Page 38 of Captured Heart

He leaves, and I continue cleaning, washing the dishes, wiping down the counters, and then sweeping and mopping thefloor. When I’m done, Alex still hasn’t come down. I make some popcorn for us, and he still hasn’t made an appearance by the time it’s ready.

That’s a long time, and I start to wonder if maybe his stomach didn’t agree with my food. “Hey, Alex?” I call. “Everything okay up there?”

When he doesn’t respond, I walk upstairs. The bathroom door is open, and Alex isn’t in it. I find him across the hall in the guest bedroom that my dad converted into a study. He’s in front of the filing cabinet, but he has his back to me, so I can’t see what he’s so engrossed in.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask.

I see the muscles on his back tense. A few seconds pass and then a few more. A heavy, audible breath is released before he turns around, and he’s holding a photo frame in his hand. “Sorry. I was walking past, and I saw this picture.”

My eyebrows furrow together. “Was the door open? I don’t remember leaving it open.”

He must be preoccupied because he ignores the question and walks to me with the frame still in his hand. “Do you know what car this is?”

I look at the picture and see my grandad holding my dad as a toddler in front of a gray, boxy-looking car. “An old one.”

He glares at me, unimpressed at my response, and I have to stifle a giggle. “Katie, this is a 1982 Buick Regal. Your grandad had impeccable taste. Ilovethis car. My uncle used to have one.” His face remains expressionless, but I can hear the child-like excitement in his voice. “He used to own this small auto repair shop. The first car I ever fixed was that Buick. When the engine roared to life, man, I was—” He stops himself short. “But that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have come in here without your permission. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. There’s nothing much in there, anyway. Just some documents and my grandad’s old medical records. I use it to study when I’m too lazy to go to the library.” I smile because, oddly enough, I like that he revealed another sliver of his past to me. “You seem to know a lot about cars.”

“I do. Mostly the older models, though.” He walks back, returning the frame to its rightful spot on the filing cabinet. “We should go watch that movie?”

And just like all the other times, that’s the end of delving into his past. “Yep.”

We go back downstairs, and I grab the popcorn from the kitchen before walking to the living room. Alex is already seated, taking up most of the space on my two-seater couch. With his arm stretched along the backrest and his left ankle propped up on his right thigh, he’s definitely made himself comfortable in my house.

I sit on the opposite end of the couch, trying to keep a respectable distance, but the space between us is so small it’s impossible not to feel the heat radiating from his body.

The movie starts, and I try to focus, but my eyes keep drifting to him. He’s completely absorbed in the screen, unmoving, barely blinking. It’s a Clint Eastwood classic,Unforgiven, one he said was his mom’s favorite, yet he shows no emotion. I thought maybe the sentimentality of it may crack his exterior, but he’s a steel wall. It’s like it holds no meaning for him at all.

A shootout erupts on the screen, the crack of gunfire booming in the quiet room. Alex doesn’t flinch, his expression still stiff and unchanging. Even when one of the characters delivers a dry, sarcastic line that should at least warrant a chuckle, there’s absolutely no reaction.

“Hey, Alex,” I say.

“Yeah,” he responds without looking at me.

“Do you ever smile?”

He glances at me. “What do you mean?”

“I still haven’t seen you smile once. Not during dinner, not when we were talking, not even during this movie. And don’t tell me it’s because of the movie. There were about three moments worth at least a smirk.”

He shrugs, turning back to the screen. “I have no reason to smile, I guess.”

“Really? Not even one?”

“Not even one.”

That answer feels heavier than it should, but I’m not about to let him sit there like a statue all night. Without thinking, I grab a piece of popcorn and toss it at him. It hits his cheek and bounces onto the couch.

He doesn’t even blink.

“Really?” I say, smirking as I toss another piece. This time, it lands squarely on his shoulder.

He finally looks at me, one brow raised. “Are you done?”

“Not even close,” I say, grabbing a small handful.

Before I can throw more, his hand shoots out and snatches my wrist. His grip is firm but not painful, and his eyes narrow slightly. “Quit it.”

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