Page 18 of The Shield
He looked at the water like it might grant him an answer he could share. “Quiet. Work. Moving something heavy until it stops arguing.” He let a beat pass. “Sometimes, I cook.”
“Cook,” I repeated, surprisingly undone by the picture that offered. “What?”
“Stews,” he said. “Things you can leave on a stove and trust. Bread sometimes.”
A cloud edged the sun and for a second the heat eased. A wind came thin from the harbor, threads of salt stitching the air. The first smell, way out past the jetties, of rain getting itself together.
A man from a gallery popped out as if he’d been listening from behind the glass. “Natalie! Blessings on you. We moved the trucks.”
“Tell your neighbors,” I called back.
“And tell your granddaddy he owes me a cigar!” he added cheerfully before disappearing without waiting for an answer.
Ethan’s brows ticked the smallest fraction. “He keeps … coming up,” he said.
“He’s a habit,” I said, and finally let myself give him the shape of it. “He was mayor a long time. People loved him. Still do. He thinks I hung the moon, just not where men can see it.”
Ethan’s gaze came back to me, steady. “And you?”
“I hung my own,” I said, lighter than it felt. “In a different sky.”
He nodded like that made sense.
We stopped under an awning.
“Okay,” I said, because if I didn’t redirect my mouth, it was going to confess that I had imagined his hand on the back of my neck and the weight of him in a way that would embarrass us both. “Here’s what’s going to happen. If the first band hits this afternoon, I’m going to send out an update. Move your vehicle to high ground. Don’t park on Lockwood. Don’t park in any garage labeled ‘convenient.’ If you get stuck somewhere?—”
“I won’t,” he said.
“If,” I said, stubborn just to hear how the word sounded in me. “If. Call a tow. Not a hero move.”
“Okay,” he said again, and Jesus, the way that word felt when he said it made me want to lean against the cool brick and close my eyes.
I didn’t. I took a breath too shallow to be useful and said the most dangerous sentence I’d said all weekend. “Do you want me to text you? When it starts.”
He stood very still, which made the heat of him feel like it took up more space, not less. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
“Okay,” I said, and pulled my phone out before I could chicken out and make a big speech about municipal responsibility to disguise the fact that I wanted him. “Give me your number.”
He gave it, slow. I typed, hands surprisingly steady, then hovered over send like a teenager, furious and delighted withmyself. The message was practical because I’m me:Hi. It’s Natalie. I’ll ping you when the bands arrive.
His pocket buzzed. He didn’t look. His eyes stayed on my mouth like he could read the next thing I was afraid to say.
“And if you wanted to …” I heard my voice and decided to keep going. “If you wanted to see what a city does when it pretends it isn’t about to get wet … there’s a coffee spot a block over. In a few hours. If it holds off. I could give you the ten-cent tour. Of drains.” A breath. “And maybe not-drains.”
The smallest breath of a smile. “A date,” he said, like he was tasting whether it fit his mouth.
“A walk,” I amended, lying and we both knew it. “For research.”
“For research,” he agreed, generous enough to let me have the cover I’d built. “What time?”
“Three,” I said, because sayingnowwould have been indecent. “At The Rise. If it’s not raining. If it is, I’ll text you where the water goes and we’ll watch it instead.”
“Okay,” he said, softer now, like the word had found a different part of him to come from. “Three.”
I nodded and stepped back before I climbed him like a bad decision in broad daylight. “Move your vehicle,” I said, pointing south like I was deputizing him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
