Something raw flickered in those gray eyes. Maybe it was hunger, or maybe it was his restraint on the verge of snapping.
“Then we’d have to be real careful,” he breathed. “Because once they’re gone, they can’t be redrawn.”
The silence stretched taut as wire.
Then he stood, gathering the plates with slow, deliberate movements. Muscles shifted under his shirt as he carried everything to the sink. I stayed frozen, heart hammering, skin buzzing.
He washed the dishes without looking at me, but I could feel the weight of his awareness. When he finally turned off the water and dried his hands, he glanced over.
“Got some errands to run this afternoon,” he said, voice rougher than before. “You need anything while I’m out?”
I stood and shook my head, not trusting my voice.
He nodded once then walked past me toward the hall. His arm brushed mine. It was just the lightest graze, but a sharp jolt shot through me.
He paused at the doorway and looked back. “Welcome home, Lila,” he said softly.
Then he was gone.
I stood there alone in the kitchen, staring at the empty doorway, replaying every word, every look, and every careful inch of distance he’d maintained and then deliberately closed.
I stood there alone in the kitchen, and the silence only made my pulse pound harder.
Chapter Three
Lila
The first couple of weeks back home passed in a rhythm I hadn’t expected. It was slow, comfortable, and almost intimate in its routine.
Or maybe that was because I was seeing Marcus in a totally different light than I should have?
Since I wasn’t starting at the firm for a while yet, that left my days wide open, and most of them ended up revolving around the house.
Around Marcus.
He’d already started the renovations before I arrived, and so I kept myself busy by going room to room and packing everything up.
But I’d find myself watching him make the place sell-ready. Fresh paint in neutral tones, new hardware on the cabinets, sanding down the scuffed hardwood in the living room and hallway, and replacing a few warped baseboards that had been bugging him for years.
“Gives me something to focus on besides the empty rooms,” he’d said once when he saw me watching him.
I threw myself into packing up a lifetime of memories. I hated how my mother had left so much stuff, but it wasn’t a topicI was going to ask her about, wasn’t something I even cared to know.
My mind was awash with so many questions on how things were permanently changed now that I was just going through the motions. I’d rather help Marcus pack it all up than leave him to deal with the frustration of doing it alone.
Mornings were gentle. I’d wake to the sound of him moving downstairs, smell the coffee brewing, and then hear tools clinking as he prepared for the day.
I’d come down in leggings and an old T-shirt, hair in a messy bun and find him already deep in whatever project he’d picked for the day.
And when I needed a break from packing, he’d stay silent as he handed me a brush or a putty knife like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The first real afternoon we spent working together, we tackled the kitchen cabinets. He’d pulled the doors off, and now we were sanding the frames, dust hanging thick in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
I was on my knees, working a sanding block along the lower cabinets, when he stepped over me to reach the upper ones. His thigh brushed my shoulder. I felt how firm and warm it was through his jeans.
He steadied himself with a hand on the counter right above me. For a second, his leg pressed against my back, solid and unyielding.
“Sorry,” he muttered, but he didn’t move right away.
