Chapter 4
Chapter four
Graham
Maeve chops onions at the counter like a chef. I try to stay out of the way and fail. We keep bumping hips. She grins every time it happens. I pretend I don’t like it, but I have a feeling she knows I do.
“Green or red?” she asks, holding up two cans of enchilada sauce.
“Red.”
“Good. Me too.”
She hums while she works. I pull chicken from the oven and shred it with a fork.
She lines tortillas in a baking dish, spoons filling down the middle, and asks for more cheese, like she’s testing how much I’ll let her use.
The answer is a lot. The oven door opens, and heat rushes out, making the whole place smell like chili and garlic.
Two beers sit cold in the fridge. I take one for myself and pull out the white wine that’s been chilling. I pull out the cork and find a wine glass in the cabinet.
The enchiladas come out perfect. She moans on the first bite, then freezes and hides a smile behind her hand. I drink half my beer to keep from reacting. She finishes her first glass of wine and pours another. My second beer goes down slower.
“Cards?” she asks when the dishes are stacked to dry.
“What game?”
“War.”
“That’s not a game.”
“It is if you play with me.” Her eyes spark. “High card wins. Loser answers a question.”
“Pass.”
“Scared?”
“Of you? Yes.”
She laughs and pulls a deck from the drawer like she’s been here for years. We sit across from each other at the table. She shuffles and deals. Her nails are short and neat. There is a small nick on her thumb from earlier, where the chisel slipped. She refused a bandage and kept going.
We flip cards.
She wins the first round. “Question. When did you know you wanted to make furniture?”
“Ten years ago. I was newly deployed and started using wood I found to make little things. I loved the feeling of working with my hands and something natural.”
Her mouth tips. She flips again and loses. “Your turn to ask me anything.”
“I know you have your business degree. What do you want to do?” I ask.
She considers. “I like helping people organize their work. I can see myself working as an office manager or a project manager. I was working at a marketing firm in the city.”
She drinks her third glass of wine. Her cheeks pink up. She laughs faster and leans back in her chair with a loose posture that looks good on her. I win the next hand.
“Question,” I say. “You going back to the city?”
“Maybe not.” She studies my face. “Is that a problem?”
“No.”
She loses and drums her fingers. “Ask me another.”
“What’s your favorite meal?”
“This one. Tonight. Yours?”
“Steak and potatoes. I’m easy,” I say with a laugh.
We keep going. She tells me she once cut her own bangs and cried for two days. I tell her I once fell through a rotten porch and swore so loud the neighbor called the sheriff. She wins again and asks three questions in a row.
“What were you like at eighteen?”
“Too sure of everything.”
“First car?”
“An old Ford that stalled every winter.”
“What did you think of me the first time we met?” She asks shyly.
“I thought you were gorgeous, but way too young and full of life to do anything about it.”
Her smile brightens. She flips the next card and slides it toward me. “Your turn.”
“Why’d you really come here?” I ask.
She takes a breath. “Because I was tired of feeling watched. Because I didn’t want to make Connor worry more from a distance. Because I didn’t want to be brave alone anymore.”
Something pulls tight under my ribs. I reach for the deck and shuffle. We play until the wine bottle is empty and my second beer is gone. Her laugh goes loud and then soft. She leans her elbow on the table and rests her chin in her palm. I gather the cards and set them aside.
“Time for me to shower,” she says, pushing back her chair. “I smell like onions and wood.”
“I wasn’t going to say it.”
“I will.” She points at my shirt. “You smell like sawdust. And man.”
“Man?”
“Woodshop man.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.” She walks toward the hallway, then glances back.
I clear the table while the water starts down the hall.
Her laugh from earlier keeps replaying in my head.
The way her mouth went soft on the word brave.
I stack plates, rinse them, and line them to dry.
The shower turns on, and I can’t help but think about her naked and what would happen if I joined her.
I tell myself to finish and go out to the porch for air.
She appears in the doorway before I move. She’s wearing one of my flannel shirts. Bare legs. Damp hair. Clean face. No makeup. The top two buttons of the flannel are undone. She hooked the sleeves and pushed them to her elbows. The hem hits mid-thigh. My body goes tight everywhere at once.
“That’s mine,” I say, because it’s the only sentence I can manage.
She looks down at the flannel, then up at me. “I know.” Her voice comes out lighter now. “It’s warm.”
“Maeve.”
“Yes, Graham?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Push.”
“Or what?”
I step close. Not touching. Close enough to feel her heat. Close enough to see the drop of water on her collarbone. My hands curl into fists so I don’t reach.
“Or I’ll snap,” I say. “I won’t be careful. You won’t get slow. You’ll get me the way I am.”
She holds my stare. Her pulse beats at her throat. “What if I want you the way you are?”
I drag a hand over my face. “You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You drank the whole bottle,” I remind her.
“Over several hours. I’m warm. Not dizzy. Not careless.” She tips her chin. “I know what I’m asking.”
