My words don’t stop him. He reaches past me for his mug on the shelf. His chest presses against my shoulder. Solid and warm through his flannel shirt. A jolt goes through me.
Worse?
His scent. Pine. Cedar. Man.
My breath hitches. We both freeze.
Jace steps back, mug in hand. His gaze is on the floor.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he says to the mug before heading out of the kitchen.
Spool follows him. The screen door opens and closes.
My shoulder burns from his absence, and I grip the counter.
Men have touched me like they were settling. Careful and generous for wanting me at all. Jace Redmond touched me for a second and a half to reach a mug, and his touch was far fromdeliberate. When he froze, the paralysis spoke a truth his limited words couldn’t.
Up until now, my record for being wrong about men has been perfect. Still, I cross my fingers.
Mid-day, Jace is on the mountain somewhere. Spool naps on the porch. I’m supposed to finish the catalog cards for Evelyn. Instead, I reorganize his bookshelf.
I pull every book off. Dust the shelves. Rebuild the collection from scratch.
Forget organizing them alphabetically or by genre. I go by instinct.
Westerns by the window where the afternoon light falls. History at eye level, where a tall man might look first. Thrillers on the bottom for easy grabbing. Literary fiction beside the armchair, where he reads the challenging books. Poetry near the bedroom door, Berry at his bedside.
Lonesome Dovegets a spot on the shelf closest to his armchair. Spine out. Rubber band and all.
I step back.
I have reorganized a man’s bookshelf without permission. A recluse whose cabin defines his world and whose books are his core.
Waiting for Jace to come home, I brace myself for what I’ve done, something that can’t be undone. My heart thrums, the good idea long gone. What remains is the girl who tries to make herself indispensable.
Mother’s heirloom silver, her meticulous arrangements, and her explanations are all a performance of competence, earning her the right to be there. That performance is wired into me.
More so here. I want to belong, like McMurtry and Berry, not as a guest but as a person meant to be here.
Spool sits in the doorway. His one ear is forward as if he has opinions.
I wag my index finger at him. “Don’t judge me.”
He licks his nose. And all I can do is… wait.
four
. . .
Jace
Something is wrong.
I know it before I am through the door. The cabin smells different. Less like the woodstove and more like coffee, vanilla, and paper. Someone’s been here all day.
I pull off my boots and hang my jacket. Sawdust clings to my neck. Twelve hours on the claims. Two ponderosas dropped, limbed, bucked. A familiar ache throbs in my shoulders. I step into the living room.
What the fuck?
