I found rest when Mariano found me.
My restless spirit settled.
Behind my eyes, the candle burned, and behind me, so did the man who held me in his shielding arms.
Chapter 17
Sistine
The flicker of the candle seemed to blossom into the bright light of a fall day. My eyes blinked against the brightness of it, and I turned to Mariano with a smile. It fell. He was gone. His side of the bed had been touched by the chill in the air. The chill could not touch the warmth of his scent. It consumed the room, along with mine, and circulated as if a fan was on.
My eyes rose to the ceiling.
It was turned off.
I should have known. There was not a chance in hell Mariano would have allowed that fan on. He was against anything touching me that was cold while my allergies raged. At this point, it had turned into a cold, but I did not want to call it that in front of him. He did not seem to do well with this term, or any term that would imply my body was fighting something his could not cure. He even had slipped his footballer sweater over me. I had not been wearing it when I fell asleep.
Next to the candle, he had left me a note:
My Annie,
Going for a run. Probably be back before you wake up. If you wake up before I get back, I left a thermos of sweetgrass tea for you. Drink up. And don’t forget to warn that fucking sockelf. If I come back and they’re gone, someone is going to fucking pay.
Miss you already, my Annie,
Mariano
My right leg stuck out of the covers. I must have kicked it off. That foot’s sock was gone. I tore the cover completely off, searching for it. I did not want any elves to die on my account.
“This what you’re looking for, Annie?”
My eyes snapped up, and an instant smile came to my face. “You’re my knight in shining armor!”
“Fuck me sideways,” he grumbled, coming to the bed, sitting beside me. He kissed me on the forehead, lips, that one lingering, before he took my leg and slipped my missing sock back on. “I can’t leave you alone or that fucking elf sneaks in and steals my sock.”
“Your sock?”
He reached over and poured me a cup of tea, then handed it to me.
“Grazie,” I whispered, my hands cradling it for the warmth.
His eyes glittered in the sunlight, and for a long moment, I was lost. Perhaps he was lost, as well, because he cleared his throat before he spoke. His voice was still as rough as gravel. “Mine,” he said, hitting his chest. “What’s yours is mine.”
“Ahhhh,” I said, blowing and grinning into my cup. “I see. Does this mean, what is yours, isah, mine?”
He gave me a look, a look that was much too smooth and distinguished to labelduh,but that was as far as my groggy brain would go.
“That sneaky fucker is a lucky son of a bitch. I figured out the game.”
“The game?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, the fucking game. He doesn’t really want your sock. He just wants to touch my feet.”
“Myfeet.”
“Mine.”
“If they are yours, will you paint them?” I fluttered my lashes at him—jokingly.
