I swallowed, hard. “What happens next?”
He didn’t answer. He just held my gaze for a long, hot second, then handed me the broom and went back to the workbench.
I sat there, trembling, heart ricocheting around my chest. For the first time since I arrived, I felt less like a guest and more like a match left smoldering next to a pile of dry kindling.
If he was going to make me wait, fine. I could wait. But if he ever decided to light that fire, I’d burn for him, easy. I caught myself smiling at the thought. It hurt, but I didn’t care.
It hurt in exactly the right way.
* * * *
There’s a certain intimacy in washing dishes with someone who could snap you in half. Knox insisted on after-dinner chores as if the fate of the farm depended on it. He’d stand at the sink, rolling up his sleeves with military precision, each fold exposing another inch of forearm and turning my knees to pudding.
I was in charge of drying, which meant I stood at his side and tried not to stare, tried not to compare my bony wrists to his, tried not to imagine what those hands could do if they weren’t wrestling grease off a cast-iron skillet.
Sometimes he’d lean in to grab a plate, and the barest brush of his elbow against mine would send a jolt through my body, like I’d been plugged into the grid. I’d lose track of whatever Iwas holding—a dish, towel, my own dignity—and then spend the next minute trying to recover before he noticed.
He always noticed.
Tonight, the kitchen felt smaller than usual. The air was thick with steam and the faint odor of fried chicken, plus that distinct McKenzie blend of pine cleaner and smoke from the woodstove.
Ransom had vanished with his usual post-meal efficiency, and Ma was in the parlor watching her stories, leaving just the two of us alone with the mountain of dirty plates.
Knox filled the sink, then looked at me with a sideways glance. “You can handle glass, right?”
I gripped the towel like a lifeline. “I have a steady hand. Sometimes. Unless I’m holding something fragile. Or in a high-stress situation.”
He smirked, then dunked a mug in the soapy water. “High-stress. That what this is?”
I went red, but managed to keep my voice level. “You’re pretty intimidating.”
He snorted. “You’re the least intimidating person I’ve ever met.”
“That’s not true,” I protested. “I once got a parking meter guy to take back a ticket. He looked terrified.”
He didn’t respond, but the edges of his mouth twitched.
I counted it as a win.
We fell into a rhythm. He scrubbed and I dried. The first few minutes were easy, but then he shifted his weight and his hip pressed against mine, firm and warm and very much there.
My heart started racing. I tried to focus on the dish in my hands, but my eyes kept wandering to the tight line of muscle visible under his rolled sleeve, the way a vein ran from wrist to elbow like a roadmap.
He had a tattoo I hadn’t seen before, just above the inside of his right elbow—a set of coordinates, maybe, or a code.
He caught me looking. “Something on your mind?”
Yes. Only everything.
I tried to play it off. “Just wondering what the tattoo means.”
He glanced down at his arm. “Service coordinates. Place I got stationed out of boot.”
“Oh,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. “I thought it might be the coordinates for buried treasure or maybe a secret government base.”
He laughed, soft and low. “That’s on the other arm.”
I stared, because of course I did, and then the pan slipped in my hand and clattered to the floor. I bent to pick it up, but he beat me to it, straightening with his chest nearly flush against my shoulder.
