and making me startle.

He brought his wet hands back and raked them through his hair, then stood stock still, that same tick in his jaw clenching and relaxing again and again.

I touched his arm gently, and he didn't look at me, although his body relaxed slightly.

I drew my hand back and paused for a second, taking in his tense body and strained expression, thinking that I'd never seen Archer Hale angry. I'd seen him wary, and shy, and uncertain, but never angry. I wasn't sure what to do.

He took a deep breath, but said nothing, looking over my shoulder, his mind suddenly somewhere far away.

Will you tell me about her, Archer?

His eyes darted back to me, clearing. He took another deep breath and nodded, yes.

We dried our hands and left the last of the dishes in the sink, moving into the main room. I sat down next to him on the couch and waited for him to speak.

After a second, he looked at me and said, When my uncle was dying, his head seemed to… clear a little sometimes.

He drifted off again for a second, gazing over my shoulder momentarily and then snapping back to the present. His eyes found mine again.

It was almost like that cancer ate up some of whatever it was that made him… different mentally. He had these moments of normalcy that I'd never witnessed in him before, or at least not for extended periods of time.

Sometimes during those times, he would confess things to me–about all kinds of stuff. Things that he had done in his life, how he had loved my mother… A brief flash of pain crossed his features before he went on.

One day, I came into his room and found him crying, and he pulled me over to him and kept telling me how sorry he was. When I asked him why, he told me that when I was in the hospital right after I was shot, he brought one hand up to his scar unconsciously, rubbing it gently and then brought his hand back down, the doctors told him that my voice box could possibly be repaired, but that there was a limited time frame in which to do it. He paused again, his jaw clenching a few more times, bitterness filling his expression.

But then he told me how he'd told Victoria about the scheduled surgery, and she started planting it in his head that it would be better if I couldn't speak. If I couldn't speak, I couldn't be questioned. She exploited his paranoia so that he cancelled the surgery and missed the opportunity for me to ever talk again.

I sucked in a breath, horrified. Why? I asked. Why would she do that? Why wouldn't she want you to speak?

He shook his head, looking away for a second. Because I know things that she doesn't want shared. Or maybe she just hates me. Maybe both. I've never really figured it out. He shook his head again. But it doesn't really matter.

I furrowed my brow, confused. Archer, surely she knows that you can write–that you can communicate if you want to. What is it that she doesn't want shared?

He took a deep breath. It doesn't matter, Bree. It's nothing I'd ever talk about anyway. That's the worst part about it. She took my one opportunity to be normal, to be a real person, to live a life like other people do–and all for nothing. I would have never told her damn secret anyway.

Archer, I grabbed his hands, bringing them to my heart as I had done earlier. You are a real person, you can live a life like other people do. Who told you you can't? It felt like my heart was cracking. This sweet, smart, gentle man thought so little of himself.

He looked down, shaking his head, unable to respond to me, because I held his hands against my chest.

I didn't ask him more about the secret he held against Victoria. I knew that Archer would confide in me as he felt comfortable. He had lived his life alone and isolated, with no one to talk to for so long. Just like me with the cooking and the intimacy… baby steps. In our own ways, we were both learning to trust.

I did have one final question though. I let go of his hands and signed, Why would she tell me you're violent? It was almost ludicrous. Archer was the gentlest man I had ever met.

She came out here after my uncle died, after she'd seen me in town a couple times. I have no idea why, and I don't care. I was angry, and hurting. I pushed her out my gate. She fell on her ass. He looked ashamed, although he had no need to, at least not in my book.

I pursed my lips. I understand, Archer. She deserved it and much more, too. I'm sorry.

He looked over at me, studying my face. He tilted his head, something seeming to come into focus in his eyes. You didn't pay her any attention. You asked me about her after we… kissed.

I nodded my head. I know you, I said simply.

He looked like he was working out a puzzle. You believed me over her immediately?

Yes, I said. Absolutely.

We stared at each other for a couple beats and then his face broke into one of those heart-stopping grins. I almost groaned, heat racing through my veins. That smile was mine–I was going to wager that no one had made Archer Hale smile like that in a long, long time. I felt greedy and possessive of that beautiful smile. I grinned back.

Can we kiss some more? he asked, his eyes shining with desire.

I laughed.

What? he said.

