A laugh slips from my throat even as tears trail down my cheeks.
James watches them fall, thenfinallyrelaxes.
“Good tears. Thank you,” I say, but it doesn’t feel like enough.
It was over a month ago when we made cinnamon sugar toastand I told him that little fact about the lights. He not only remembered it but came up with a way to fix it.
“How do you feel in here now?” He’s being so gentle with me, and my knee-jerk reaction is to assume that inside he’s actually laughing at me. Pitying me. Thinking I’m making too much of it.
“Good!” I chirp out a bright answer to throw him off.
“Mm-hmm. So why are you still standing in the doorway?”
“Because I’m just taking it all in.”
“Come on.” He steps closer to me, bends a little toward my ear, and whispers, “When are you going to believe me when I say, ‘I know you, Madison.’ That means I know when you’re lying too.” He lifts the tote bags from my hands, skin brushing against mine. “Take as long as you need.”
He carries the bags to the long worktable in the middle of the kitchen, where he sets them down and begins unloading.
I’ve always thought those industrial islands look like surgical tables. Sharp. Threatening. Where you’ll lay your hopes and dreams and either come off healed or with your heart carved out.
But James is there. My eclectic tote bags. Farm produce and the shadow his body casts.
It doesn’t look so scary.
“I think I’m ready to move,” I finally say.
He looks up at me, a wry smile in place. “Today, or . . . ?”
“Actually, next week sounds great! Maybe after the opening! By the way, I quit! Bye!” I pivot to run, but James is behind me in an instant, forearm hooking around my abdomen and pulling me back in. We’re both laughing, playing, as he turns me around and plants my feet back on the ground.
I like the press of his chest against my back. But then his hand slides down to hold mine, and I think I like that even more? I like everything he does all the time. It might be a problem.
“You can’t decide to quit before we’ve even reached step two.”
“You have an itemized process?! How many steps are there?”
“Somewhere between two and a hundred and eight.” He leads me to the countertop where the bags are all laid out and begins talking—one hand holding mine, the other unloading produce. I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m actually doing well. That my heart rate is steady and the usual panic isn’t showing its face. That he doesn’t have to hold my hand anymore.
I keep these thoughts to myself because I’m selfish and it feels so damn good to have his hand clasped possessively around mine.
I would say that I’ve missed having this physical contact with a man, but that would be untrue. I’ve never experiencedthis—whatever it is—with anyone else. It has nothing to do with hormones and everything to do with the organ thudding leisurely in my chest.
Reluctantly, I pull my hand away and help unload. I don’t need to feed this desire more than I have already.
“Did you bring any flour, by chance?” James asks casually.
“I did. It’s in that green canvas bag,” I say, pointing to the one on the far side of the counter. “Why?”
“No reason.” He pulls it out, opens it, and scoops his hand directly inside the bag. I’m horrified. Even more so when he hurls it onto the empty stretch of stainless steel.
My mouth falls open. “James. What the hell are you—”
I don’t get to finish. Flour explodes in the center of my chest. White powder mars my black T-shirt, and I stare down at the stark contrast.I’ve been hit.
I raise my eyes to the man with flour-covered hands. “Why?”
His only response is to sprinkle more around himself, like rose petals at a wedding. Deliberate. Defiant. Never breaking eye contact.
