Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(81)

Ginny.

“Shit.” I glance up at the wall clock and see that I have exactly two minutes to get the lasagna to the table. “I’ve gotta go. See you later?”

“Yeah, I’ll be here. Or upstairs.”

I make it to the porch with exactly ten seconds to spare and Ginny’s already waiting in her seat. “Your favorite. There’s enough for a few meals here.”

She frowns. “It’s missing a quarter.”

“Yes, it is.” I load her plate and mine, and then take a seat and stab at it, starving.

“Well?” Ginny’s staring at me now. “Where did it go?

“I thought Sheriff Gabe and Jesse might like a piece, so I brought it over.”

“To Gabe?”

“Nope.” The p in the word pops out of my mouth, and then I shovel a piece of lasagna in my mouth and level her with a look.

For once, she doesn’t answer, deciding to mimic me and fill her mouth with food, either because it’s that good or she’s intentionally shutting herself up. Ginny’s answers are usually more logical and palatable with at least a seven-second delay.

That’s why I wait until she has another mouthful before I say, “I met a Hildy today.” Ginny’s eyes flash with instant recognition, so I know that her childhood best friend hasn’t been forgotten, even after almost fifty years. “She would really like to come visit you.”

She chews slowly, her hazel eyes looking past me, to the fields, to the mountains, to years ago, when things were different for her. Finally, she swallows and says softly, “That’d be nice.”

Ginny is surprisingly chatty for the rest of our meal. She tells me about the time she and Hildy went to the rodeo and saw the sheriff at the time fall off his horse walking down Main Street, an empty flask of whiskey in his hand, the contents already poured down his gullet.

I catch myself smiling, and not because of the story.

Maybe we’re both lucky to have found each other.

“Jesse?”

I fold my arms against the chill. The big storm brought with it milder weather, but the evenings are still on the cool side. He’s not in the garage, so I knock on the door in the back. He did tell me to come by. Kind of. And he did tell me that he might be upstairs.

So I try the handle. The door pops open. A familiar smell fills my nostrils immediately, but I can’t place it.

“Jesse?” I call into the open space. I get no response, but I hear the low voices from a television. Climbing the stairs, I find Jesse sprawled out on his back, in bed. Asleep.

I should feel like I’m intruding, but I don’t. It’s a cozy space, made entirely of wood, and almost as sparse as my attic. The only light comes from the TV, save for a night light plugged into the wall near the stairs. The floor creaks loudly as I step across it to turn it off.

“Hey,” comes a groggy voice from the bed, and my heart swells instantly.

“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be asleep already.”

He groans out loud. “I just drifted. Cutting down trees all day sucks ass.”

He hasn’t moved and doesn’t look like he has any intention to do so. “Okay, get some sleep, then.” I shut the TV off and move to pull his bedspread over him.

I freeze when a hand skates up my forearm, gently, slowly, his calluses scratching over my skin as his fingers slip up the sleeve of my sweater. But they stop at my elbow, waiting. For my permission, maybe? I give it to him by sitting down on the bed.

“Stay.”

My stomach tightens. What does he want from me? Or expect? Because I don’t know if I can give it to him.

But I also know that I don’t want to leave. “Like last time?”

“Just like last time,” he assures me.

My heart is pounding as I lie down. His hand slips out from my sleeve and then his arm lifts beneath my back, pulling me closer to him, until I can’t help but curl into his chest. To hear his quick, shallow breaths.

I catch movement from his hand in the sparse light only a second before a finger grazes my hair, my neck, my chin.

The edge of my scar.

My right side is lying against his chest but he gently prods my head up, until I’m facing the ceiling and he has access. I swallow hard as he trails a finger up and down the length of it.

“I read what you wrote in my journal,” I finally offer into the silence.

He doesn’t answer, making two more passes along the scar with his finger, as if memorizing the feel of it. And then his hand settles gently on my neck as he leans in, until wet heat from his mouth skates across my skin.

He kisses my scar.

I close my eyes, the sensation stirring a ball of emotions deep within my stomach that I don’t understand but are raw and crippling in their intensity. The tears begin to spill from my eyes.

Jesse stops but he doesn’t pull away, simply pressing his forehead against my scar, his thumb stroking back and forth against my neck soothingly as the tears continue to fall.

Until I drift off.

I’m faintly aware of an alarm going off somewhere nearby, and then I feel someone leaning over me, the scent familiar and warm. Cracking my eyes open a sliver, I see the ridges of Jesse’s chest. I automatically reach for him, curling my hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down into me . . .

Kissing his throat like it’s the most instinctual thing in the world for me to do.