Nothing, I answered. Nothing at all. Come here.

We made out on Archer's couch for a long time. But it was sweet and gentler this time, our intense need from earlier quenched for the time being. We learned each other's mouths, memorized each other's taste, and just enjoyed the intimacy of kissing, lips to lips, breath to breath.

When we opened our eyes and he stared down at me, smoothing my hair back and tucking a piece behind my ear, his eyes told me everything that his voice couldn't. We communicated a thousand words, without a single one being spoken.

Later, after the gentle rain shower had dwindled to nothing, Archer walked me home, wheeling my bike next to him, Phoebe sitting quietly in the basket.

He grabbed my hand, looking at my shyly and smiling as I smiled back, feeling my heart swell in my chest.

Then he kissed me on my front steps, a kiss so sweet and gentle that my heart ached and I could feel his soft lips on my own long after he had walked away and turned the corner out of sight.

CHAPTER 18

Bree

The next day, my phone jolted me out of a deep sleep. I looked at the clock. Four thirty in the morning? What the hell?

"Hello," I said groggily, pressing the answer button.

"Honey?" It was Maggie.

"Hey, Mags, what's up?" I asked, concerned now.

"Honey, I'm taking you up on your offer to work the kitchen today. Norm was up all night pukin' his guts up–sorry for the TMI–and there's no way he can go into the diner. If you decide you don't wanna do it, that's okay. But, if so, we're gonna have to put a closed sign on the door."

I paused very momentarily, knowing that closing the diner for even one day was going to take money out of their pocket. Their children were grown, but I had heard Maggie mentioning to a friend that she and Norm had been working their butts off the last couple years to make up for the retirement they hadn't put away while their kids were in college. "Of course I'll do it, Maggie."

She let out a breath. "Okay, great. Thanks so much, hon. I'll see you there shortly?"

"Yeah, and give Norm my best."

"Will do, honey, thanks."

I hung up. I was going to be cooking for people today. I sat there for a couple minutes, but didn't feel anxious about it–other than the nervousness of being able to keep up with the orders that came in. Maybe it was because I had gotten my feet wet cooking for Archer, or maybe it was just because I was in a better place now concerning my emotions and fears. In any case, I didn't have time to sit here thinking about it all day. I needed to get to the diner and start getting the kitchen ready.

I took a quick shower, pulled on my uniform, dried my hair and pulled it back into a low bun, making sure all my hair was contained. I took Phoebe out and then fed her, and rushed out the door.

Ten minutes later, I was walking into the diner, Maggie obviously having just gotten there minutes before me.

"I'll help you set up," she said. "It's pretty straightforward though. If you feel comfortable making eggs, a few omelets, bacon, and pancakes, you'll be fine. Nothing we serve is too complicated."

I nodded. "I think I'll be fine, Maggie. Just let the customers know that this is my first day, and hopefully they'll tolerate their meal being a few minutes later than they're used to." I smiled.

"I'll take care of them." She smiled back.

We got busy taking all the omelet ingredients out of the refrigerator and putting them in the containers at the back of the counter behind the grill for easy access. Maggie beat several cartons of eggs and put them in containers in the refrigerator under the counter so that would be ready for me to pour straight on the grill as well. Half an hour later, and I felt like all my ingredients were prepared. Maggie went to start brewing coffee and to turn the sign around on the door from 'closed,' to 'open.'

The bell started ringing over the door a few minutes later as the first customers started coming in.

I spent the morning making omelets, frying rashers of bacon and hash browns, and pouring Norm's pancake batter onto the griddle. A few times I fell behind just a little bit, but overall, for my first time in this particular kitchen, and cooking for large amounts of people on a timeframe, I felt great about the job I'd done. I could tell Maggie was pleased too, by all the winks and smiles she shot me through the open window. "Doing a bang up job, honey," she called.

When things started to slow down a bit, I started putting my own twist on a few of the dishes–a little garlic in the eggs I used for the omelets, a splash of cream in the scrambled eggs, buttermilk instead of water in the pancake batter–things my dad had taught me.

As I was cleaning up the kitchen in preparation for lunch, I whipped up my special potato salad with bacon, and a roasted pepper pasta salad that had been a favorite in our deli. I smiled as I did it, my heart rejoicing in the fact that this wasn't a sad task, but rather something that kept my dad's memory alive.