“Soon,” he said. “I promise. Just… not yet.”
Soon.She’d been hearing that word for three weeks. It was starting to lose its meaning.
But she nodded anyway, because what else could she do? She’d told him she understood. She’d told him she could give him time. And she meant it—she did.
She just wished time would hurry the hell up.
“I’ll walk you out,” she said.
“I know the way.”
“Maybe I want another excuse to look at you.”
His ears went flat against his skull—the rabbit equivalent of a blush, she’d realized. It happened whenever she caught him off guard with something unexpectedly sincere.
“Goodnight, Sara,” he said gruffly.
“Goodnight, Thumper.”
He shot her a look that should have been annoyed but landed somewhere closer to fond. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and she was alone with her mismatched mugs and her restless longing.
She flopped back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling.
Soon, she told herself.He said soon.
She was going to hold him to that.
A week later,Sara still didn’t have any new throw pillows, but she did have Ben’s jacket draped over her kitchen chair.
He’d left it there three nights ago after walking her home from the tavern. She hadn’t returned it. He hadn’t asked for it back. It felt like progress—a claim staked, however small.
“You’re sniffing my jacket.”
She jumped and dropped the jacket. Ben stood in her kitchen doorway, ears pricked with amusement, a paper bag in one hand.
“I was not.”
“Your nose was definitely touching it.”
“I was checking for… moths.”
“Moths.”
“It’s a vintage leather jacket. Moths love vintage leather.”
His lips twitched. “They don’t, actually.”
“Shows what you know about moths.”
He set the paper bag on the counter, moving past her close enough that his arm brushed hers. The contact sent electricity skittering across her skin. She wondered if he felt it too—that constant, building charge between them, like a storm waiting to break.
“I brought dinner,” he said. “You sounded tired on the phone.”
“Field trip day. Fourteen kindergartners at the butterfly sanctuary.” She peered into the bag, inhaling the rich scent of tomatoes and cheese. “Is this from Antonella’s?”
“Her Sunday red sauce. Made me promise to tell you it has extra cheese.”
“A woman after my own heart.”
