Seraphina #2
I found myself wondering what his hair would feel like beneath my fingers.
Whether it was as soft as it looked. Whether he'd lean into my touch...
or pull away. My fingers itched with the ridiculous urge to run my fingers through his hair.
To taste his skin and give his jaw fluttering kisses as I start kissing lower. Oh, what I would give up for a chance.
I clear my throat and take a big sip from my coffee suddenly parched for something else entirely. My face feels hot as my heartbeat beats somewhere lower, skin flushed. I clench my thighs together to ease the ache forcing my attention back to Max before Elias caught me staring. Again.
"You know," he said, amusement creeping into his voice, "he's going to expect this every morning now."
"I fail to see the problem."
"The problem is you'll leave..."
He nodded toward the German shepherd.
"...and I'll be the one dealing with the disappointment."
"I think he'll survive."
"You clearly haven't met him."
As if determined to prove his point, Max let out the most dramatic sigh I'd ever heard before nudging my hand with his nose when I stopped scratching him.
"Oh, you're impossible."
His tail thumped harder.
"I rest my case," Elias said.
I looked up just in time to find him watching me instead of the dog.
His gorgeous eyes staring at me, his thumb rubbing his lower lip as if he was thinking about something.
What are you thinking about, Honey? There was something different about his expression now.
Still cautious. Still measuring every word.
But softer. Less like he was interviewing a stranger.
More like he was trying to decide whether he enjoyed my company.
I hoped he did. That thought arrived far too easily. Almost as easily as the smile that followed it. I lowered my eyes into my mug before he noticed. Or… Before he realized exactly why I was smiling.
Elias's phone vibrated against the coffee table. He glanced at the screen. His expression changed. Professional. Guarded.
"I'm sorry," he said, standing. "Duty calls."
I smiled over the rim of my mug.
"The town doesn't believe in coffee breaks, does it?"
"You could say that."
He slipped the phone into his pocket and reached for his keys.
"I'll walk you out."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
Outside, Max followed us to the porch, tail wagging with relentless optimism. I crouched, scratching behind his ears one last time.
"Bye handsome boy, be good."
Max sneezed.
"I'll take that as a promise."
Elias opened the gate for me.
"I'll see you around, Seraphina."
The way he said my name...Goodness. It should be illegal. Gahhhh.
"I certainly hope so."
Our eyes met for the briefest moment. Then he was gone. His truck disappeared down the road, swallowed by the pines.
The moment my front door clicked shut behind me… I squealed. Actually squealed. I spun once in the middle of the living room, laughing at myself before collapsing dramatically onto the couch.
"Oh..."
I buried my face in one of the cushions.
"Oh, this is bad."
Frank appeared on the mantel with the slow, disappointed look of someone witnessing a public embarrassment.
"I knew it."
Gerald folded his tiny arms.
"She's gone."
"I'm not gone."
"You're smiling into upholstery."
"I'm having a moment."
"You've had six moments since breakfast."
"I've counted."
"You can't count."
"I absolutely can."
"You once counted me twice."
"You walked past twice."
"That's not how counting works."
I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
"He said he'd see me around."
Frank groaned.
"It was basic politeness."
"It was destiny."
"It was a sentence."
I hugged the cushion tighter.
"He's going to be mine one day."
Both gnomes stared. Gerald looked at Frank.
"Should we be concerned?"
Frank sighed.
"We passed 'concerned' two chapters ago."
The cottage settled into its usual afternoon quiet. Sunlight stretched lazily across the kitchen floor as I rolled up my sleeves and filled the sink. The sharp scent of citrus cleaner drifted into the room, but it couldn't quite mask the heavy, metallic smell rising from the wood.
Some stains surrendered almost immediately.
Others clung stubbornly, deep and dark, refusing to disappear no matter how much effort you poured into them.
Organic things are like that. They bind to the fiber.
They hold on. People are much the same. Some mistakes fade with time, others leave marks no amount of scrubbing can erase.
I looked up. Not in the room but at you.
Blood is tricky. Everyone thinks it’s just a liquid but it’s alive. It wants to bind to things. It wants to stay. Do you know there are certain steps to follow to make sure blood stains don’t stain? Different material equals different steps.
I turned back to the wood and brought the cloth down, pressing my weight into it.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
The friction warmed my hands, but the water in the bucket had to stay freezing.
Never use hot water. Hot water cooks the proteins. It bakes the haemoglobin right into the fabric, right into the wood grain. If you use heat, you’ve locked it in forever. You’ve given it a permanent home.
I stopped. The shadow was still there, a faint, stubborn bruise under the surface. I reached for a cold, amber glass bottle of hydrogen peroxide and poured it directly onto the spot.
Instantly, it began to hiss. A thick, white foam bubbled furiously as the chemical violently tore the cells apart, lifting the deep crimson shadow out of the grain.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
I wiped the foam away, but the wood still looked slightly weathered, slightly darkened. I reached for a box of baking soda, scattering the white powder over the damp patch, then drizzled a little dish soap over it. It formed a thick, gritty paste.
You must draw it out, my fingers working the paste deep into the grooves. You must break down the enzymes. It takes patience. If you rush, you leave a ghost behind. You leave evidence.
Scrub.
Scrub.
Scrub.
The grit scraped under my fingers. My muscles ached, but I didn't stop. I couldn't. I rinsed the cloth in the icy water, wrung it out until my knuckles turned white, and wiped the surface completely bare.
Everyone talks about clean slates. A small, cold smile tugged at my lips. I've never believed in them.
The countertop looked perfect. Spotless.
Gleaming in the afternoon light. Almost untouched.
Almost. I set the damp, soiled cloth aside.
I leaned against the counter, tilting my head, and looked right back at you.
The silence in the cottage stretched between us, heavy and thick with the scent of citrus, chemicals, and iron.
The cleanest things are often the ones that deserve a second look.
Strange, isn't it? Everyone notices the mess.
The broken glass. The muddy footprints. The obvious but almost no one notices what's missing.
That's the frightening part. Perfection is suspicious.
It asks far more questions than chaos ever could.
It isn't the stain that tells the story…
It's the one that isn't there. Tell me...
when something looks too perfect... Do you ever stop to wonder what it took to make it that way?