I scratch his good ear and think of Jace. No way will I be able to sleep.
six
. . .
Jace
I’ve livedin this cabin for years. The kitchen has never been a problem. Everything is within reach of where I stand.
Now she is in it, and the kitchen is too small.
She stands at the counter spreading peanut butter on toast, and I need to open the cabinet above her head. After what happened before, I should wait. She’ll move. Then I can get the mug, pour coffee, and stand at my usual spot without being too close to her.
I should wait.
I don’t. As I reach past her, my chest brushes her shoulder. Like yesterday.
This time, her cardigan slips, revealing a thin cotton shirt. I tense. She’s a full head shorter than me. The scent of vanilla rises from her.
Shit. I freeze.
She touched my sternum. The heat of her through the cotton. She’s stopped moving the knife across the bread.
I grab the mug. Pour the coffee.
My hand is steady. My pulse thrums against my ribs.
“Thanks,” I say to the mug.
Her cheeks are pink. A knot tightens in my chest.
I take my coffee outside to the porch, settle onto the top step, and hold the mug. The cold sears my lungs, a familiar anchor, trying to drag me back from the edge of that sudden, hollow space I haven’t felt since Mom left.
Mom drank her coffee with two spoonfuls of sugar. I was young, but I remember the three light taps before she set the spoon on the saucer.Tink, tink, tink.I could time them in my sleep.
My mind snags on how I touched Rosalind in the kitchen two days in a row. How do I keep her here?
The afternoon mountain air warms enough to work without a jacket.
Rosalind comes up the porch steps with an armload of kindling as if fire is her responsibility. Her boot snags the edge of the second board. The warped one I’ve needed to fix for two years.
She pitches forward. The kindling scatters.
I catch her at the top of the steps. My hands on the curve of her hips over the soft fabric of her skirt. Her hip brushes my thighs. She grabs my forearms to steady herself, fingers digging into muscle.
Her weight shifts. My thumb finds the strip of skin where the cardigan has ridden up from her skirt.
Mine.
Is this how Spool felt when he settled into her hand that first time she touched his head? I let go. Step back. Pick up the kindling to occupy my hands.
“Sorry.” She’s breathless. “That board.”
“I’ll fix it.” I stack the kindling, carry it inside, and set it by the stove. I grip the mantel until my fingers hurt.
Fix the board.Stop standing close enough to catch her.
Spool watches from the couch. His one ear is forward.
