Page 22 of Exile

“Something I thought you’d like.”

He took the book from my hand and opened it, flipping through the pages and examining the Polaroid pictures. Each one was a snapshot from my road trip: a misty forest somewhere in British Columbia, a lonely stretch of highway in Alberta, and a quiet lake reflecting the sky in Ontario.

“These are yours?” he asked, his tone softening.

I nodded. “Took them when I drove through Canada the past six months.”

He paused on a photo of an old barn surrounded by golden fields. For a long moment, he just stared at it.

“These are great,” he said quietly, his voice honest.

I smiled. “Thanks. You can keep it for a while. Look at the pictures more closely.”

He turned another page and then gave me a single nod. “Thanks.” His voice was so sincere that it sent shivers down my spine.

“You’re welcome. Are you sure you don’t want to try the cake? It’s chocolate. Everyone loves chocolate.”

He sighed. He was about to say no when I gave him a knowing glance. “Fine.”

He pulled back the chair at the end of the table and gestured for me to sit down. As I did, he went to the kitchen to grab a knife, plates, and two forks. Once he was back, he sat down next to me, his knee briefly touching mine under the table.

I looked at him as he cut two pieces and placed each on our plates, and after his eyes lingered on his for a moment, he finally picked up his fork and stabbed into it. His face didn’t give much away as he took the first bite, and I held my breath, watching him.

“It’s not bad,” he muttered.

“Not bad?” I raised an eyebrow, grinning at him. “That’s the best compliment I’ve gotten from you so far.”

He smirked back. Barely. And the flicker of it did something dangerous to my pulse.

We ate in silence, and the silence was comfortable.

My attention kept slipping to the subtle way his fingers gripped the fork or his jaw moved when he chewed.

“You really drove across Canada by yourself?” he asked finally, his tone softer than I was used to.

“Yeah,” I replied, brushing a crumb off the table. “Six months. Just me, my car, and whatever random songs the radio decided to play.”

He nodded, his dark eyes unreadable, and the silence came over us again.

When we finished our cake, I stood, reaching for the plates, but Caspian stopped me with a hand on my wrist. His touch was brief, but it burned right into my skin.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, his voice low.

I nodded. “Alright. Thanks.”

As he went to the kitchen, I weighed my next move. I had come to hang out with him, but I wasn’t sure he wanted me around any longer.

I stood up, pushed the chair under the table, and walked over to the kitchen. I watched his back, taking in his posture and muscular body. For sixty-one, he was very fit.

My eyes drifted down his back and to his ass, which I stared at for a while too long. It was suddenly his crotch I was staring at when he turned around to face me.

“Eyes up here,” he demanded.

I felt my cheeks burn, and in the strangest way, I felt caught. Dirty.

Biting my lower lip, I wrapped one arm around my waist. “Are you busy today?”

He watched me, his expression tight as usual. “No.”

---