Her smile was small, decorous, as if we were being watched by God.
I squeezed her hands, ready to let them go.
“Wait. I want to thank you, Micah, um…”
I swallowed, waiting for her to finish, then realized she’d forgotten my last name. “Graham.”
“Micah Graham. Thank you for everything you’ve done. The meals, the bed, the…” she glanced at my bedroom door behind me, then back. “Thank you for living here. For being home to save me. For hearing the crash, for running down and pulling me out. For being so strong.” Her eyes were shiny now and I needed her to stop. I couldn’t handle tears from this woman.
I tried to release my hand, to reach out and make her quit it, but she wouldn’t let go.
“Listen.Please.Thank you for being a man who needs his solitude enough to live here. Right here, where I needed you.” She leaned forward, brought our hands to her mouth, in something like a prayer, and whispered one lastthanksagainst my skin, before letting me go.
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say to that—certainly notAmenorYou’re Welcome—so I stayed silent, digging into my food with significantly less appetite than I’d had a few minutes ago.
19
Christa
Ifelt hollowed out inside. Exhaustion probably wasn’t helping. And the other stuff. The way this man’s presence plucked at my nerves, the way he turned my body on, set on this constant low hum.
And now I’d gone and embarrassed him. So, that was good.
I sniffed and looked around, in search of distraction.
Food. That would work. I took a bite and sighed. “This is delicious.”
Micah grunted, not quite meeting my eyes.
What a contradiction this guy was, with his wild exterior, when so much about him, from this meal, to his house, and the way he’d treated me so far spoke of absolute civility. Somebody’d taught him right.
“Did you say you had four sisters?”
He huffed, set down his silverware, and took a swig of his beer. “Yeah.”
“Older? Younger? Where do you fall in there?”
“I’m the youngest.”
“Holy crap. What was that like?”
“Good.” He shrugged. “Arguments, screaming. A lot of laughing. And advice. So much advice.”
“About what?”
“Everything. Girls, friends, school, what I should wear.” He smiled now, for real, and his handsomeness hit me like a punch to the gut.
“What was Christmas like with that many kids?”
“Insane.”
“How?”
“Somebody was always pissed off about a present not being good enough or not what they wanted.” He grinned and his shoulders lifted. “My dad used to measure the boxes. If the girls didn’t get the exact same number and size, every year, they’d lose their minds.”
“Geez. That sounds stressful.” But also very, very fun.
“What about you?”
