I clear my throat and tug on the back of my neck, the skin hot under my palm. “There’s not much.”
And why would she care? The beautiful, smart witch has much more interesting topics to fill her time, I’m sure.
Mor shrugs. “Short stories are still stories.” She starts the car. “Will you tell me more? About yourself?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you’d like to share.”
I ponder that as she pulls onto the two-lane road that’ll take us back through Folk Haven and toward Lake Galen.
“How about the first vacuum cleaner I fixed?”
She huffs out a breath that sounds like a curious laugh. “A vacuum cleaner?”
I offer her a hesitant smile. “Yeah. I, uh, I’ve always liked vacuum cleaners.”
Mor’s smile widens to a grin, and I’m relieved to read only delight and no mockery in the expression.
And a shiver brushes down my spine at her next husky words.
“Tell me.”
26
Mor
The strangest thinghappens on the drive back from the grocery store—and not just the fact that I find myself fascinated by Bo’s description of a vacuum cleaner.
No, what really throws me off is how I become suddenly fascinated with Bo himself. I mean, up until this grocery run, I found the monster interesting. His past, his tangled grid of feelings, his plans to approach a world he hasn’t lived in for almost two decades.
But that was a general curiosity that I’m sure plenty of people who know about his circumstances would feel.
Now though, my interest has widened to include more things.
Like his forearms and how they tense when he gestures.
Like his deep voice and how the pitch leaves goose bumps rising along my skin in waves.
Like his thick thighs and how they shift in his jeans as he turns toward me in his seat.
Like his broad body and how much space he takes up.
And how I like it. I like all of it.
I’ve never been so mesmerized by someone’s physicality before.
Aware, sure. I notice how people look in a general sense.
But suddenly, with Bo, I want toexplorehis body. Want to touch and caress parts of him I can see and parts of him that I can’t.
So odd.
The urge remains when we arrive at the library and as he helps me carry most of the groceries into the kitchen of my house. When he sets a bag down on the table, my eyes find the way his fingers flex around the cloth handle. In fact, I can’t remove my focus.
That is, until Bo shoves his hands deep into his pockets.
A flash of rich brown calls my attention, and before I can block out my magical insight, I’m already interpreting the emotion.
