“You’re not leftovers, Malia,” he said. “You’re the reason I’m still standing.” And then he did something I was not expecting. He gently took my hand, his fingers interlacing mine, and squeezed it. Not possessively, not boldly. Reverently.
And just as soon as he held it, he let go and looked away, color in his cheeks. I looked away too, letting the sea fill the silence. A mixture of awareness and awkwardness seemed to charge between Alaric and I. We were standing too close. He just took my hand. And all I could think was,What does it mean?I did not understand what was happening,but, more confusing than that, I was both terrified and delighted at the same time.
Later that evening,I kneaded some dough, trying to sort through my thoughts. There was a festival in town the following day, and Noni recommended I give her some baked goods to sell. I was making a lot of money from the markets, which would help with much needed repairs for my cottage.
So I was motivated, plus I needed something to distract me.
Alaric and I both had been nearly silent the entire rest of the walk, the entire rest of the evening. He should have rested, exhaustion wearing on him from the walk, but, instead, he went out and chopped wood. He said exercising–not resting–would help him recover faster.
Meanwhile, I made bread. I heard him go to the washroom to get cleaned up, but I tried to focus on the task at hand.
Except my mind wasn’t on the bread. It was on him. The way he took my hand, the way it felt. Nobody hadeverheld my hand. I couldn’t even recall holding my mother’s hand. Yet he’d taken my hand.Myhand!
Despite my excitement about his tender gesture, I knew he wouldn’t leave until we talked about the twins, which terrified me. It was the unspoken, unfinished business we had between us, like a vine choking a tree.
“Do you always work like that?”
I gasped and now noticed that Alaric was watching me from the doorway of the kitchen, arms folded, one brow arched.
“Like what?”
“Like the bread’s about to run off the table.”
I fought a smile. That was a funny way to describe it. “I suppose I have my own way.”
Then Alaric stepped forward, his voice quiet but solid. “You never look straight at things. Not the bread. Not me. I thought maybe it was shyness.”
Shyness?I blushed at that.
His voice dropped. “But I think it’s something else.”
I didn’t move, my fingers sticky with dough. I turned back to my work, dusting my hands with flour. “It’s not too bad.” I said it too quickly.
Alaric waited. He didn’t press, and that made my heart hammer. He moved to my side, taking my flour dusted hand and lifting it gently, then he adjusted my chin with his other hand so I was looking more directly at him, if just off-center. How did he know I could see him better this way? “Can you see me better this way, Malia?”
I nodded slowly, my throat tightening. I had to stop this. Now! The whaler was wedging his way into my heart, whether he meant it or not.
“You have nice hands,” I said. I meant it. They were scarred, tanned, and calloused.
Alaric blinked, the magical moment disappearing like dust on a windy day. “Pardon?”
I shrugged, trying to play off the intense moment. “They’re strong.”
A long pause, as if Alaric were reading me, reading that I was fighting this attraction to him. And he knew better than to feed it, instead of fight it.
He exhaled sharply. “You’re trouble, witch.”
“I know.”
But none of us moved for a moment. Then Alaric let out another quiet breath, changing the subject.
“Was there anything else you needed help with?”
I forced a smile and nodded, searching for something… anything… for him to do.
His jaw set. He flexed his fingers as if trying to shake something out of them. I knew this was dangerous…hewas feeling it too.
But we weren’t meant to be, a whaler and a witch, and it killed me inside.
