The moon is full as thin clouds drift across it, dimming the light just enough to keep the yard wrapped in shadow.
Almost instantly, Pix trips into me.
“Sorry,” she says, pushing herself to standing.
“I’m used to it,” I tease.
Two steps later, she does it again.
This time, I catch her easily, my hands sliding around her waist. A move that’s instinctive and natural.
And dangerous.
Still, I don’t let go. Uneven ground. Poor lighting. Basic safety concerns.
Right. Keep telling yourself that.
“It smells wonderful out here,” she says.
It does. Pine and cold earth and something sweet that lingers so close to her that I have no choice but to breathe her in.
“Winter honeysuckle,” I say, clearing my throat. “It grows wild out here. The kids love it when we camp out.”
I guide her to the left, along a narrow path worn into the ground by the back-and-forth foot traffic of my munchkins. “It’s just over this hill.”
She squints at the slope. “What is? The sacrificial altar?”
“Har.”
The yard slopes up, and by the time we reach the top, I’m practically carrying her. Which is… alarmingly easy. Like my body volunteered and has no intention of backing out now.
When we clear the hill, it comes into view.
“Whoa,” she breathes. “What is this place?”
“It was a greenhouse,” I say. “Came with the property.”
The structure sits tucked into the clearing, glass panes catching the moonlight, vines crawling up the frame and softening the edges.
I reach past her and pull the door open. The hinges creak softly, and I flip the switch. Fairy lights blink overhead.
“It looks magical,” she says, awestruck.
Slow and curious, she steps to the center, taking in every corner.
Against one wall sits a large outdoor chaise layered with blankets and mismatched pillows. Pix immediately starts folding the blankets, neat and methodical.
I cross to the vintage potbelly stove in the corner and strike a match. The fire catches easily. I add two fresh logs, the flames licking higher as warmth begins to spread through the space.
A soft thump hits my back.
I turn to find a pillow on the floor and snatch it up.
Pix stands there, the very bastion of innocence. “Whoops,” she says.
I arch a brow. “You can’t throw a long pass and call it a whoops.”
I toss it back to her.
