Page 21 of Tender Heart
I jerk, spinning back to the house. I’m guessing any man would have that effect on a woman who’s been starved of human touch for five years.
Yes, that’s it. He could be anyone.
I’m certain of it.
Safe inside the house, I kick off my shoes and pad to the kitchen sink. In a daze, I find a mug and fill it with water, drinking it down like I’m dying of thirst. I lean a hip on the sink and refill the mug. Movement from beyond the curtained window catches my attention. I sweep the pale-lemon cloth aside, holding it back.
Callum is stacking wood. Corded arms and working shoulders manhandle the timber. He tugs the axe from the chopping block and bends down to pick up a short round log. The mug meets the counter, my hand still wrapped around it.
The axe swings, smashing into the log, his hands wrapped around the handle. The log splits, one half falling to the ground while the other teeters on the stump. Forearms flexing, he adjusts the split half and swings again.
It splinters, but the blade is stuck deep into the wood.
One large hand wrapped around the wood, he pries the head of the axe out. I swallow, chest heaving, as I lean closer to the window. Lips parted, each breath I take rustles the curtain, its fabric now white-knuckled between my fingers.
With the wood down to size, he tosses it into a pile to his right and bends over, swiping up the other half. As if my gaze is burning his skin, he turns toward the house. I jerk back, letting the curtain fall.
“Oh god.” The word is breathy, and far too guilty.
Frozen to the spot, I stall the air in my lungs. Eventually the thwack of the axe takes up again, and I relax. Fumbling the mug in my hand that’s warmed in my hold, I drain the last of the water and place it in the sink.
Words.
Right, I have words to write.
Surely after seeing the only other person on this isolated island working in the sun, my imagination has been stoked. As I climb the stairs and wind my way up to my room, I can’t help but think that my words aren’t the only thing I have rediscovered today.
I slam the laptop shut.Well, so much for that theory.Watching Callum work did something, but unblock my writing was not it. I slide the desk drawer open and pull out the old, tatteredWeather Logjournal I found in the sofa days ago, flipping through the pages to read a few entries. He writes about Emmett’s problems and possible solutions. Iris and her life. The words are selfless and so... kind.
I’m warming up to him more with every turn of the page. Every entry I read gives me a privileged look inside Callum McCreary. His thoughts, his life.
The door shuts with a thud downstairs, and I rise from the chair, slipping the journal back into the drawer. It should be weird, him coming and going as he pleases, but it’s not. Heavy footsteps tread upward and bypass the open bedroom door.
Curious, I follow. Outside my room, I glance up the spiral treads that continue to the very top. The lantern room. Callum disappears into it, and I hurry after him. I’ve never been up there. I’m not sure I’m allowed. Maybe I could put it down to research? Surely there could be a lighthouse in my fantasy realm? Magical pirates and all...
World-building research, that’s what I’m going up there for.
Not the long-lost chemistry I can’t seem to pin down, no matter how hard I try.
“Callum?” I grip the last of the rail before the room’s threshold.
“’Round front.”
Well, at least he didn’t accuse me of snooping this time. I step into the room. It’s bigger than I imagined. A curved, slatted cage fences the enormous light in. Everything is bright white or transparent. The lamp itself is silver and reflective. The round room is topped with a small dome. Interesting.
“You needing something?” a gruff voice rumbles from behind the lens.
I lean around it, but the apparatus is too big. Carefully, I step around until I find Callum squatting down, a white rag in one hand, a long brush in the other, and a scowl on his face.
I sink to the floor beside him, and he looks at me. A curious but entertained look flickers over his face and his blue eyes don’t leave me. I train my eyes up to the huge light that’s currently stationary and turned off. “It’s so big. The light, that is.”
He chuckles, continuing his cleaning. “That it is.”
“Did you always want to do this? Live out here by yourself?”
He drops to his seat and leans against the slatted wall behind him. The rag comes to rest between his hands over his knees, now bent up. His face falls a little. “It wasn’t my first choice. But the best one at the time.”
“Oh,” I mutter. I can’t seem to close my mouth. He runs a hand over his short-cut beard and licks his lips, and I’m mesmerized. Clearing my throat, I drop my gaze to my hands. My idle, useless hands.
