He studied me for a few moments as if he wanted to make sure I meant it, then crawled into my arms again. We hugged until we shivered from the cold, and even then, we were reluctant to let go, as if we both knew time was running out.
TWENTY-THREE
CHARLES
We’d found a little piece of heaven in this cabin, but I knew it wouldn’t last. Not when Carlo was still out there. Not when Eamon—for whatever reason—was still keeping secrets from me. Not when he had that haunted look in his eyes from time to time, as if something endlessly heavy was weighing down on him.
It was our fourth day in the cabin, and we’d spent the morning going on a short hike to an overlook. It was still bitterly cold, but the views over the snow-covered high peaks of the Adirondacks had been totally worth it.
We’d warmed up with more hot chocolate and had settled on the couch to read, but Eamon was restless. He couldn’t focus on his book, kept getting up, moving around. He didn’t like to sit still, I realized. He was a man of action.
“Come on,” I said, rising from the couch.
“What are we doing?”
“I’m going to teach you to make bread. With Wolfgang.” I started gathering ingredients. “It’s therapeutic, trust me.”
Eamon watched with fascination as I explained the process, taking some of Wolfgang, then measuring flourand salt while I heated water to the right temperature. His attention was completely focused on me, which was a heady experience.
“The key is to not overthink it,” I said, showing him how to mix the ingredients until they formed a shaggy dough. “Bread wants to be made. You have to give it what it needs and trust the process.”
When it came time to knead, I guided his hands with mine, showing him the rhythm of folding, pressing, and turning. He was a quick learner, his movements becoming more confident as he found the feel of the dough.
“Like this?” he asked, and I nodded, standing close behind him with my hands covering his.
“Perfect. You’re a natural.”
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, taking turns with the kneading. There was something deeply intimate about it—creating something together with our hands, flour dusting our clothes and fingers, the domestic rhythm of it feeling like the most natural thing in the world.
“I can see why you like this,” he then said. “It’s almost hypnotizing.”
“It is. When I’m stressed, kneading dough will help me calm down. It’s like my brain slows down while my hands do the work.”
“I can see that. I like it. More than I had expected.”
“I’m happy to teach you.”
“You’re a good teacher.”
“When we get back to Charming, I could teach you how to make cinnamon rolls or sticky buns or anything else you like.”
Eamon went tense behind me, his hands stilling on the dough. When I turned to look at him, there was something raw and painful in his expression, like I’d stabbed him.
“Charles…” he started, then stopped, his jaw working like he was struggling with words that wouldn’t come.
“What is it?” I reached up to touch his face, concerned by the sudden change in his demeanor. “You look like I suggested something terrible.”
“It’s not terrible. It’s perfect. Too perfect.”
“What does that mean?”
He stared down at me for a long moment, conflict warring across his features. For a second, I thought he was going to tell me whatever secret he’d been carrying, whatever truth he’d been holding back.
“Eamon,” I said softly, “you can tell me anything. I want to know the real you. Whatever it is you’re hiding, whatever you think might scare me away, it won’t. I promise.”
Something broke in his expression then, a crack in the careful mask he wore. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes, I do.” I stepped closer, my flour-covered hands framing his face. “I know you’re not telling me everything about who you are. I’ve known it for days. The inconsistencies in your stories, the way you react to things, the way you talk about Ireland like you lived there yourself…” I saw him flinch, but I pressed on. “I don’t care. Whatever your real story is, whatever you think you need to protect me from, it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
