I ran into the kitchen and pulled open the microwave door. Inside, a burrito-shaped log sat on a decorative plate, covered by a scorched paper towel. I grabbed the plate gingerly and set it on the counter.
“That appliance attacked us in cold blood!” Toby exclaimed, so close I could feel his breath against my damp shoulder blade and smell his spicy, clean cologne. “It murdered that vegan burrito! Unacceptable.”
“A murder microwave to match the murder cat?” I snorted. “Why is it always murder with you?”
“Excuse you—”
“How long did you put it on for?”
“Two minutes! As instructed.”
“Toby, I’ve been in here way longer than two minutes.”
His mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Are you… are you insinuating that I cannot program a microwave for two minutes? Because… because that’s crazy talk. I have a job. I have a-a-a degree. I am a very capable person!”
I could feel emotions streaming off him—annoyance, injured pride, embarrassment, curious vulnerability—and it was the last one that jabbed me in the solar plexus. I remembered something I’d been blocking out all morning—Toby stretching his arm across the Great Wall of Blankets to link pinkies with me. And I realized, with that same instinct that had made me buy the variscite years ago and told me never to settle, that Toby really hated feeling vulnerable.
He was a lot like Marjorie that way.
“No,” I said solemnly. “I’d never think such a thing. I’m saying that clearly this microwave has been plotting its attack for more than two minutes. It was deliberate. And cold-blooded.”
Toby jabbed the burrito lump angrily with his finger. “Much like this burrito, which is smoking but somehow still frozen inside.”
“Even worse.” I took the plate to the trash and dumped the burrito in. “This burrito was innocent. A whatjamacallit? Casualty of war.”
“And there goes your home-cooked breakfast,” he sighed.
“You didn’t need to make me breakfast anyway.”
“I was attempting to pay you back for rescuing me last night. I’ll have you know, I’m a fucking amazing cook. I make a steak au poivre that is to die for. I make a cheese-and-bacon soufflé that has made men drop to their knees.”
Yet another helpful visual. “I believe you,” I croaked. “But did I mention I’m vegetarian?”
Toby’s eyes shot to mine, and his full lips twitched in a smile that made me take a step back.
“So, what time’s your flight?” I moved around the counter and slid back onto the stool, just as Toby set a steaming mug of water and a few boxes of tea in front of me. “I’m assuming you’re leaving today, and I’m happy to drive you to the airport! I can be ready anytime. Even now, if you wanted. And I technically have plans this afternoon, volunteering for the Nature Center, but I’ll postpone them if you need me to!” The sooner I got this confusing man off the island, the better.
Toby pressed his lips together. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, before the murder microwave. I don’t have a flight… as such. For one thing, I don’t have a phone, and I had to cancel my credit card—”
Oh, right. “Well, then I’ll lend you the money!” I interrupted. “Heck, I’d gift it to you!”
“Absolutely not.” He shook his head. “I would never accept money from anyone, and I don’t borrow money from anyone either… except maybe Mason,” he said reluctantly. “Maybe.”
“Then let’s call Mason! You can borrow my phone!” I grabbed it out of the inside pocket of my shorts. “Easy as that.”
“I considered that. But, um…” He blew out a breath and cast his eyes to the ceiling. “That’s not the only consideration. I left New York under less than auspicious circumstances.”
I narrowed my eyes. He was holding himself upright, his shoulders locked tight, but those same emotions I’d caught earlier were still bleeding through—wounded pride overlaying desperation.
“These circumstances… are we talking a bad breakup? Or like the FBI might be assembling on the lawn?”
Toby rolled his eyes and leaned his elbows on the counter. “Nothing that exciting, no. More like, circumstances involving a man and… well… another man, and… you know what? The details are unimportant here.”
I huffed out a laugh. If I’d needed further confirmation Toby wasn’t the guy for me—and I did not—this would have been it. Wounded and vulnerable he might be, but he was also a freestanding drama generator.
“Suffice it to say, going back to the city right now would be sort of problematic,” he continued. “Because I’d really rather that none of my acquaintances knew where to find me. So I’d rather stay here.”
“Here,” I repeated.
“Yes, here.”
“On Whispering Key.”
“Yup.”
“In… in this house.”
“Uh-huh.”
“With, um… with me. And Marjorie.”
Toby sighed and set a hand on his hip. “Yes. Until Mason comes home. Once I explain the situation to him, he might have some advice.” He snorted. “Oh, who am I kidding? He’ll have all kinds of thoughts and opinions, and he’ll express them forcefully.” He rolled his eyes. “But I don’t want him to know until he gets here, otherwise he’ll feel like he has to come home early. I don’t want him to ruin his trip just because I made some choices.”
I caught myself on the verge of smiling, because this sounded so much like me and Rafe, but then the penny dropped.
Mason wouldn’t be home until Friday. Almost a week from now.
A week of sleeping next to Toby. A week of having him share this small space. A week of smelling whatever sexy cologne he wore and knowing exactly how he was built under his clothes.
“That, um… things could be tight?”
Toby’s eyebrows flew up. “Things?”
Fuck.
“I meant… space. With you and me. And—” I waved toward the single bedroom with its one bed.
“True,” Toby agreed. “We’d be re-enacting that age-old story of two incredibly attractive men in one teeny-tiny bed.”
“You make it sound like the setup for some cheap porn,” I croaked, my voice gone all rusty.
“Precious, any porn involving me would be the highest-quality porn.”
I lifted one eyebrow.
“But that is, indeed, how all the stories end.” He gave me a sinner’s grin that made my palms sweat. “We could cut to the chase now and get it out of the way if you want? I’d be happy to mitigate any… inconvenience…my presence might cause you? Tit for tat?” He came around the counter to walk his fingers up my bicep.
I shook my head
“No, thank you,” I said primly, moving his hand away. “You can keep your tits and tats right where they are.”
“Fine, fine.” Toby rolled his eyes and resumed his spot on the other side of the counter. “I’m not going to coerce you. I shall resign myself to starring in the most boring, platonic non-porn of all time. But is it alright, then?” He raised his chin, clearly hating every moment of having to ask this favor. “For me to stay?”