“Does it hurt Bikram? To not be in line to inherit the farm?” she asked, continuing their earlier conversation.
“I think so. I don’t know. He refuses to talk to me about it. Always has.”
She made a commiserating noise. “That puts you in a terrible position.”
It was strange, to talk to someone about this. Someone on his side, who could see things more objectively than his family could.
It was nice, actually.
He busied himself with removing his shoes. “It does.” It made him resent his grandfather even more.
“Do you think he’ll actually disown you?”
Nausea churned. He nodded once, not eager to discuss that prospect.
She seemed to sense he was done talking. “Do you want wine?”
“I—yes.” That was a good idea. They’d occasionally shared a glass of wine together. The wine would remind them of what good friends they were.
And then he’d... apologize.
Bikram’s voice rang in his head.Tell her.
Either way, they could do with alcohol.
He accepted the glass of wine she handed him and followed her to the living room. She dropped down onto the couch. After a moment’s hesitation, he sat down next to her.
He’d turned on the Tiffany lamp next to the couch, and she’d done the same with the overhead light. The dancing colors warred with the harsh light. Her sketch pad was spread out over the desk in the corner. She wasn’t a good artist, even she admitted that, but she stuck at it.
She stuck at a lot of things. It was one of the bajillion things he admired about her.
She took a sip of her wine. Her face was so... peaceful, in a way he didn’t usually see it at home when she was focused on a project or work. Except when she was cooking.
A sharp crack came from outside, and the peace was disturbed. She jumped. He jumped, too, but then relaxed. “It was a branch,” he said.
Her shoulders slowly lowered from her ears. “Oh. Right. If it was a person, the guard outside would have notified you, right?”
“Yes.” Lorne’s people were discreet, but he trusted them to show up when need be.
They sat in silence for a while. There were a million things they could talk about or do. They could check up on the hashtag or he could contact Lorne, or they could talk about how his grandfather might really never speak to him again. But that would mean the real world intruding on their peace. And that was the last thing he wanted.
What do you want?
He moved his hand so it lay next to hers, his pinkie brushing her skin.
HE WAS TOUCHINGher. It was so small and almost something Katrina could explain away as an accidental brush.
Zing.
He moved his finger against hers.
Take up space.
He inhaled deeply. “Katrina—”
“I liked kissing you. I’ve been wanting to do it for a while.”
He froze.
