Eva flicked off the stove and began winding her hair back into a braid, twisting her strands into submission. She didn’t want to be here anymore. She had enough grief with her own wild magic and her father’s ailment. The last thing she needed was Arthur Connoway’s ghosts nipping at her heels.
She burned her fingers flinging the overcooked pancakes onto a plate and shoving it down the counter. “Syrup’s in the cupboard,” she clipped, setting her apron on a hook and all but slamming the kitchen door behind her.
“Thank you.” Arthur’s voice came muffled through the wall.
Eva scowled at the watercolor sunrise drenching the dewy yard in rich strawberry hues. It was gorgeous, and she hated it. This was so clearly a bitter, gray-sky kind of day.
At the workshop, she slowed, letting herself wilt against the door. It embarrassed her how even that simple interaction had left her raw-edged, the bridge of her nose burning with unshed emotion. She rubbed it with her knuckle and forced the feeling down, dwelling instead on the furious growl of her stomach. In her haste to leave, she’d forgotten to grab a pancake. Clearly that was Arthur’s fault too.
It felt good to be mad at him.
At least here she could clear her mind and lose herself to the harvest: comb by comb, wing by delicate wing. Only, when Evasat on her stool, an empty bucket stared back at her, which meant either Dad or Izzy had finished up last night.
The windows diffused the morning light into a gentle spray across her toes. Dust motes swirled around her still-bare feet, and for several long moments Eva watched the air sparkle and dance. A honeybee found her, as they always did, latching on to the crook of her finger.
She smiled despite her bitter mood. They were so beautiful, it hurt sometimes.
The crunch of boots on gravel drew Eva’s gaze to the doorway. The door was open, but Arthur paused on the threshold anyway. His knock was a fragile thing. “Can I come in?”
He’d changed into a dark gray T-shirt, forgoing the hoodie he’d slept in. Eva’s mouth went dry, her eyes dropping for the first time to the long swirl of tattoos climbing his arms. She must have been too stunned to really take those in last night. Now they were all she could see, and the sight made an itch crawl over her skin.
When had he gotten those? Whom had he trusted enough to let them touch him?
Taking her silence as permission, Arthur stepped inside, his eyes moving over the equipment she’d washed and laid out to dry after the honey pull. The heavy, cotton bee suits hung on the wall near him. Arthur reached out, trailing a finger down one of the long white sleeves. “Can we talk, Ev?”
Ev.
The short, sharp sound burrowed like an arrow in her skin. He was the only one who called her that.
At seventeen, Eva had loved Arthur Connoway with every cell in her body. She’d trusted him with all of her, and then when she needed him most, he’d fled.
“Sure. Talk.”
Maybe part of her did want him to grovel.
Time had sharpened the lines of his face, his jawline slightly softened beneath a dark beard. The new hollows in his cheeks upset her. He upset her, so changed and unfamiliar.
Arthur tugged the sleeve of the bee suit. “I know you’re angry.”
“How could you tell?” Eva deadpanned, not caring how childish she sounded.
Something unreadable flashed in Arthur’s eyes. “Your neck gets pink when you’re pissed off.”
To her mortification, his words made a lick of heat spread up from her collar. He was right, and at that moment, she hated him a little for noticing that detail. For remembering.
“Why did you come back?”
It wasn’t for her—that much was abundantly clear. Eva’s chest felt tight. It wasn’t fair to still be wounded by him long after she’d stopped caring what he thought of her.
“My mom wanted her ashes brought here,” Arthur said, his expression pinched.
He was still so bad at lying.
Eva crossed her arms. “That all?”
His hesitation made her stomach drop. Eva stood and took a step toward him, despite her inner voice warning her away. She was no glutton for rejection, but something in her needed him to keep looking at her like that, as though she were sour to the taste. It was better than Dad and Izzy, who walked on eggshells in every conversation with her. Always so damn careful.
When they were toe to toe, Arthur’s throat bunched with a swallow.
