“No.” I take off my coat and hang it up, dusting off thesnowflakes and making a mental note to mop up the footprints before going to bed.
“Please! My fingers are all numb.”
“Nope.” I sit on the couch, turn on the TV, and feel her eyes burning into the back of my head. I’m biting back another smile, because I can sense her annoyance from here.
She suddenly sits next to me, boots still on, and puts her feet on the coffee table.
“No, don’t do that,” I say. “Get your feet down.”
“Nope,” she says, imitating me.
I frown. “Ella.”
She blinks. “You just called me Ella.”
I falter, words failing me for a moment. “Gibson, get your fucking feet off my coffee table.”
She ignores me, arms folded, and I huff out my frustration, sitting on the table and yanking her boots off. She grins and watches me do it.
“You’re annoying as shit,” I say, putting her boots by the door and returning to the couch.
“Am I? Or am I charming? What should we watch? Let’s watchDie Hard! It can be our thing.”
She snatches the remote, and I sink back into the couch, sighing. Once she finds the movie and presses play, she falls asleep within ten minutes, her feet on my lap, and I watch most of the movie alone. Even her damn feet are warm. Is this woman a furnace?
I watch her from the corner of my eye. She took out her braids before lying down, and her hair fans the cushion and her shoulder. She’s in a sweatshirt I haven’t seen before and has a pillow in her arms, squeezing it. She’s in a deep sleep, breathing steadily, and maybe, just maybe, I like her this way. Quiet. Approachable.
Maybe I get why Asher stayed for her. She isn’t totally terrible. She’s funny sometimes, her cooking is great, and I like how animated she gets when she talks about her books. Sometimes I don’t even listen, I just watch her—the brightness of her eyes, her smile, her hands flying everywhere as she describes a scene or character.
And then there are times like this, when she’ll fall asleep on the couch, and … yeah. I can see why Asher gave up everything for her.
Because as much as I don’t want to admit it, she’s kind of beautiful.
I’ve never looked at a woman like I look at her. I’ll hang around her in the hope she’ll make me laugh or tell me something about her that I don’t already know. She’s … interesting. Almost fascinating.
Sometimes, I linger in the kitchen as she cooks, watching how she cuts vegetables or prepares meat. She’ll talk about her dad, her mom, school and work, filling the silence with endless stories that sound so much better when she tells them.
She’s like … a friend. I’ve never had a friend other than Asher before.
I move her feet off my lap. I need to wake her up; it’s almost seven, which means time to write, but a selfish part of me wants to keep her like this a little longer.
I sit beside her and hover my hand over her arm.
I should wake her, but now I’m closer, and my hand is on her arm, and for the first time, I enjoy the warmth.
Protecting Ella Gibson has its issues; I always knew it would, but I didn’t think this would be one of them. I didn’t think a part of me would protect her for something other than Asher’s memory.
“Ella,” I say quietly.
She opens her eyes and looks at the TV, then up at me.
“I missed the movie,” she says, propping herself up on her elbow and rubbing her face.
Her eyes meet mine. I can see the flecks of gold in them, the freckles across her nose. The proximity to her isn’t unusual. I’ve slept closer to her than I am right now, but this feels different. My hand is still on her arm, and I’m screaming internally at myself to move away, run for my damn life, because this is … different.
This isn’t listening to her stories or watching her cook.
This is two people alone, at night, a fire crackling, and not enough space between us.
