“Miss Rose,” I say, letting the formality sit between us—a match ready to be lit and burned down to cinders. “Great to finally catch you.”
“Hi.” Her throat works as she swallows. “Yeah, it’s a busy crowd today.”
I place the last bottlehead down on the dish rack and lean back against the sink, crossing my arms and raising my eyebrows. “Ah, so you’ve not been avoiding me?”
“Why would I be avoiding you?” She lifts her chin, defensive.
Because you’re terrified of what you feel. Because I am too.
I don’t say it. Instead, I walk toward her slowly, same as I’d approach a skittish horse. Her fingers tighten around the feed scoop she’s holding. Faye is gripping it like a weapon. Or a shield.
I stop in front of her and gently pry it from her hands. Her fingers are warm from being outdoors; mine are cold from the water. But the burn where our skin touches has nothing to do with the temperature difference. Faye jolts her hand back as if she, too, got shocked. “It could be because you’re afraid to have a conversation with me.”
“No.” The denial comes out too fast. “I’ve been busy with the kids.”
“Right.” I turn and walk back to the sink, giving her space, and buying myself a little distance too, because being that close to her without touching her has become unbearable. I run the scoop under the water, scrubbing at the dried grain stuck to the metal. “It’s been a busy year. But first grade’s over, right?”
“Technically, I still have a few hours on the clock.”
I drop the scoop and dry my hands on the towel hanging from a nail on the wall. Then I turn to face her.
She’s standing by the door, backlit by the afternoon sun. Her hair is down today, loose and falling past her shoulders in those golden waves that I constantly itch to touch.
I cross the space between us in three strides and stop before her, tilting my head.
Her eyes widen as I give in to the impulse and lift a strand of her hair, letting the silky lock run through my fingers.
She shivers—a tiny tremor that runs through her body.
“I can wait a few more hours,” I say.
Her breath catches. Audible and sharp.
Faye stares up at me, her lips parted, her eyes heavy-lidded. “W-wait f-for what?”
The stammer undoes me.
I let the strand fall, gather all her hair in my hands, and move it to one shoulder, exposing the right side of her neck. Pale, smooth, perfect skin that makes me understand some of the urges the Fae with sharp canines in her books have.
If she were mine, I’d sink my teeth into that flawless skin. Bite. Ease the sting with my tongue afterward. But she isn’t mine. Not yet.
I hook my fingers into the empty belt loops of her jeans and pull.
She stumbles forward, her body colliding with mine. Her surprised gasp turns into a whimper as I bend and nuzzle her neck.
Her hands come up, palms landing flat against my chest, but she doesn’t push me away. She goes pliant as I let my lips ghost over her skin. “Meet me by the dock at your cottage at sunset,” I whisper against her ear. Her hands fist the fabric of my T-shirt as I add, “And I’ll tell you.”
I straighten up.
Faye’s eyes are closed. When she opens them, they’re unfocused, dazed. She blinks once, twice, like she’s trying to remember where she is.
“Why can’t you tell me now?” Her voice is ragged.
I move my hands to her hips, squeezing once, before I push away from her.
I need the distance. I want to prove to myself—and to her—that I can let go. That this isn’t just about wanting her so badly I can’t think straight.
“Because you have to choose to want to hear it,” I say, holding her gaze.
