Page 42 of Archer

The heater blasted as we made our way out of the neighborhood and onto the main drag across the islands. Cars and traffic blew by us, then shops and dunes.

I missed the easy, welcoming vibes of Carolina Bay when I was in Nashville. Strange that it was so good to be home, yet so filled with distress.

I hated that one man could ruin a whole experience like this.

Archer hit the turn signal, and my gaze moved to him.

I supposed it was also kind of fascinating that one man could make a miserable situation so hope-filled, and even a little fun. I’d had no idea what to expect when I went in search of a bodyguard, but it wasn’t this sexy, tattooed hero.

And I wouldn’t have guessed that someone who looked so intentionally foreboding could actually be hiding the heart of a marshmallow behind his overdone grumpy façade.

“What?”

I fixed my attention back on the road. “Hmm?”

Archer’s lips quirked again, but he returned his eyes to the traffic before us.

The bridge to the mainland stretched long and low over the sound, the water below catching the morning light in broken pieces. Something about the crossing felt significant. As if Shore Drive and the cottage existed in their own contained world, and we were briefly escaping it.

Archer drove with one hand on the wheel, comfortable and unhurried. The radio was off. The silence between us felt easy rather than loaded, which was something of a miracle given the last twelve hours.

“Do you know this area well?” I asked.

“Not really. I’ve only been here a few months. What about you?”

“I used to come over here with Gram for church sometimes. She loved this one little Baptist congregation in Manteo. Small place, old wooden pews, a choir that could rattle the windows. I haven’t been there since she died. I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.”

“When you are,” he said, “I’ll take you.”

The simplicity of the promise tightened my chest.

“Thank you.”

Forty minutes later, we pulled into a crowded lot outside a big-box store and headed inside. The building was cavernous and fluorescent-lit. Full of contractors in work boots and shoppers with weekend-project supplies piled high.

I adjusted my baseball cap, pulling it low on my forehead and shielding my eyes. My abundance of red hair was neatly braided, coiled and pinned into a bun beneath the canvas. I’d opted for an oversized Carolina Bay sweatshirt and jeans beneath my puffy coat, then shoved my socked feet into laceless sneakers.

Archer had worn black cargo pants and a gray t-shirt with boots. He didn’t have to worry about blending in like I did. Though I doubted he’d be inconspicuous anywhere outside a Marine base.

He moved through the store with deep focus. He even had a handwritten list, which I found endearing, and he collected the items in order rather than doubling back, which saved us time I would’ve wasted wandering.

“Do you always write lists?” I asked, watching him compare two packages of sensor brackets.

He slid his eyes briefly in my direction. “If I forget something, we’d have to make a second trip.” He set one package back and took the other. “I don’t like second trips.”

“I believe that completely. I’m more of a figure-it-out-as-I-go type, which is probably why I forget things at the store constantly.”

Archer carried the basket while I trailed along at his side. “What do you forget?”

“Usually, the thing I actually went out for.” I smiled. “I’m very good at buying the other thing I saw on a display instead.”

He exhaled through his nose, and it wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was something.

Lately, I collected those small sounds the way I used to collect shells on the beach.

With a disproportionate sense of achievement.

We turned down the next aisle, and I moved ahead to check the signage for the deck bolts Archer wanted.