"Are they dry enough to burn?"
"Not yet. I'll start with these." He held up a handful of brown leaves and small twigs. He pulled out his knife again and shaved some of the twigs into fine strips, then pulled the lighter from his jeans pocket.
"Do you smoke?" I asked.
"Hell, no." He shot me a sharp look. "Never have."
"Sorry, I just... the lighter. Why do you carry it?"
His scowl deepened, and I got the distinct impression this was territory he didn't want to enter.
He went back to gathering twigs, snapping them across his knee. "My old man smoked like a chimney," he finally said, keeping his eyes on the stack. "I watched him hack up his lungs every morning for years. Was enough to put me off smoking for life."
"That makes sense," I said.
He shrugged. "Yeah, well."
"So, why the lighter then?"
"Never go anywhere without one." He held my gaze for a moment, and I thought he'd say more, but he didn't.
And I didn't push.
This cowboy was capturing my interest, and stirring emotions no other man had awakened. The men I usually surrounded myself with were academics who made it their mission to prove their intelligence at every opportunity. They wielded their credentials as weapons and bombarded others with unsolicited opinions. And then there was Marcus, who slept with me, then screwed me over. Our hours of late-night research discussions had felt so genuine. But he, too, had used me, and all those conversations had been him memorizing my research so he could steal it.
I was a damn fool when it came to reading men.
But Mitch was different. He made it his mission to keep himself locked up tight. He revealed nothing unless absolutely necessary and rationed his words like he was stockpiling them for something.
Maybe that's why I found him so fascinating.
He flicked the lighter open. The flame caught, and he cupped his hands around it, leaning in close. He blew gently on the kindling, coaxing the fire to life. My stomach tightened as I watched his mouth, the purse of his lips, the way his breath made the flame dance. Heat crept up my neck that had nothing to do with the flames.
As the fire grew, he stacked branches on top. When he seemed satisfied it would hold, he returned the multi-tool to the pouch on his belt. I imagined Mitch put everything away the moment he finished with it. He'd hate to see my apartment. I had so much structure in the rest of my life that my little bit of chaos at home gave me balance.
He sat with his back against another tree, facing the fire, his head resting against the bark.
But the damn smoke drifted in my direction. I fanned it away with my hand and shifted sideways, but it was no use, the smoke followed me as if it had a personal vendetta.
"Come here." Mitch's tone left no room for discussion as he patted the ground beside him.
“Okay.” I rolled my eyes. "Only because you asked so nicely."
He glared at me.
I chuckled. But the thought of standing terrified me, so I crawled over on my hands and knees and settled beside him, leaning back against the tree trunk.
The setting sun painted the sky in shades of orange and gold that seemed too beautiful for such a horrendous day. We sat in silence, watching the flames flicker in the gathering darkness, and I felt every throb and sting ricochet through my body like my body was a pinball machine.
I shifted my weight, trying to find a position that didn't make my feet scream.
"Take your boots off," Mitch said.
I blinked at him. "What?"
"Your blisters. Let me see the damage." It wasn't a request.
"It's okay?—"