Chapter Seventeen
Harriet
Are you looking for something in particular?” I call from behind the counter, twisting back and forth on my stool.
Nolan ignores me, sorting through a tray of buttons in the middle of the store like he’s diffusing a bomb, nearly bent in half as he examines each one individually.
“You picked buttons.” I rest my chin in my hand, watching him. “You really think the key to your salvation is in a button?”
He could have started with the books along the back wall. Maybe some of the mismatched artwork hanging by the windows, but no. He insisted on studying a borderline useless collection of old buttons.
Nolan frowns down at the tray, sifting through the contents. “I wore a lot of jackets in my time.”
“A lot of jackets,” I repeat.
“Perhaps I lost a button from one.”
I wait for him to crack a smile, but he just keeps sifting through the buttons. He picks up an amber one, squints at it as he holds it to the light, then places it back with the others.
“Nolan.” I straighten against the counter, settling my hands flat against it. “Do you think it’s possible you’re afraid of visiting the past?”
The scratch of the buttons against the bottom of the tray abruptly stops. “Pardon?”
I push my hair back, toying with the top of the birdcage music box I still haven’t moved from the counter.
I trace over one of the intricate vines, feeling the wear in the metal.
There’s comfort in holding these well-loved things.
In knowing someone else has, too. It always makes me feel less alone. More connected.
I choose my words carefully. “Our last trip to the past ended … poorly for you. Are you afraid to visit the past again, because you think we might end up in yours?”
I’ve been waiting for Nolan to use his magic all day. But every time I say I’m ready to go, he comes up with another excuse. First, he insisted on joining dress shopping. Then, he suggested carry-out from Paula’s for lunch. Now he’s looking at buttons.
He snorts, dismissive. “I’m not afraid.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not,” he says again, looking up from his little treasure chest. His eyes burn midnight blue in the low light of the stained glass lamps. Night presses in on the other side of the windows. The whole day has gotten away from us.
“All right,” I say easily. “Forget I said anything.”
The muscle in his jaw pops. “Are you calling me a coward, Harriet York?”
For some reason, the way he says my full name makes my entire body flush hot. I press the insides of my wrists together. “No. I’m not, Nolan—”
I hesitate. I don’t know his last name.
“Callahan,” he says roughly, his accent licking along the edges. “I am not calling you a coward, Nolan Callahan.”
His eyes flash and he abandons the tray, slinking closer to the counter.
I feel like a mouse caught under the paw of a cat.
A particularly stupid tropical bird, watching the approach of an apex predator.
I smooth out my sweater as he sidles up to the counter, both of his hands curling over the edge.
“I like that,” he grinds out.
“What?” I ask. “The button tray? If you really want to go wild, I can show you the door knobs.”
“No, not the button tray.” His eyes are fixed somewhere around my mouth. “I liked the way you said my name. I haven’t heard my full name in—” He exhales. “A very long time.”
Goose bumps prickle my arms. “I like saying it,” I manage, voice faint. The stool squeaks beneath me.
“Good.” A dimple flashes in his cheek. “Now, back to the original point. When you called me a coward.”
I roll my eyes. “I never called you a coward.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Because that’s what I heard.”
“Then you need your ears checked, old man.” He drops down to one elbow against the counter and my breath backs up into my lungs.
I can smell the salt on his skin from our walk along the harbor.
The coffee he’s been nursing for most of the afternoon.
Flannel and cloves. Warm skin and whispered thoughts and hands on my hips in a dark closet.
He smells delicious. “I thought we had a plan and you’re looking at buttons.
It seems like you’re deliberately delaying the inevitable. ”
His eyes flash. “The buttons are important.”
I roll my lips against my smile. “Sure.”
“Even small things can be important.”
I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore. “Okay.”
The counter is the only thing between us. His arms are planted on either side of my own, his body loose and lazy. The air around us feels like it’s vibrating. His magic, maybe. Or maybe just him.
This morning when I woke up, I resolved to pack all these feelings away. But now, faced with him, after spending an entire afternoon together—
It’s impossible. I like how he makes me feel. I like the hazy mix of affection and anticipation. I like the way he looks at me and I like the way he touches me.
I can’t pack anything away. I don’t want to. Nolan’s eyes search my face, calculating. “Give me your hand,” he finally says.
“What?”
“Your hand,” he says again, the eyebrow with the scar through it jumping up his forehead. “Give it to me.”
With everyone else on the planet, I always do exactly what is asked of me. I take great pleasure in fulfilling expectations. In exceeding them.
But something about Nolan makes me want to push. “Say please,” I breathe.
A delighted grin tugs at the edges of his mouth. His hair falls over his forehead and his tongue drags along the inside of his cheek. He takes his time tracing the lines of my face, his gaze turning hungry, lingering on my mouth.
Do something, I think. Touch me. Kiss me. Damn the consequences.
Stop holding back. Give in.
“Please, Harriet,” he says, his voice low and rough. I feel it like his knuckles against the base of my spine in that dressing room. His nose against my throat at the ice-skating rink. I shiver as he holds out his hand between us, palm up. “Take my hand and let me prove a point.”
I tuck my hand into his and the world spins away.