Page 112 of Absolution

“No, we can’t—” Why the fuck does that hurt? I should be pleased. He’s reasonable for once. Then I take a closer look. “What’s wrong, Christian?” He suddenly worries me. He looks as if he would fall into a heap if I poked him.

“I’ll tell you in front of the fireplace. After you’ve made yourself a bed.”

“No! I—” A loud crack outside has us both jumping. I glance out the window but see nothing but my own reflection. “It’s— I. Well—” I realize I can’t justify endangering Cece and myself by going out into the blustery night. It’s not impossible, not like in Canada, it’s not like we’re trapped, it would just be really stupid. And she is already asleep. I want to fight it, I want to find a way, but there is none that is reasonable, and I nod reluctantly. “Where do you keep your spare sheets?”

“In the closet.”

“Where?”

“In whichever room you pick.”

“I’ll take the one closest to Cece.”

“Okay.” He turns his back on me and starts toward the living room. “You realize it’s also the one closest to mine?”

I groan. I can easily picture the smug look on his face.

Cece’s door is open. She snores lightly. Maybe I could sleep in there? Awkward doesn’t quite cover how it feels to actually be making a bed in his house, and the little thrills that run through me have got nothing to do with his closeness. Nothing at all. Staying is practical, that’s all there is to it.

When I’m done, I plan to quietly slip between the sheets and forget I’m even here, but I realize I have nothing to sleep in, and no toothbrush. My palms get sweaty just from the thought of going back down to him. I think of skipping the toothbrush, sleeping in my clothes and… somehow it doesn’t seem very mature.

I tiptoe down the stairs. He sits with his back to me in one of the two leather chairs that stand in front of the fireplace. A few strands of hair peek up from over the back of the chair and a foot dangles from a leg slung over the armrest. I know these chairs are new, and still they look old and worn. I wonder how much that cost. Everything has a price.

I wonder what it will cost me to get a toothbrush.

Everything has a price.

I won’t touch you.

A shiver runs through me.

I’m not very good at keeping my promises.

“Hey,” I say. “I wonder—”

“Sit. Please. Just for a few minutes.” His voice is soft, and still I sense the underlying need and it makes my stomach clench again. He leans back, his eyes on me. In front of him, on a little sideboard with a smoky glass surface, stand two glasses filled with a creamy, yellowish content.

I clear my throat. “I was just wondering if you have a toothbrush I could use.”

“Sit with me and I’ll give you everything you need.”

“Just a little while then, it’s late and I should—”

“It’s eight thirty, Ker.”

My cheeks heat up. I hate when he sees right through me. The fire is crackling peacefully, though, and the warmth is nice. There’s a throw blanket on the arm rest. Grabbing it, I hang it over my shoulders before I sit down next to him and gesture to the glasses. “What’s this?”

“Eggnog. It’s warm. It’s really good.”

“I’ve never tasted it.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

I enjoy the feel of the warm heavy glass in my hand before I sip on the sweet creamy contents. The bourbon in it makes my taste buds bounce with surprise. But I like the aftertaste. “It’s nice,” I say.

“Aw, come on. It’s more than ‘nice’. This is an art form.”

“The art of making eggnog?”

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