Page 49 of Sweet Silver Bells
“I’m sure some of them can be gentlemen and sleep on the couch.”
Olivia raised her eyebrows, not understanding the joke.
It was a bad joke. Of course, she didn’t understand it.
Hunter made a mental note to see if he could find jokes from the early 1900s. He liked seeing her laugh, so maybe he could make her laugh on purpose.
“Two per pot,” she confirmed, moving back to the coffee table and gently pulling another poinsettia from its plastic wrapping. She brought it back to the window, to him, to the planter pot. She set it, her eyes evoking love and pride, a chemist celebrating the first explosive they made in their humble home garage lab.
“You really can’t hear them?” she asked.
He couldn’t.
Of course, he couldn't. It was absurd. It was a joke. He indulged it for her because, for her, it was real. She had magic, a connection to something he had taken for granted his entire life. He hadn’t deserved to hear them. He would be ashamed to listen to what they had to say if he could.
Hunter was sure of it.
14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
Hunter and Olivia worked, finishing the job together as she hummed. He tried not to stare at her with lovesick puppy eyes. His brain worked hard to push him away from her again, and he began to let it. It had become a maddening cycle—his heart swinging between fire and ice, forever undone by his wild, secretive tree siren.
You belong to her.
His hands gripped the bag of dirt as he filled the last planter pot, then lugged it into the kitchen. He set the pot in front of the door that led to the backyard.
But do you? Maybe she regrets it, coming here with you, with someone who can’t hear the sounds of the forest, the secrets of trees, the passion of the growing—the living—plants and botanicals that she covets.
“The light is wonderful.” Olivia didn’t have to work hard to convince him. Her eyelashes did that all on their own—he folded under that mysterious, seductive, heart-touching stare, hoping that there was no murderous intent running through her mind in case he told her no.
Maybe you like it, the danger of her. Maybe you need it.
“We might need to be able to open the door,” he sighed, a headache sneaking in, mixed with the too little and unrestful slumber that he got from the couch, catching up to him.
Don’t let her regret it.
The last of the poinsettias stood tall and proud, nearly pining over Olivia’s touch, leaves stretching out as her soft hands pulled away. Hunter imagined that if he could hear them like she was so sure that she could, he would hear them whimpering, begging, worshipping the woman who put her soul into their care.
Hunter walked over to the kitchen counter, where the still slightly wet Danish box sat, forgotten about until now. He lifted the lid and grabbed the one with candied oranges, taking a large bite, cream and jelly oozing into his mouth. His stomach let out a large gargle in response, and Hunter smiled, the sugar making him instantly happy.
He turned to Olivia, who stood frozen in place, watching him eat. She still wore the same black sweater dress his mom had chosen for her. It clung from the dampness of rain and their kisses, now dry but streaked with dirt from working so close to the mantle and the fire. The flames crackled in the living room after he’d poked them and added another log.
“Here, let me get you one,” Hunter said, opening the cupboard and bringing down a plate, only to drop it, startled by Olivia’s ability to appear right next to him without making a sound.
The ceramic cracked at his feet.
“Shit,” he said, jumping back. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry.”
You’re blowing it, man.
He couldn’t tell if Olivia was hurt. If she were, she didn’t say. Instead, her warm breath exhaled, her lips aimed up at him as she closed her eyes and opened her mouth.
“I’ll try a bite.”
Hunter pulled a piece of the dough off his own Danish and carefully popped it into Olivia’s mouth. He could feel her heat, her fire on his thumb and forefinger.
What would it feel like if she closed those lips around my fingers?
