The silence stretched again, but it was different this time — warmer, thicker. I could feel her at my side, just close enough that if I shifted, we’d touch again.
“You should sit,” I said, mostly because I needed the distance. “It’s warmer here now.”
“Right. Because you fixed it.” She said it as if it were a challenge, but she dropped to her knees beside me, anyway. From the corner of my eye, I saw the faintest grin stretched across her lips.
I felt her shoulder brush mine as she held her hands toward the flame. My pulse jumped as though it had no discipline whatsoever.
She tilted her head. “You’re really not going to look at me, are you?”
“I’m trying to,” I said, throat working around the words “be polite.”
Her smile turned slow, sharp around the edges. “Polite’s overrated, Silas.”
And before I could think better of it, before I could remember all the reasons I shouldn’t want what I already did, I looked.
Her eyes caught the light like amber glass. Her lips were parted, still soft from sleep. The fire popped, and for one wild second, I thought I might lean in.
Instead, I said, “Breakfast. I’ll make us something.”
And stood before she could see me shake.
CHAPTER 7
Silas
The pan hissedwhen I cracked the eggs in. I told myself to focus on that — on the sizzle, the smell of butter browning, the familiar rhythm of a task I couldn’t possibly screw up.
Behind me, she was humming to the faint tune of some Christmas song, the one that had been playing when I first walked in last night.
“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” she asked.
I glanced over my shoulder. She was perched on the counter now, knees tucked up, blanket draped like a cape. Her hair was a tangled halo — all soft waves and pale-pink streaks that caught the firelight like spun sugar.
“I know how to cook eggs,” I said.
“Famous last words.” Her fingers curled tighter around her mug, as if she could will the warmth into her very bones.
“They’re not that complicated.”
“You’d be surprised.” She grinned, eyes bright. “My ex once burned a pot of water.”
“You’re right. That is impressive.”
“He also cheated, so, you know. Not much of a cookora person.”
My hand froze around the spatula. She said it so casually — a landmine buried in the middle of her teasing. I cleared my throat. “That’s… unfortunate.”
“Understatement of the year, Mr. Author.” She tilted her head. “What are you planning on working on up here?”
I focused on flipping the eggs,noton the teasing cadence of her words. “Fiction.”
“That’s helpful.”
“I didn’t think you’d care for specifics.”
“I don’t,” she blurted, then squinted. “Actually, that’s a lie. Please tell me everything.”
When our eyes met, hers were sparkling, and an almost feline grin tipped the corners of her mouth upwards. “Romance? Science? They did a pretty good job with the filmThe Way We Move, I think. Ansel Barlowe was a fantastic Theo?—”
