Page 47 of Murder

We touch and talk and orbit each other—acting like nothing happened the other night, like nothing’s ever happened between us except just sparring in my yard—and I tell myself that I can be his friend. I’d take that in a heartbeat if it was that or nothing. And it is. It’s that or nothing, I tell myself sternly.

Entertaining any other option—even for a millisecond—is proof that I’m losing my grip on reality.

We end our workout with some free-form sparring. I can tell he’s letting me “win”; I take it anyway, and bow theatrically when we’re finished.

As soon as he starts stretching, I feel heat prickle my cheeks. I stretch alongside him until he’s bending down toward his toes, and then, when he can’t see my face, I say, “I made three different types of cookies. Peanut butter the one night, M&M last night, and chocolate chip today. You want to come in, or want me to run go get them?”

He rises to his full height and spreads his legs, then bends over to the left side. “You don’t have to.” His voice is soft and low. I have to run his words through my mind twice to convince myself he said them.

Then I smack a hand over my heart. “You don’t want my cookies?”

I swear, I think the asshole rolls his eyes.

I sigh and wag a finger at him. “You’re grumpy. I had a sense of it, but I couldn’t tell for sure while we were sparring. You’re pretty good at hiding your emotions, Secret Agent Ranger Guy.”

Rising up again to roll his shoulders, he blinks at me.

I nod. “Like that.” I shrug, determined not to sink into a sea of insecurity. I whirl around. “I’m going to get the cookies,” I call over my shoulder. “Don’t run off on me.”

I didn’t mean to reference the other night, but apparently my big mouth has a mind of its own. Typical me. Typical pre me. I feel a rush of warmth at the realization.

He makes me feel like me, I imagine telling Helga. I’m not sure if she’d be glad or appalled. Possibly appalled.

I pile three Ziplock freezer bags full of cookies into my arms and walk back out onto the front porch. I’m surprised to find Barrett sitting on the top step, leaning over his lap with his head in his hands. I drop down beside him on the stair and put the three bags at our feet.

When he shifts his wary eyes to me, I wait for him to say something. Instead he looks back down.

What should I do?

I wish I knew him better.

After a minute staring at the bags of cookies, wondering why I feel such a compulsion to take care of him, I decide it doesn’t really matter. I do—and that’s the thing. Sometimes people just connect, and this is how I feel toward him. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. In that spirit, I pony up and throw an arm around his shoulders.

They’re harder, wider than I realized they would be, and once my arm is resting on his strong back, I feel tingles spread through me. I still my body, feeling for movement, but he is frozen too. It’s your move. I take a deep, slow breath and spread my hand out on a ridge of muscle.

Then I lean my head against his shoulder.

I’m not thinking about our height difference, so I think my cheek will press against his shoulder. Instead my forehead bumps against the hard swell of his bicep. It’s unyielding. No more receptive to my attempt at comfort than the man himself.

Without meaning to, I laugh, and all the tension in me ebbs. I rub my forehead against his arm, feeling ridiculous.

Eventually, I guess even Barrett gets curious; he lifts his head so he can see my face. “What are you doing?” His face is twisted in a look of total incredulity.

I giggle. “Forehead-humping your arm. Can’t you tell?”

“Yeah.” He makes this husky, half-breath-half-laugh sound, and I feel a zing of victory.

“I’m trying to un-grouch you through osmosis.”

When he cuts his eyes sideways at me, I find his handsome face skeptical. I grin and rub against his arm some more.

Finally—a real laugh from him. “I don’t know about you, Gwen.”

“I don’t know about you either. Who refuses homemade cookies?” I arch my brows accusingly.

“Someone who’s not hungry.”

I hold his gaze as mine softens. My arm around him squeezes. I don’t know what to say, so I just sit beside him, looking at his somber face, into his striking eyes, and try to send good vibes.

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