Page 12 of Love, Untangled

“Sleep, Pen,” Carlo murmured. “I’ve got you. You and Alpaca Man.”

* * *

She woke on an unfamiliar couch with a soft chenille throw tucked around her shoulders and a plump pillow behind her head. It smelled of Carlo and sunshine. She lifted her head and squinted as the sunlight beamed into her eyes. She raised her hands to rub them but yelped at the pain in her palm. Right. The splinter. She lifted her hand and stared at the reddening wound. Her skin was tight, hot.

The floorboards creaked and Pen turned her head, unsurprised to find Carlo walking toward her. “Good. You’re awake.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep—”

“It’s fine. Alpaca Man and I did a couple of chores. Bathroom’s down the hall, first door on the right if you need it. Then come into the kitchen.” He pointed behind him. “I’ve set up some warm water and Epsom salts to help soften the skin around the splinter.”

Pen rose and clumsily folded the blanket. She headed to the bathroom, which was updated with a modern pedestal sink and matte silver faucet. The mirror was an oval with sconces on either side that gave off a soft light. She was glad for the chance to empty her bladder. After she washed her hands, lips flatlined against the pain, she splashed some water on her face, hoping the coolness would lift the mental fog. She dried her wet skin on a fluffy dark-blue towel that matched the tile in the backsplash.

Great, she was in the house of a man she found deeply attractive, and she had probably drooled on his pillow. Her face was makeup free—she hadn’t even thought of it earlier when she headed into town—and her clothes were rumpled from sleeping on his couch.

After tucking her hair behind her ears, she headed toward the noise and what she assumed was the kitchen.

Carlo turned as she approached and nodded toward the thick wooden farm table. It must have been here since the house was built—sturdy and scarred, maybe even burned in a spot. The kitchen was mostly white—counters, cabinets—with a few splashes of apple green, canisters and a new-but-meant-to-look-old-fashioned fridge as the main splashes of color.

“Hand in the water.”

She did as he bade. He set a plate with a thick slice of bread smeared with apple butter next to her good hand’s elbow and a cup of coffee above the plate. She continued to take in the large room. After a moment, she decided Carlo must have taken out the wall between the original kitchen and dining room, opening the space into a more modern hub of the house. The floors here were tile, not wood, and the space had lots of good light, thanks to the windows from the dining room. The stove was white, utilitarian and nowhere near as whimsical as the fridge.

“Do you take cream or sugar?”

“Both, if you have them,” she said, dipping her hand into the water. She hissed at the heat and the brief flare of discomfort as the puncture wound hit the water.

“I do. Too hot?”

“No. It’s fine. Just need to get used to it.”

Carlo brought over a carton of milk and a packet of sugar. Pen doctored her coffee and took a long swig before she looked up at him. He stared back, his expression intent.

“Thank you. For all of this. You didn’t need to.”

He studied her for a long moment. Something shifted in his eyes, and the skin around them softened. “But you see, I did. I came off as a real jerk during our first two interactions, and that didn’t sit well with me. I’m sorry for that.”

She waved her good hand. “Forgiven.”

And then, because she was starving, she picked up the bread and bit into it. With a moan she tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She chewed slowly, savoring the richness of both the bread and the apple butter. She licked her lips. Carlo continued to stare at her, expression heating.

“It’s good,” she said, nerves causing her to wiggle in the ladder-back oak chair. “Really, really good.” Her voice dropped, becoming throatier as a throb of awareness warmed her belly.

His pupils blew wide just before he dropped his gaze to her hand, a vicious frown forming between his brows. He cleared his throat. “Good. Great. Um. I’ll just…your hand.”

“So, how many acres do you have?”

“About eighty.”

“So twice as many as my nana.”

She yanked her hand out of the water, careful to keep the drips in the bowl. He grabbed a towel and a pair of tweezers. He bent his head over her palm while she sipped her coffee and ate the rest of the piece of bread with her good hand. Each bite seemed to stick in her throat, making her already tight chest even tighter.

Carlo shrugged. “I guess.”

“And it’s all apple orchards?”

“Most of it.”

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