I pace one step closer, stopping at the opposite end of the table. “Elsie, I might have hopes. But I don’t have conditions. My disappointment would be with the outcome, not withyou. I don’t take your choice to protect yourself as a moral failure.”
Her throat works around a swallow. “Why not? I’m one misstep away from ruining everything.”
“You aren’t,” I say. “Just think about what you want the most out of all this. That’s what matters.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. I watch her fingers clench around her pen as if she’d rather snap it in two than answer. “I don’t know,” she admits. Quiet. Raw. “I don’t know yet what I want the most.”
“Then that’s your answer. For now. And that’s allowed.” She looks at me like she doesn’t quite believe it, like she’s waiting for me to prove myself a liar. “Whenever you’re ready to talk, really talk ... I’ll listen.”
She exhales shakily, gathers her things, and brushes past me toward the hallway. But when she reaches the threshold, she pauses, hand on the doorframe, head bowed.
“Wells?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not making me choose tonight.”
I swallow. “We have time.”
She nods once, then slips down the hall and up the stairs until she’s gone.
I stand there in the empty parlor, the fire hissing low, and I understand with a clarity that hurts: She may not choose this house. She may not choose me. And still, I’ll want her anyway.
26
ELSIE
The mantelin the parlor has been rattling since the storm blew through, and after a long week, it’s starting to grind both our nerves down to the base. Every time the wind whines down the chimney, the whole thing chatters like loose teeth.
I suggested we leave it—maybe the house wanted its own little song—but Wells gave me a look that could’ve stripped paint.
So, here I am, halfway up the ladder with a hammer in one hand and a nail pinched between my teeth, trying to look competent while he hovers below. I think he’s afraid I might swan dive into the hearth at any moment.
“Angle it left,” he calls.
I mumble around the nail, “Iamangling it left.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I roll my eyes and try again. My gloves make everything clumsy, my shoulders burning from holding myself steady. This is not my skill set, but I’ll be damned if I climb down and let him swoop in.
I’m about to drive in the hammer again when chaos erupts—Hemingway comes tearing through the parlor, chasing Harold,the mouse, tail high and murder-bright, skidding across the floorboards.
“Shit,” Wells mutters.
His hand clamps around my thigh, steadying me. I freeze. Not because of the ladder, but because his grip lands hot through the wool, firm and protective in a way that makes my pulse trip.
“Got you,” he says roughly. “Again.”
I glance down, and his eyes catch mine—steady, dark, too close. My pulse stumbles.
His gaze flickers once to my mouth, once to my eyes, once to where his hand rests firmly on my thigh. The slow, deliberate sweep of it makes my breath stutter.
“You always do,” I say.
The ladder steadies, Hemingway and Harold vanish down the hall, and still Wells doesn’t let go. The silence stretches long enough that I can feel it ringing in my chest. His thumb flexes unconsciously against my leg.
He can’t quite bring himself to let go, I think, and I have to admit that I don’t want him to.
