Chapter 6
six
. . .
Jace
I’ve lived in this cabin for years. The kitchen has never been a problem. Everything is within reach of where I stand.
Now she is in it, and the kitchen is too small.
She stands at the counter spreading peanut butter on toast, and I need to open the cabinet above her head. After what happened before, I should wait. She’ll move. Then I can get the mug, pour coffee, and stand at my usual spot without being too close to her.
I should wait.
I don’t. As I reach past her, my chest brushes her shoulder. Like yesterday.
This time, her cardigan slips, revealing a thin cotton shirt. I tense. She’s a full head shorter than me. The scent of vanilla rises from her.
Shit. I freeze.
She touched my sternum. The heat of her through the cotton. She’s stopped moving the knife across the bread.
I grab the mug. Pour the coffee.
My hand is steady. My pulse thrums against my ribs.
“Thanks,” I say to the mug.
Her cheeks are pink. A knot tightens in my chest.
I take my coffee outside to the porch, settle onto the top step, and hold the mug. The cold sears my lungs, a familiar anchor, trying to drag me back from the edge of that sudden, hollow space I haven’t felt since Mom left.
Mom drank her coffee with two spoonfuls of sugar. I was young, but I remember the three light taps before she set the spoon on the saucer. Tink, tink, tink. I could time them in my sleep.
My mind snags on how I touched Rosalind in the kitchen two days in a row. How do I keep her here?
The afternoon mountain air warms enough to work without a jacket.
Rosalind comes up the porch steps with an armload of kindling as if fire is her responsibility. Her boot snags the edge of the second board. The warped one I’ve needed to fix for two years.
She pitches forward. The kindling scatters.
I catch her at the top of the steps. My hands on the curve of her hips over the soft fabric of her skirt. Her hip brushes my thighs. She grabs my forearms to steady herself, fingers digging into muscle.
Her weight shifts. My thumb finds the strip of skin where the cardigan has ridden up from her skirt.
Mine.
Is this how Spool felt when he settled into her hand that first time she touched his head? I let go. Step back. Pick up the kindling to occupy my hands.
“Sorry.” She’s breathless. “That board.”
“I’ll fix it.” I stack the kindling, carry it inside, and set it by the stove. I grip the mantel until my fingers hurt.
Fix the board. Stop standing close enough to catch her.
Spool watches from the couch. His one ear is forward.
“Don’t stare,” I tell him.
He puts his chin on his paws.
That night, I overfeed the stove when the temperature drops. The living room is near eighty degrees.
I’m in the armchair with McCarthy. Same page for twenty minutes. The words won’t stick.
Her door opens. She walks into the living room in a tank top and a pair of my boxers.
The tank top is gray. Thin. The boxers are loose and ride low on her hips. Her legs are bare. Freckled. Her auburn hair is loose around her face. She’s not wearing her glasses, and her face without them looks softer, wider.
She looks ready for sleep, comfortable in her skin and safe in this space.
Don’t look.
I look.
Bare feet. Calves. Her thighs. The curve of her hip under the flannel. The strip of stomach where the tank top doesn’t meet the waistband. Her full chest, collarbone, and neck.
Her face.
She sees me looking, and her lips part. Her hand wraps around her elbow.
My gut clenches.
“Goodnight,” she says.
I say nothing. My jaw is locked.
She pads down the hallway and closes the door. The latch clicks.
I sit in the armchair for ten more seconds. Then I put the book down.
She didn’t flinch at my scar and accepted it as part of me. No different from my jaw or my mouth. I want to thank her. Words catch. I want more. But I don’t dare.
In the morning, I’m up at four. Stove lit. Coffee made.
Two mugs on the counter. Hers is full. The cream sits next to it.
The handle is turned toward where she stands.
Seven days until the pass opens. Six after today.
I get my jacket. My boots. My saw and my keys. My hand closes on the doorknob, heavy with the choice. The idea of her waking, walking into my kitchen, is a knot in my gut I can’t unpick.
I have to go before she wakes up.