“Three lumps,” Robbie hollered.
“We’ll both have one,” she corrected, kneeling on the woven rug. “That means we have two minutes to sort this mess. On the floor, sheriff.”
Robbie slid off the chair and, together, they re-stacked back issues of The Nickelodeon, The National Geographic, The Ladies Home Journal, Puck, and a half dozen others. The sheer variety fascinated her. What would it be like to have spare money for a magazine subscription? To be able to indulge one’s curiosity in different topics and sit around reading for pleasure? She couldn’t imagine.
“I brought these over from the family house up in Ballard,” Emil said, entering the living room with a wooden tray bearing three mugs and a plate of sweet bread. He set them on the table and then squatted beside her to join in on the sorting. “Once my father’s yacht company took off, my mother was determined to give us what they couldn’t afford before. We chose magazines. And every Christmas, we argue over which two subscriptions to buy. We’ve tried them all over the years.”
Olive stroked a worn issue of Harper’s Bazaar from 1898. “That’s a lovely tradition.”
“You say that now, but imagine an entire year stuck with The American Bee-Keeper because your seven-year-old sister screamed the loudest.”
Chuckling, she stretched a hand under the settee to grasp a magazine that had slipped beneath. When it resisted her tugging, she leaned down and peered underneath. Her eyes widened. The magazine was stuck beneath a basket of yarn. Yarn the same color as the scarf she currently wore. The scarf Emil had given her.
She pulled the basket out and goggled at its contents. Six balls of yarn, three sets of knitting needles, one newly begun scarf, similar to the one she wore, and a damning pouch of tobacco. She glanced up. Emil was still, looking as sheepish as her brother did when she caught him daydreaming during reading lessons.
“Are these yours?”
“That depends. Would you believe my mother is addicted to tobacco?”
“No.”
“Then yes, they’re mine.”
She touched the scarf around her neck. “And you made this?”
“I did.” He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Knitting helps me think.”
Olive brushed a finger over the intricate pattern. Emil, the cockiest man she’d ever met, was embarrassed to have made something so beautiful. The realization stunned her. She could tease him—mercilessly, even—but something about this moment felt delicate. He was showing her a side of himself he would have preferred to keep hidden. She couldn’t ruin that. Couldn’t diminish the gesture.
“You’re very skilled,” she said. “I’m honored you would give me one of your creations.”
“Thank you.”
Their eyes held, and the air crackled between them. She felt it, deep in her belly. A yearning to lean in and press her lips to his for her first kiss. To feel his arms around her, stroking her skin and setting her on fire?—
“This is boring,” Robbie announced.
Olive jumped and tore her gaze from Emil. “Robbie?—”
“Let’s play cops and robbers.”
“I don’t think Mr. Anderson wants to?—”
“Sure, why not?” Emil leapt to his feet. “As long as your sister and I are the robbers.”
Robbie rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. I know just the thing for bad men and women.” He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and dangled them in the air with a victorious expression.
Olive thought she might faint. “Where on earth did you get those?”
“They were on top of the magazines.”
“Oh my God.”
But Emil only laughed. “One isn’t enough. Let me get the second set.”
“The second…why do you have two?”
“Actually, I have three. Leftovers from my days on the Tacoma PD.” Her unease must have been obvious, because Emil added, “I also have several sets of keys. There’s no danger.”
