Page 29 of Embers in Autumn
“On paper, yes,” I said. “In my body, no. This is the only thing that makes me feel like I am exactly where I am supposed to be.”
“Then you chose right,” he said, and for a moment I hadto look away because the certainty in his voice felt like sunlight directly on skin.
We looped around the pond and found the old bench under a maple that had gone completely to flame. We sat, our shoulders touching, watching a line of geese claim the water with noisy authority. I could have let the morning float by like that, warm and easy, but something inside me tugged, asking to be said.
“I am a little reserved about moving forward,” I blurted, then winced. Subtlety had never been my strength.
He turned, careful, his thumb still resting against my knuckles. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” I shook my head quickly. “It is not you. It is just… you have a daughter.” The words caught, then rushed out. “That does not bother me. It does not. I think it is one of the things I like most about you. I just want to be sure that whatever this is between us will not make Lana feel sad. Or ignored. Or confused. Or…” I stopped myself, breath messy, thoughts battering against my ribs.
He set his pretzel down and angled toward me. The pad of his free hand lifted, gentle as breath, and he touched my cheek. Warm palm, steady fingers, the soft drag of skin that felt like a vow.
“Hey,” he said. “Lana seemed to like you in the bookshop.”
I huffed a laugh. “Lana liked the nice bookseller who matched a scented candle to the book she picked. It is a whole other story to like the woman your father is dating.”
He considered that, then nodded as if accepting terms in a fair bargain. “Then come for dinner.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Dinner,” he said, calm as anything. “I am free on Wednesday afternoon. I will cook for the three of us. You and Lana can talk. We can all sit at the same table and figure outwhat this is. Or at least where to start.”
My mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “You are very sure of yourself.”
“I am sure of wanting to do this right.” He waited. No pressure, no hurry. Just the offer, set gently between us like a plate we could both reach for.
I felt the smile build from somewhere low and real. “It is only fair you cook,” I said, finding my footing. “Given that yesterday I did.”
“Deal,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Any requests that are not cherry pie for dinner?”
“Surprise me,” I said. It was a dangerous sentence and I let it stand.
We sat there a moment longer, hands still joined, the day stretching around us in a bright hush. A breeze lifted, carrying the smell of leaves and sugar and the faintest trace of his skin. My chest felt improbable and light, like something that had been tightly wound was loosening at last.
He shifted closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly to mine. “Amber.”
I looked up. The maple above us dropped a single leaf that spun and drifted until it caught in my hair. He reached, tucked it free, then did not move his hand away. His fingertips brushed the line of my jaw, the curve of my neck, the place where pulse met skin. The world narrowed until it was just that touch and my breath chasing itself.
“May I,” he asked, voice quiet, “kiss you.”
The question landed like a gift. “Yes,” I said, and I heard the yes in my bones.
He leaned in. The bench, the pond, the vendors, the entire town slid to the edges. His mouth met mine with a patience that held heat inside it, a slow press that deepened on a shared exhale. I rose into him, my free hand finding his shoulder, theknit of his shirt warm under my fingertips. He kissed me like the first time had been a map and now he had the route, like he knew where to pause and where to stay. I felt the curve of his smile against my bottom lip and answered with one of my own.
The kiss opened, sweet turning sure, the kind that pulls the air right out of your lungs and hands it back richer. Leaves ferried down around us, catching in our hair and on our coats. Somewhere a dog barked, then quieted. The bench creaked once and then stilled as if it, too, was listening.
When we finally parted, he rested his forehead to mine. Our hands had never let go.
“Wednesday,” he said, breath warm against my mouth.
“Wednesday,” I echoed, and the word felt like a promise delivered under a canopy of red and gold.
He kissed me again, and this time it was epic in the way small things can be epic, because it was ours. The park went on breathing. The day went on brightening. And under the maple, with pretzel salt still on my tongue and his hand still wrapped around mine, I let myself fall a little more.
CHAPTER 9
Amber