I should go. I should put distance between us. I walk to the sink, grab a towel, and then set it down because I don’t need it. She stands very still. I can feel her attention on my back like pressure.
“I’ll go to bed,” she says. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to chase you. You don’t want this, say so.”
She turns for the hall, and I break.
My hand hits the doorframe before I think. “Maeve.”
She stops and looks back.
“Don’t run from me.” I step closer. “Not if you want me to stop running from you.”
Something changes in her face. It is small and it is clear. She reaches behind her and flicks the hallway light off. The kitchen stays lit low. She takes three steps back toward me. Two. One.
We collide at the edge of the counter and kiss like the world is ending.
No first-date pace. No slow test. It goes deep fast. Her mouth opens under mine.
My hands slide to her hips. She makes a sound that kills every plan to stay away from her I ever had.
I lift her onto the counter. Her legs wrap around my waist. Heat blasts straight through every layer between us.
She tastes like wine and mint. Her fingers pull at my hair, then fall to my shoulders, then slip under my shirt. I hiss when her nails skate my back. She smiles against my mouth.
“Tell me to stop,” I say against her jaw.
“No way.”
I kiss down her throat. She tips her head to give me better access. My palms flatten on her thighs. The flannel gapes and shows skin I haven’t earned yet. I drag the fabric closed, because if I don’t, I won’t stop where I should. She watches my hands. She presses one of hers over mine.
“It’s just a shirt,” she whispers.
“It’s you in my shirt,” I say. “That’s the problem.”
Her laugh is quiet and pleased. She pulls me close again and kisses me harder. We move like we’ve done this before. No stumbles. No questions. Every slide of her mouth lines up with mine like it was waiting.
“Bedroom,” she murmurs.
“Bad idea.”
We stay at the counter. It feels safe. She shifts forward until I have to grip her to keep us steady.
The flannel swings open again. I swear and close it with shaking hands.
She sucks in a breath when I pin her with my hips and rock once.
Her reply is instant. She rolls and presses back. It burns everywhere all at once.
I pull away before I do something we both can’t take back. The space is small. My breath is loud. She stares at my mouth, licks her lower lip, and I almost cave.
“Go to bed,” I say. It comes out rough.
“I’m not ready to sleep.” She says while peppering my face with kisses.
“Me neither.”
It takes all my willpower, but I walk away from her. “Night, Maeve.”
“Night, Graham.”
I make it to my room. The clock stares at me from the dresser. I lie down and get back up twice in ten minutes. I stare at the ceiling and give up.
The hall is dark, and her door is closed. It should be easy to turn around and go back to my room. I try to walk past her door and fail. My hand lifts and stops in the air before I knock. I’m about to drop it when the handle turns.
She opens the door and steps into me like she had the same thought at the same time. No pause. No question. Her hands slide up my chest and grab the back of my neck. I catch her waist and pull her close. Our mouths find each other.
This kiss is different. I walk her back into the room and press her to the wall by the bed. The flannel skims my wrists. I don’t move it. She exhales hard and holds on.
“I want you,” she says.
I groan into her mouth. My hand cups her jaw and keeps her there. I kiss her until my lungs burn and then kiss her again so I don’t have to speak. She arches against me like she wants all my weight. I give it to her, then pull back because I don’t want to hurt her.
Her hands slide under my shirt again. Skin to skin. My body jerks. Her fingers skim low and then hold. I catch her wrist and press it to my chest.
“Careful,” I say. The word comes out tight.
She searches my face. The room is dim. Her eyes are dark and steady. We breathe together until the pulse at my neck stops trying to jump through my skin.
“I want you,” she says again.
“Not tonight,” I say softly. “We’ve both been drinking, and we both need a clear head when we cross this line.”
She closes her eyes and exhales. When she opens them again, there’s no hurt, only warmth.
She nods. “Okay.”
I brush my mouth over hers once more. Slow. Careful. “Bed.”
She climbs under the covers and waits. I take two steps back and stop.
She lifts the blanket without speaking. The invitation is simple.
She scoots to the far side. I shut the door, kill the light, and move in.
We lie on our sides, facing each other in the dark, breathing slowly while my body argues with my brain.
Her hand slides across the sheet. It rests over my heart. The touch is light.
We don’t sleep for a while. We talk in short, whispered words that don’t carry past the bed. She tells me her favorite street in Pine Hollow. I tell her the best place to watch the first snow settle. She asks what I wanted to be when I was a kid.
When I hear her breathing deepen, I let my eyes close. She’s tucked against me now, one knee hooked over my thigh, her fingers curled in my shirt. My arm is around her waist, and I'm holding her tight.
I don’t sleep much. I don’t want to. I want to memorize every second of her near me. I want to keep the feel of her steady, warm, and trusting. Morning will come fast. Rules will be easier to follow with coffee in our veins and distance on our side.
For now, it’s just us in a quiet room with the door closed, pretending we can keep this from blowing up our lives.
I kiss her hair once, quick and soft, and stare at the ceiling until the dark starts to turn to light.