Lance realizes, with mixed feelings that range from hurt to amusement, that Robbie has never searched Lance’s name on the internet.

“I’ve done some modeling.”

“Oh.” Robbie’s eyes are a little wide, and it seems like he’s having a hard time not letting them drift over Lance, as though knowing Lance makes a living out of being looked at makes Robbie want to look, as well. “I, well. That makes sense.” He clears his throat. Lance’s lips twitch with the effort not to grin as a wash of dark red appears in the line of skin above Robbie’s beard and below his cheekbones. “I mean, you’re—” He gestures at Lance, then clears his throat again and picks up the coffee can, fumbling it at first so that its metal bottom rattles against the floorboards until he gets a good grip and pushes himself off the floor with his other hand. “You’re really…well.”

It’s like the moment in the kitchen that morning with the spilled coffee, all over again. Awareness of the energy between them rushes through Lance, and he has that irrepressible urge to—perform. He stretches his legs in front of him but keeps his feet flat on the floor, easing back on his hands. Not quite a pose, and yet he knows exactly how it makes him look. Just like he knows that when he holds his chin down at this precise angle, then looks up—

Robbie staggers backward a half-step, dropping the can and then catching it in his other hand with remarkable dexterity. They stare at each other, Robbie breathing heavily and his eyes aglow, Lance trembling with the effort to contain the undeterred yearning that ate him alive between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. Maybe it’s never stopped eating at him at all.

“I’m gonna wash up,” Robbie mutters, his voice as rough as gravel under snow tires. He strides the short distance to the kitchen, drops the can in the sink, and then leans over the counter with his back to Lance, his shoulders high and tight, his head slung low between them.

Chapter Twelve

Robbie

Robbie doesn’t have the stockpile of non-perishables he wishes he did, considering that the snow shows no signs of letting up.

That’s what he makes himself think about: his proverbial bare cupboards. He times the mental inventory with the drawing and expulsion of his breaths. Deep breath in: three dented cans of tomato sauce. Slow breath out: one jar of sundried tomatoes with the label peeling off. Deep breath in: two vacuum-sealed, one-pound bags of quinoa which Megan brought over to the house, and Robbie hid out here so that he could pretend he’d eaten it. Slow breath out: a few teaspoons of the loose leaf tea that only Danny drinks, barely covering the bottom of a mason jar.

Maybe he should call Danny. Hearing his brother’s voice will remind him how many people could get hurt if he lets attraction overcome his better nature.

“I’m going to ride up to the hay meadow and check on the mustangs.” He thinks his announcement sounds reasonably casual. He sneaks a glance at Lance to see whether or not his minor crisis has somehow gone unnoticed.