Page 31 of How I Met Your Murderer

I studied him as he let the question hang between us. He appeared solid now, as alive as me, which made it easier to tell that he was flustered. His eyes were brighter than usual, his expression pinched, his feet starting to pace the parlor we had chosen for some privacy since the living were bustling about the place.

There was still plenty neither of us dared speak aloud. Something had shifted between us last night and we were both dancing around it with caution. And he was cuter than ever like this, with a flush in his cheeks and daggers in his eyes for whoever had dared gift me the pendant, like they had somehow violated an unspoken boundary.

I could’ve watched him looking like that for quite a while, but I also didn’t want him turning into a sad Victorian poet on me again and returning to that dungeon, so I only admired the view for a few seconds before I said, “I bought it today. In the village.”

“Oh,” Eric said, his feet going still as he turned to face me. “Well, I like it,” he said more brightly. “You have good taste.” Apparently, he wasn’t about to acknowledge how much he hated the idea of someone else buying it for me.

It was fair play, though, because neither was I.

“It’s supposed to keep any negative spirits from being able to touch me. Some extra protection for the coming month,” I explained, taking a seat on the parlor’s deep blue velvet chaise longue. The basement stairs and the cold had angered my knee. “Not sure if it’ll work, but I figured it’s better to try anything.”

Eric followed me over to the long seat, standing beside it as he continued to study the black salt pendant. “No negative spirits, huh? Does that mean I can’t touch you, either?”

Whatever had already started shifting between us seemed to settle into a strange new place as we exchanged a long, heated look.

“Better find out now,” I declared. “Just to be safe.”

He certainly was capable of touching me. He had put a hand on my knee the other night, and I’d felt the pressure, or at least the presence. From my understanding, he needed to draw more energy for things like this, but he didn’t seem concerned about that at all as he sank onto the chaise longue with me and reached toward my face.

I tipped my chin up a little. I was taller than him, but I was also reclining with my legs stretched out, so he was above me. A lock of that shiny, dark hair had come loose from behind his ear and fallen into his eyes, but all his focus was on the hand moving slowly toward me, like he thought I might spook and bound off like a deer if he did it all at once. Like he wasn’t sure I wanted him to.

“Eric. Please.”

The soft words were enough to set him in motion again, two fingers finally making contact with the side of my face and resting there. They were cold as the castle stones, but I didn’t flinch away. I leaned in, because the warmth was in his posture, his presence.

“Cassiopeia . . .” he murmured, tracing a few of my freckles with his index finger. My heart was beating so hard, you’d think I was running a marathon. “The constellation. That’s what these freckles reminded me of the first day I saw you.” His fingers skimmed down the side of my face, tracing the contour of my jaw, stroking under my chin, then traveling over to my other cheek. “And maybe,” he added thoughtfully as he rubbed his thumb across another cluster of freckles, “these here could be Ursa Major.”

It didn’t matter that his hand was cold. I leaned into the touch, practically nuzzling his fingers. Nobody had ever touched me like this—like they were making a study of me. Like they cared enough to try.

“There’s more . . . on my shoulders. My back, too,” I whispered, because the only person the words were meant for was right beside me.

Eric’s eyes widened a touch as my cheek kept caressing his hand. And then he leaned in closer, his head level with mine. “Maybe you could show me galaxies I haven’t seen before. I’d like that,” he whispered, swallowing audibly at the end.

He was so close, his lips a breath away from mine, not that he needed to breathe. But he could surely feel my hot exhale as he wrapped one of my curls around his finger and tugged a little until I gasped, his eyes never leaving mine. Then his fingers trailed down my neck like he considered going for my shirt collar, but they stopped short and slid along the thick silver chain that held the pendant instead.

He felt so solid that I finally decided to reach out, too. Maybe I didn’t deserve him, but I adored him, and I wanted him to feel it: treasured. I swept his hair back behind his ear, the soft, cool strands sliding over my fingers like chill water. I sank my hand in anyway, my fingertips running up the back of his head and cradling it while my other hand reached for one of his and wrapped our fingers together.

“Guess this proves you don’t wish me any harm,” I muttered, my voice going low and rough, my accent thicker.

He must have understood me all the same, because he shook his head slightly. “Far from it. But I’ve been wishing on all those stars lately . . . for exactly this . . .”

I couldn’t say who stirred to close the remaining sliver of distance between us first—only that we sprang apart at the same time, falling off opposite ends of the chaise longue when Chef Máirtín appeared in a whirlwind of movement and sound.

“There you are, lads!” he boomed, so absorbed in his own chaos that he didn’t appear to notice what he had just interrupted. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you—I need someone to try my roasted cockentrice.”

“Cockatrice, you mean?” Eric asked with a quirk of his dark brows, already back on his feet. He extended an icy but solid hand to me, and I took it, accepting the help up while my mind was reeling and the whole world felt slightly off its axis.

Eric and I had almost kissed.

We were absolutely going to kiss if the chef hadn’t interrupted.

He had wanted to kiss me.

And I . . .

I had been about to cross a line I wasn’t sure I would come back from unchanged. I needed to get some air. Needed the world to slow down. Needed to snuggle under a mountain of blankets and finally sleep. Needed this to stop before I was too far gone and someone inevitably got hurt by the expiration date staring us in the face.

“No, my bright, brainy lad, I mean cockentrice. It’s a half-pig sewn onto the back half of a goose, roasted as one creature. One entity, if you will . . . my masterpiece. Tomorrow night—it’ll be the big one, lads, you’ll see . . . a beautiful roast ham that usurper chef brought in, that’ll do nicely. And a juicy hen . . .” The chef’s words ghosted in and out of my awareness as he steered me and Eric toward the kitchen.