Page 24 of These Rough Waters

With a sigh, I let the curtain drop back into place, glancing towards the fire. Why would he get me the firewood?

He didn’t even want me in this cabin.

It’s a few hours after Harper has gone to bed when I hear a slight knock at the door. Wine glass in hand, I pad across the room, the fluffy socks soft against my feet and open the door. Torin stands there, the casserole dish I used to make him food the previous day in his hand.

“Torin,” I greet.

“This is yours,” he shoves the dish towards me, forcing me to grab it.

“Well thanks,” I grunt, adjusting to hold that and my wine glass.

“It was good.”

I blink at him. Was this man broken?

“Okay?”

“Thank you.”

I stifle my shock at his gratitude and nod my head, “You’re welcome. It was the least I could do after the roof and all.”

He nods, lifting one hand to wipe at the back of his neck. The move brings my attention to his biceps, the muscles straining and flexing, stretching the cuff of his white t-shirt which brings a stark contrast between the brightness of that and the dark intricate work of his tattoos. I avert my eyes before he can catch me ogling but fuck, he had nice arms, with the prominent ropes of veins that pop out of his skin.

There was this awkwardness between us, this mutual distrust and unease so I have no idea why I suddenly blurt, “Would you like to come in for a glass?” I wiggle my half empty wine glass.

“I don’t drink wine,” He grunts but doesn’t move to leave.

“I have a couple beers if you want one of those.”

He narrows his eyes and looks over my shoulder, hesitating.

“It’s just an invite, you don’t have to.”

His steel eyes scan my face before he dips his chin in agreement and I step to the side to let him through, following his massive back as I kick the door closed with my foot. He pauses in the living room, eyes on the fire still going strong and my chest swells with pride that I’d done it myself.

“Turns out,” I say to him, grabbing a bottle of beer from the fridge and uncapping it, “Idoknow how to start a fire.”

Handing him the bottle, I top up my wine and brush past him, settling on the couch.

“Where’s your daughter?”

“Her name is Harper,” I tell him, “She’s in bed.”

He nods and continues to stand.

“You’re making me nervous, Torin, can you sit down?”

His eyes jump to my face and dark brows twitch as he seems to struggle with whatever he is currently thinking about, but he sits eventually, right at the edge of the couch, face turned to the fire.

“This cabin has been empty a long time,” he says, seemingly to himself, “it’s strange to see it lived in.”

“Who lived here before?”

His shoulders slump a little, “Her name was Grace.”

I watch as he takes a long pull from the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing while he swallows the cold beer down.

“Where did she go?”

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