Placing a soft kiss on her forehead, I pull back half an inch. “Let’s go eat that pie while I pretend it’s made of the rooster.”
“You are evil,” she giggles, and the sound is like sunlight in the darkest of places.
“I just might be.” With that, I throw my arm over her shoulder and lead her toward the kitchen, trying to calm my internal thoughts that would sure make her blush.
31
Nora
Jericho’s house is warm, and not just from the heat. It’s the kind of warmth that sneaks up on you. Gentle at first but stubborn. Then it settles in your bones and convinces you that maybe, just maybe, you are very welcome here.
We haven’t said much since we sat at his kitchen island and he started devouring that potpie while I watch him, propping my chin on my interlocked hands.
He looked surprised when he opened the door, like he didn’t actually think I’d come. But he didn’t send me away either. I would have. After the way I froze him out after everything went down at the diner. But I got spooked by the new feelings. By everyone’s eyes on me. By Cheryl’s uncertain posture. By his intense stare right into my soul.
Now we’re sitting on his couch with my sock-clad feet popped up onto his thighs. It feels so… familiar. Like we’ve been doing it for a long time. Yes, I’d been to this house many times before he moved in, but now it seems familiar on a different level. The air screams about Jericho’s presence. The changes to the house he’s already done. His black cup on the counter. The lack of clutter.
There’s a couch and a few other things around—the majority of them have been in this house through many owners—but now they feel like they truly belong to him. He changed almost all the appliances but kept the fridge. That old vintage monster somehow has become a centerpiece of the space. The old oak coffee table by the couch looks brand new and yet worn out. It’s been sanded and stained and now it looks like it’s been ordered out of a high-end magazine.
New countertops and a freshly painted kitchen make this place proclaim that it’s a man’s space—dark, moody colors with high contrasts.
The house belongs to him. And I need to make sure it’s only his energy that remains here.
“You are missing a good burn,” I announce in a voice that implies I run for president.
“Excuse me?” His head turns to me with wide eyes.
“You need to burn sage. To cleanse the house of the energy of its ancestors.”
“Its ancestors?” He slowly blinks twice.
“Yeah.” I wave my hand around the living room. “The people who used to live here. Sage will burn away all the negative energy.”
He blinks again and scratches his beard. Then blinks one more painfully slow time. I might have overdone it; maybe Jericho isn’t ready for my antics, just like everyone else. Giving myself a mental smack, I open my mouth to say that I’m joking when Jericho beats me to it.
“I was just?—”
“Will you do it for me?”
“Wait, what?”
“Will you do it for me?” he repeats. “Burn sage and cleanse my house of the negative energy?” His smile is so open and infectious that I feel mine stretching my face too.
“It will be my honor.”
“Deal then.” He smacks his knees with too much enthusiasm at the prospect of sage cleansing for someone who thought me crazy for bathing in the moonlight a couple of months ago. “Do we need to go and buy it?”
I place my palm to my chest. “You did not just offend me like that!”
“I didn’t.” His eyes run around. “I didn’t?”
I start laughing watching him looking like a deer in headlights. “I have sage. I grow it in my backyard during our short months. It’s tough, but I get enough for a couple of seasons.”
“I don’t know anything about growing… sage. What do you need to grow more of it?”
“A greenhouse.” My voice turns dreamy as I recall all of the Pinterest photos I have saved in my secret folder. “With irrigation and temperature control so I can grow things all year long.”
“I’ll make you one,” he says without hesitation.
