Page 62 of Fighting Words

I smile. “Sounds like my kind of lady.”

His blue eyes peer up at me from beneath his brows, only for a moment. He sees the evidence of my tears and looks away, as if not wanting to gawk. “You would have liked her. She had hair kind of like yours. A lot darker red though. Yours is blonder.”

His use of past tense gives me pause.

“Did she pass away?” I ask, treading lightly.

He holds up the jeans to check the position of a stitch. “Ovarian cancer.”

I swallow and look down, my voice weak as I reply, “Sorry.”

“It’s been a long time now. Come see.”

He holds out the jeans for me, and though they still need a good wash, the hole near the knee is all but gone. He folded the denim in on itself in such a way that the stitches are neatly hidden inside. I don’t know exactly why him stitching up my pants is the hottest thing a man has ever done for me, but it is.

I clear my throat.

Even after only knowing Nate a short time, I know he’s tenderhearted and thoughtful. An image of him as a father leaps to mind unbidden. A little girl by his side, him patiently teaching her to read on the chair in front of the fire. He would be such a gentle dad, and the thought almost makes me tear up again.

I swallow and take the jeans. “Thanks. Should we get to work?”

He looks like he’s on the brink of saying something else. His lips part and his forehead crinkles, but then all at once he drops it. “Yeah, I’ll get us coffee.”

The rest of the day we spend at his kitchen table, working like we say we’re going to. Since my arrival in England, it’s the most productive day we’ve had. Nothing exists beyond theCosmostrilogy. We don’t discuss last night. We don’t even look in the direction of the living room.

By the evening, I’m exhausted and I have a headache from keeping track of plot threads with him. His brain is on another level. The way he thinks, jotting down notes quickly, grabbing ahold of an idea and running with it while I try in vain to keep up. We drink more coffee than we should and tear through not one, not two, butthreechocolate bars, but when we break for dinner, I feel a real sense of accomplishment—not only for helping him with his book but for managing to avoid the topic ofusall day.

Of course it could happen now, as we take off our work hats and settle back into life as roommates. But Nate sidesteps the issue altogether when he tells me he’s heading into town. He’s the one running this time, saving me the trouble. I get the cottage to myself for dinner. I fill a plate with whatever my heart desires, cheese and pickles and crackers, and I call Cat down from upstairs and feed him dinner while I read in front of the fire.

Nate doesn’t come home before I go to sleep, but when I go to use the restroom in the middle of the night, I see a few boxes of tampons sitting beside my door. He got them for me while he was in town.

CHAPTER 19

SUMMER

It’sstrange that Nate and I don’t discuss the night we spent together in front of the fire. Not once. Not the day after it happened, or the day after that, or the day after that. A week passes in which Nate and I work like we were supposed to work from the very beginning. If we were being graded on productivity, it would be all gold stars and perfect 100s. If we were being graded on honesty, well, we’d both be getting called into the principal’s office for a stern talking to.

I know whyI’mavoiding the topic. At least I think I’ve mostly got it. I try not to think about it too much because it makes my stomach hurt every time I do, and then I break out in a cold sweat and I can’t meet Nate’s eyes again for a few hours for fear that I’ll blush and give myself away.

Nothing good would come from us rehashing things. No matter how overwhelmingly perfect Nate was, I’m not prepared to completely throw away my life with Andrew. He and I have been together for a long time. A part of me still thinks we could end up togetherforever. I can’t give that up overnight, can I? I mean I’d never hear the end of it from Emma and my parents.Ugh.

There’s also the tricky situation of Nate and me trying to preserve some semblance of a platonic work relationship…

Yes. It’s settled. Everything is best left unsaid.

If Nate and I were to have a serious sit-down conversation about our hookup or were to continue what we started, who knows how far we’d take it? Would we even be able to pull ourselves apart? Regain control?Surface for air?

I’m at the coffee pot in the kitchen, mulling all of this over, and no matter how much I try to remind myself of why it’s wrong, the idea of tumbling into Nate’s bed makes my toes curl. I know, deep down, all the very important reasons for why I’m keeping Nate at a distance might totally fly out the window if I knew how Nate felt. If he wanted…

I hear footsteps on the stairs and I shake myself. It doesn’t matter.

I stand up straighter and reach for a second mug, his mug. I feel his presence behind me like I feel his presence everywhere in this house: acutely, intrinsically, painfully.

“Coffee’s almost ready.” I say this without looking at him because I find it’s actually very hard to meet his eye these days. Almost impossible.

When I do, I swear I see emotion in them that gives me pause.

“Smells good.”

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