The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(79)

The image was so clear in my mind that I could feel the heat rise in my face. I also found myself wondering if he was entertaining any such thoughts about me.

As if in answer, Simon slowly, purposefully turned my hand over in his grasp. I couldn’t help but stare in fascination, as if his hands were disembodied things, acting independently of the man they were attached to.

His fingers traced their way lightly, slowly, along my palm. A thrill surged through me far stronger than the whiskey. Then he brought my palm to his warm lips, kissing the places where his fingers had just been.

I wasn’t sure I could speak even if I wanted to. His lips felt branded on my skin.

He took my glass and set it on the table, then drew me to my feet. Then he drew me into his arms.

He didn’t try to press or persuade. I could feel his lips move like a caress over my cheeks, my closed eyes. Then they were on my mouth, kissing me over and over . . . And once more I was leaning into him, and his arms were around me, pulling me to him, to his beating heart.

His lips slid to my neck, the stubble on his cheek scraping my skin. When they moved back again to my mouth, I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him tighter till he sighed deep in his throat, still kissing me, and drew himself up till my feet left the floor.

I’d never felt so giddy, so breathless. His body against mine was a foreign country, but at the same time as familiar as the bay rum I could taste on his skin. As if holding him were the true muscle memory, and every moment that had ever come before only a waste of body and soul.





Forgiven





I raced the dawn back to the farmhouse that morning. The house was still asleep as I slipped Nastas back into the barn. I stripped off his saddle and set it back on the railing. He returned of his own accord to his stall, and I swung the door closed; it latched with a click.

I stood in the yard and watched the sun crest, wishing Simon were there to see it with me. Leaving him had been hard, even knowing I’d see him again soon at the café.

But before I got ready for work, there was something I had to do.

Inside the house, I returned the flashlight to its drawer and climbed the stairs again in stocking feet. From the top landing, I didn’t head for my bedroom, but for Laurel’s. Her door was ajar, a night-light glowing in an outlet near her headboard. I stepped inside and heard a rustle on the bedding. A small, furry head popped up near her pillow, peering in my direction, followed by the rhythmic thump of a tail against the quilt.

I could hear Laurel’s deep, regular breaths before I was close enough to brush stray streaks of hair back from her face and tuck the quilt close. Her forehead was cool when I kissed it.

As I straightened, the tail thumped more energetically. I skirted the bottom of the bed to where the dog still lay—she was stretching a bit now, dark eyes blinking, tongue darting nervously in and out. As I approached, her head sank to her paws and she burrowed into the covers as if she wanted to disappear.

As gingerly as I could so as not to wake Laurel, I sat on the bed, then drummed my fingers against my leg. Tinkerbell leapt to her feet at the signal and climbed into my lap, her tongue licking at my face. I stroked her soft coat and scratched at the base of her ears. Felt the firm muscle and bone beneath my fingers, the pulse at her throat. She curled up in my lap, her fox tail wrapped around her body, and sighed.

I leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then buried my face in her fur.

“I’m sorry.”





Kindred





“I learned about the Big Dipper when I was a little girl,” I said. “The Little Dipper, too. The Seven Sisters.”

“Mmm,” Simon murmured sleepily.

We were stretched out together in a sleeping bag in the field next to his cabin. I adjusted my head on his shoulder, the better to examine a million brilliant stars in a perfect black sky.

“The Seven Sisters are a star cluster,” I explained. “Pleiades. Look at them straight on and they’re just a blur. But look off just to the side and you can make them out. Peripheral vision. I figured that out when I was a kid.”

“Show-off,” he mumbled, stroking my hair.

“It ain’t braggin’ if it’s true.” I could feel the rumble of his chest as he laughed. “But no matter how hard I look,” I continued, “I can’t find the Big Dipper anymore. Or the Little Dipper. Or the Sisters. I haven’t seen them since I came here.”