Riley
“Thank you.”
That whisper hits me like a tornado. His hands brush mine as he takes the pie, and I have to concentrate on breathing. The scent of apples and cinnamon mingles with oil and smoke, and the garage suddenly feels smaller. I don’t know which one of us looks more surprised — me, giving him a pie I baked in the bar’s kitchen, or Breaker, standing beside my car that somehow looks brand new.
“You fixed it,” I say. “You really fixed it.”
He sets the pie down and wipes his hands on a rag, trying to look casual. “Needed work.”
“Breaker, the window’s replaced. The whole thing looks different.”
He shrugs. “Couldn’t stand seeing it the way it was.”
Something inside me folds with the warmth that’s almost painful. It stirs memories of times before, times that started with so much promise and led to so much heartache.
“You didn’t have to do that. It’s so much, really. I don’t know how to say thank you, so I figured I’d bring something better than a sandwich.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “You think this pie could top that one-of-a-kind sandwich?”
I grin. “Maybe.”
“You hungry?”
The way he looks at me makes me nod before I can think.
We sit on overturned crates at the workbench, the pie between us. It’s apple. My grandmother’s recipe. Something pulled from half-remembered memories and conjured with a whispered prayer as I used an oven for the first time in what seems like forever. Breaker finds two forks, wipes them clean on a shop towel, and we dig in straight from the tin. It’s ridiculous, really — us eating pie in a greasy garage, rain tapping the roof like a heartbeat. But for a while, it feels easy and safe.
He tells me about growing up on the southern Oregon coast, about a father who left and a mother who tried her best but didn’t know how. Then, slowly, he talks about the Marines, though not the glory parts, but the ghosts. The ones that follow him home and live on in graveyards.
“I watched good men die,” he says, voice low. “And some of the ones who lived… didn’t come back right. Sometimes I don’t think I did either.”
My chest tightens. It takes everything I have not to reach out and touch him. “You still did something brave.”
He shakes his head. “Brave doesn’t mean clean. Or good.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just sit there with him, our shoulders close enough that I can feel his heat. The quiet between us feels like something solid. When I glance at him again, there’s whipped cream on the tip of his nose — a tiny white smear. I look at it for a moment, then another, and his eyes meet mine, and I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “Breaker…”
He looks at me, brow furrowed. “What?”
“You’ve got — ” I reach out before I can stop myself, dabbing the spot with my fingertip. “Whipped cream.”
His eyes drop to my hand, then back to mine.
“Yeah?” he says quietly.
“Yeah.” I hold my finger out, expecting him to laugh, maybe grab a napkin. Instead, he takes my wrist gently, as if he’s afraid I’ll pull away.
Then he leans in and sucks the whipped cream off the tip of my finger.
The world stops. My pulse trips over itself; air catches in my throat. It’s barely a touch — just warmth, the slide of his lips, the rasp of his breath — but it feels like being branded.
When he lets go, he doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
“I…” My voice cracks, and my eyes go to my finger, and I see a hint of white remaining. Something heated floods through me, and before I can stop myself, I say, “You missed a spot.”
He smiles then, small and dangerous. “Is that so?”
