I want the chance to see what we might make of ourselves together, without risking what we have.
I’m not sure I can have both.
Or that I’ll get the chance for the first.
Then, soft footfalls outside my door presage the creak of hinges as it opens.
It’s not my daughter, as Anamaria would knock. Johanna does not, sure enough of her welcome to take several steps toward the bed before pivoting to join me at the window. An ankle-length robe covers her, but she removes it to drape across the bureau as she walks.
Moonlight shimmers on the pale pink gown running like watery silk over her curves to just above her knees. Highly unsuitable for winter, no matter that we keep the house reasonably warm. It’s also noticeably shorter than the ones she wore the past couple of nights.
A subtle sign of encouragement? Or chosen because, even in the mix of shadow and moonlight, the color resembles the pink roses delivered to her earlier?
Dozens of questions burn, but I force them down. Whatever happens between us, or doesn’t, must be Johanna’s choice made clearly and coherently in her right mind. Let her give me that sign, and I’ll fetch down the moon for her if she asks. For now, the greatest gifts I can offer are patience, time, and respect.
A line I find harder to tread with every time she turns to me or comes to my room. Or leans against me, as she does now, shoulders and hips pressing against mine. Sweet cranberry perfume hangs about her.
She tilts her head, rubbing the top against my shoulder, marking me whether she means it or not. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
“The bed was cold.” I swallow the words I’d otherwise add:without you.
“So you stand half-naked at the window instead?” Her hand brushes over my bare chest, leaving every hair standing on end. Petting me in a way no one has for more than a decade. It’s a fleeting caress, over too soon to take as any kind of sign except that she’s comfortable with me.
“Four sets of Halloween decorations still up. Two houses already set for Solstice.”
Johanna laughs, then touches my chest again, this time noticing the goosebumps left by her first caress. “You’re colder here. Come get under the covers—between the two of us it’ll be warmer there.”
Loaded language. Her tone is lower than usual, deep and resonant, but not suggestive. Shadows cover enough of her face to hide any indication of whether she meant me to take her invitation other than exactly as offered.
The mattress shifts as we settle, lying flat with a bare inch between us at the closest points: hands and shoulders. With the curtain back over the window, the room is almost wholly dark. Blue lines at the edge of the bed tick away minutes on the alarm clock. Residual chills in my feet leave faster than they should, but sleep eludes me.
Evidently Johanna, too, for she rolls over and leans against my side. One hand settles on my chest, and her head tucks into the curve between my neck and shoulder. Her breath warms my ear.
“You haven’t asked,” she says.
“About what?”
That earns me her fingers, tangled in my chest hair, giving a sharp tug.
I roll to my side, facing her in the dark. Her hand moves to cup my shoulder, so I rest a hand on the lovely dip of her waist. Warmth flows from the places where we touch to circulate everywhere else.
“About the roses. The book. Who sent them.”
“That’s your business.” The heat of my breath comes back at me, our faces are that close. “It’s only mine if you let it be.”
“That’s pretty strict.” She pulls away, a sudden stream of chill air flowing between us.
“I’m trying not to push.” The words escape unbidden. I snap my mouth shut and grit my teeth, unable to call them back.
She doesn’t answer for aching, long minutes, then settles back next to me. Instead of laying a hand on my shoulder, she cups the back of my head. “Thank you.”
My own hand returns to her waist. My fingers do not stray. I swallow, jaw aching.
“I don’t know yet. There aren’t enough clues, and I hate not knowing this kind of thing.” Her silky gown rustles as she moves closer, the cloth brushing my body from chest to groin.
“I wish I’d thought to send roses.” Creating what I’d seen of the book would never have occurred to me, but I could’ve remembered how she enjoyed receiving flowers.
“You don’t need to.” She yawns and rubs her cheek against me. “You’re giving me this.”
