Chapter 5 #2
"That you're methodical. Efficient. Someone who completes tasks thoroughly without wasted motion." She tilts her head, glasses sliding down again. "And that you're much kinder than you want people to think."
I nearly drop the glass I'm rinsing. "That's a stretch."
"Is it? You let a complete stranger stay in your home because her cabin was cold.
You walk her into town. You notice details about what she says at breakfast." She counts these off on her fingers.
"You pretend to be annoyed by her chaos but haven't actually complained about the notebooks she leaves everywhere. "
"The notebooks are temporary," I point out, deflecting from her uncomfortable accuracy. "And the kindness is basic decency."
"If that were true, everyone would practice it." She hops off the stool, moving to dry the dishes I've washed. "Basic decency is actually quite rare, Sheriff Parker."
She stands close enough that I can feel her warmth, smell that intriguing vanilla spice scent.
When she reaches for a plate, her arm brushes mine, the brief contact sending an unexpected current through me.
It's been so long since I've experienced casual touch that even this accidental contact feels significant.
"Tom," I say suddenly, surprising myself.
"What?"
"You can call me Tom." I focus intently on the glass I'm washing. "No need for formalities when you're living in my house."
From the corner of my eye, I see her smile, wide and pleased. "Tom," she repeats, testing it out. "It suits you better than Sheriff Parker. Less intimidating."
"I'm supposed to be intimidating. It's part of the job."
"Well, you're failing miserably with me." Her laughter is warm and inviting. "Hard to be intimidated by someone who owns a coffee maker from the last century and sleep rumples his hair on one side every morning."
I run a self conscious hand through my hair, wondering if it's standing up right now. The casual intimacy of her noticing how I look in the mornings makes something twist pleasantly in my chest.
We finish the dishes in companionable silence, moving around each other in the small kitchen with surprising ease. When the last plate is put away, we find ourselves standing close, the kitchen counter at my back, Kelsie just a step away.
She looks up at me, her expression open and warm in a way that makes her even more attractive than her obvious physical beauty. The air grows pregnant between us, a change in pressure, in possibility.
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, drawing my attention downward. Her lips are full and soft looking. I wonder how they would feel against mine, then immediately shut down the thought. This is dangerous territory. She's a temporary guest. A visitor passing through. Nothing more.
"I should go over my notes," she says, her voice slightly breathless. "For my book."
"Right." I step back, creating necessary distance. "And I have reports to review."
"Of course." She tucks a stray curl behind her ear. "Thank you for dinner. Well, for the ingredients. I just cooked them."
"It was good." The words feel inadequate. "Thank you."
She lingers a moment longer, as if waiting for something else, then nods and turns away. I watch her go, unable to look away from the gentle sway of her hips, the graceful line of her neck where her hair is coming loose from its knot.
When she disappears upstairs, I release a deep breath. This attraction, this connection, is not what I expected or wanted. Kelsie Walsh is sunshine personified, all creative energy and optimism. The opposite of everything I've carefully cultivated in my life. Routine. Order. Emotional distance.
Yet I’m drawn to her in a way that feels both terrifying and exhilarating. Like standing at the edge of a cliff, simultaneously afraid of falling and curious about the sensation of freefall.
My phone buzzes with a text from Savannah.
Savannah: Picking up Kelsie at 6 tomorrow for tree lighting. You're welcome to join us.
Again, the annual invitation I always decline. The hope I always disappoint.
Me: Working, I reply automatically.
Savannah: You're always working, Dad. Maybe this year could be different?
I stare at her message, thinking about Kelsie's excitement about experiencing a small town Christmas. About how she looked in my kitchen, bringing warmth and life to a space that's been cold for sixteen years.
Before I can overthink it, I respond.
Me: Maybe. No promises.
Savannah's response is immediate.
Savannah: !!!!!
I set the phone down, wondering what I'm getting myself into. One tree lighting ceremony won't erase sixteen years of avoidance. Won't change the fact that Christmas still feels like an open wound rather than a celebration.
But maybe, just maybe, seeing it through Kelsie's eyes might offer a different perspective. A chance to create new associations, new memories.
Or maybe I'm just looking for excuses to spend more time with a woman who makes me feel things I thought were long buried.
Either way, I've opened a door I've kept firmly shut for years. The thought doesn’t terrify me as much a I thought it would. Instead, beneath the anxiety, there’s something that might almost be anticipation.