Page 37 of Tender Heart
Oh crap. Guess my inner monologue got away with me again.
“Yeah, I’m good.” Releasing my legs from his waist, my feet hit the warm ground a second later. I dot a peck to his cheek. “Sorry.”
Too chicken to stand this close to him any longer, I turn back and head toward the house. When I reach the front door, I can’t help myself. I glance back. He stands where I left him, hands hanging by his sides. The look of disbelief flattening his face sends my heart racing again. He’s probably regretting what just happened. That look of shock will most likely fade to one of annoyance when his brain reunites with sufficient blood flow.
I putter around the kitchen, and my stomach grumbles. But my head is still lost back somewhere in the very close proximity of Callum. Absentmindedly, I throw together a salad, chopping up last night’s left over chicken breast and adding it into the mix. I tug the refrigerator door open and hunt down the Italian dressing.
Movement from outside catches my eye. Muscle-bound arms swing an axe over his bare chest, slamming it into the unsuspecting stump on the block. It shatters into little pieces. The growl he looses drifts through the open window on the ocean’s light breeze. The poor stump didn’t stand a chance.
Fancy that. A little sass and this man is wound up like a mid-June twister.
I flip the lid on the dressing, still watching Callum as I pour the liquid over the salad leaves. He raises the tool again, turning to the side as he lines up his target. The blade descends at a lightning pace, and the timber cracks right through. He tosses one half from the stump and glances toward the house.
I squeak out a sound.
Something cold and wet splashes my hands.
Shit!
Dressing douses the counter. My salad is drowning in the briny liquid. “Shoot. Ugh.”
I flip the lid closed and return the dressing to the fridge. Great, that flavor’s going to keep coming back up all afternoon. But with all food accounted for with our trips to the mainland still only every fortnight, I can’t waste it. Who knows when Emmett will be back to fix the boat.
I find a fork and sink into a chair at the table. It takes some effort to push it down, but I finish the salad. The door swings open, and Callum strides in, arms loaded with wood.
“Just in case,” he says, not looking at me. He marches to the fireplace in the living room.
Great. Now he can’t even look at me.
The weather has been nicer. I wonder why he thinks I need a restock? I assume he understands something about the way weather works on the island I haven’t learned yet. Why else is he still bringing firewood?
“Going up to the lamp today?” I ask, trying to sidestep the elephant in the room.
As he bends down and starts unloading the wood, I take my plate to the sink to wash up and wait for him to answer. To look at me. For this to not be incredibly weird.
I mean, that kiss was . . .
Straight outta some epic romantasy.
I run the hot water, adding the soap. Distracted, I pour too much into the water, and it bubbles over.
Dammit.
The overwhelming desire to write slides through my veins, infiltrating my mind. My daydreaming whirs to life like a long-suffering diesel engine at the end of the hardest winter.
Good lord, Evie, enough with the analogies.
I roll my eyes at myself and take the dish rag and swirl the suds through the bowl. The heat of the water sends tingles through my hands. My fingers ache with the heat. I make quick work of it, setting the bowl and fork on the rack to drain. After I’ve wiped down the suds and dried my hands, I spin around and lean on the counter, hands gripping the edge of the sink.
Callum’s gone.
Footsteps shuffle upstairs. Pursing my lips, I decide to confront the elephant. Even if I can’t say anything in the moment, at least I can get some spicy words in. It occurs to me that the kiss, those fleeting minutes of his hands on my body, on my face, was the best inspiration—or research—I’ve had in a long time.
Yep, that’s what I could put it down to. Research...
I find Callum in the bedroom, restocking the woodpile by the smaller fireplace by the bed. Now it’s my turn to lean on the doorjamb and stare at him. And I do.
“Needing something?” he grunts out, losing the last log to the pile.
