Page 26 of Holly & Hemlock
Lane’s mouth tightens, not quite a frown. “Every day of his life. Except for two years, Army.” He flexes his hands, looks at the scar tissue along his knuckles. “He came back different. Quieter.”
I know the type. I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.
“And you?” I say. “Ever want to leave?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have the imagination for it. Place like this, it gives you every story you could ever need.” He glances at me, a flash of wryness. “You?”
I think of my childhood, spent moving from city to city, new school every three years, every apartment a different shade of ugly. “I never knew where I wanted to be. Just that I didn’t want to be stuck.”
He nods, as if this is all the explanation necessary.
The fire burns higher, fueled by Lane’s earlier engineering. The warmth creeps into my feet, my thighs, my chest. The blanket is almost too much, but I keep it around my shoulders for the feeling of protection, the barrier between skin and air.
Lane says nothing, but I can feel the orbit of his attention.The silence is not uncomfortable, but it’s charged, as if each minute that passes raises the stakes of the next word or movement. I wonder if he feels it, too.
I take a risk. I shift closer to the hearth, stretching my hands out to the flame. The blanket slips from my shoulders, exposing my neck and the thin fabric of my sleeve. I pretend not to notice. Lane’s eyes follow the motion, subtle but undeniable.
“You built a good fire,” he says, tone even but with a hidden warmth.
“You showed me how,” I reply. “Or maybe you just fixed it after I ruined it.”
He almost smiles. “Told you—messy’s better.”
I think about that, then about other things I might want to be messy.
I say, “I could use more practice. If you’re up for it.”
His expression shifts, a micro-expression of surprise, then something else—approval, maybe, or the simple relief of finding out you’re not the only one keeping score.
“Anytime,” he says.
We are silent again. The house sighs, and I realize for the first time since arriving that I am not afraid. I am aware—vividly, painfully so—but not afraid. The fire crackles, and with every pop I feel the space between us contract, millimeter by millimeter.
I ask, “Why did you really come back?”
Lane looks at me, then at the fire, then back at me. “Didn’t think you’d get it lit. Figured you’d freeze and I’d have to carry you down to the kitchen. Only place in the house with a working generator.”
“That’s not why,” I say, more certain than I should be.
He meets my gaze, holds it. “No,” he says, “it’s not.”
I reach for a log, intending to feed the fire, but my handshakes a little. Lane notices, takes the log from me, and places it gently on the blaze. His hand lingers, inches from mine, the heat between our bodies now indistinguishable from the heat of the flames.
There is a beat—long, stretched, held—and then we both reach for the iron poker at the same time. Our fingers collide, his enveloping mine, rough and careful all at once.
I should pull away, but I don’t.
Instead, I turn my hand, and now our palms are pressed together, fingers twitching, the way people do in those old movies when they touch each other for the first time. I look at the fire, then at our hands, then at him.
His eyes are storm-colored, shards of light flickering in the gray. He is breathing faster, but only just.
I move closer, and I don’t know how I got to be this brave. I’ve never made the first move in anything I’ve done. But Lane, for all his big, brooding frame, feels safe in a way I’ve never experienced before. Not gentle. But safe.
I look at his lips, and he notices. And when I turn my body toward him, his hand reaches for me and rests on my waist. It’s somehow the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.
“Nora . . .” he whispers, like this is all a dream.
“Kiss me, Lane.”
