My finger finds a frayed edge on the hunter green sofa and runs over it.
“Have you looked in on Douglas?” There’s more talking on the phone. “Aye. I walked to Rhona’s this morning. She’s fit. Patty? Aye.”
Listening to their back-and-forth is like trying to decipher a code. They’re clearly going down the list of people they feel need to be checked on due to the snow and the inability most people have to leave their houses. Not Gavin, evidently, since he walked somewhere this morning to check in on a neighbor.
His phone is off and sliding into his pocket shortly. “Rory reckons rest and ice or heat will sort you. If it bruises or swells though, we’ll need to call him again.”
“I don’t think I injured myself.”
A sole eyebrow rises.
“A little twinge isn’t an injury. You’re worrying over nothing. People put their backs out all the time.”
Gavin’s face turns to stone, his eyebrow slotting into its regular position like a robot returning to its original settings. Something I said hit a nerve. I should be grateful for his concern, but it all feels dramatic and over the top. He’s like one of those puzzle boxes with all the different shapes. If I put every piece in the exact right position, it holds, but when they don’tslot together right, it collapses. With Gavin, I can’t figure out where any of the pieces go.
Which is incredibly frustrating since I’ve been in school for over five years studying psychology. My endgame is a doctorate in minds. My counseling thus far has been successful, even though my supervising clinician can’t stand me. Understanding the human brain is what I do. It’s why I put up with teachers who hate me and overpriced apartments and living so far from my family—to get my hands on the piece of paper that’ll open the doors allowing me do this full time.
I have a feeling Gavin would be a challenge for most people.
“I’ll fetch the ice,” he says, leaving the room.
I shift on the sofa as he moves, watching him go. If Luna and Rhys were here already, there would be so much noise and activity and laughter we wouldn’t have time to be in each other’s space. But we’re alone, surrounded by several feet of snow with no means of escape. It has shoved us together for the day, at the very least. Possibly two.
I close my eyes and press my heels against them. It’s time to make the most of it.
“Are you in pain?” he asks.
I drop my hands and look up. Gavin is holding a Ziploc bag of frozen…are those carrots? His eyes are glued to me, so I reach for them. Yep, peeled and chopped and totally frozen. “These will defrost.”
“Figured we could do a stew. The weather’s fair begging for it.”
“Agreed.” I put the bag against my lower back and position it against a pillow to keep it in place. When Gavin sits beside me, a wave of his woodsy scent drifts my way, and it takes effort not to inhale it slowly. He smells divine. He looks divine. He cooks divinely. “Why are you single?”
Gavin’s eyes snap to mine.
“This is a purely professional inquiry,” I say quickly, mymind jumping to that moment when my hand gripped his lapel in front of my hotel. “I’m studying to be a psychologist.”
His face clears. “That does explain a few things.”
“So?” I know how presumptuous I’m being, but the question slipped out on its own, and now that I’ve asked, I can’t help but commit. “From this angle, it’s hard to imagine why the ladies around here have let you remain single.”
Gavin leans back on the couch, his hand brushing over his chin thoughtfully. He gives me a wide smile, his teeth on full display. “Who says I am?”
Then the blasted man walks out.
CHAPTER NINE
GAVIN
I haven’t toldCallie that we’re having guests for dinner tonight—not with the thickening snow and the good chance they’ll not make it. Her sore back gave me a good excuse to thaw out bags of potatoes, onions, and carrots I grew in my garden, then chopped and kept in the freezer. She’s claimed the pain is gone, but Rory wanted her to keep icing it, so I’ve pushed the icing as long as she’s let me.
By the time evening rolls around, all the ingredients are set simmering on the stove. The warm yeasty smell of baking bread mixes with the hearty, savory stew to fill the house with the smells of comfort food. It’ll draw her down from the attic soon, I reckon. I’ve noticed she tends to appear when the kitchen smells decent. Like clockwork.
Brilliant. Treating her like a dog, aren’t I?
The front door swings open, the hinges squealing through the air. Ireallyought to fix that.
“Knock knock,” Granny calls.
