Page 36 of Ladybirds

He frowns, eyes narrowing. “Not that I’m aware of... why?”

“Are you sure?”

He scoffs, almost insulted. “I can’t say I’ve ever tried.” A thought must dawn, because his head tilts and his stare sharpens. “Would you like me to?”

She chucks a pillow at him—he doesn’t even flinch as it sails over his shoulder and into the closet doors behind him. A flush crawls up her neck, hot and prickling. Sara pulls the comforter up to her chin to hide the worst of it. “No!”

There is a grin flirting at the corner of his mouth, growing with each step, until it becomes almost predatory. A cat playing with a field mouse. “Well, you are in a state this morning. Aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” she hisses.

“What could you possibly have been dreaming about, I wonder?” He leans over her, eyes dark and teasing. “Was there a bed involved?”

The entire room feels hot, and she can feel herself sweating beneath the blankets, but she doesn’t dare lower them. Sara sends him her sharpest glare and, because she’s flustered and an idiot, blurts, “It was just a cornfield!”

His leer falters, coughing on a laugh. “You Iowans and your corn.” He shakes his head. “I suppose there was flannel involved as well?”

“I hate you.”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Yes, you love to remind me.” Straightening his cuffs, he gives her a roguish grin. “It’s still rather early. Shall I leave you to try and revisit those sweet dreams of yours?”

She chucks another pillow at him, with the same results as the last. It only fans her fury. “Get out!”

His snicker echoes long after he blinks away. Sara stays in bed, the comforter pulled up to her ears as she watches the morning light shift and change. She wishes she could forget the pieces she remembered—wishes she could forget she had dreamed any of it at all—but she can’t unsee the scarecrow’s crude, painted face or unhear the tenderness in Seth’s voice—the promise in his words.

Trust me.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sara puts the dream to the back of her mind, shoves it so far away that it settles beside all the other trauma she wishes she could forget completely.

That is, if he would let her.

“Any good dreams last night, Princess?”

The hand holding the handle of her mug tightens as she closes her eyes and reminds herself not to take the bait. Instead, she finishes stirring the creamer into her coffee and places the spoon in the sink. “Yeah,” she lies, “I dreamt that I lived alone. It was great.”

Seth grins, his ankle hooking over his knee as he leans into his chair. Sara wonders if the antiquated floral print is as old as he is. “‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”

Glaring over the rim of her mug, Sara tries to concentrate on the bittersweet taste of coffee instead of the sugar in his smile. “No.”

“No?”

She settles in her usual spot on the couch across from him, feet curling under her. “It’s Saturday.”

He raises a brow, eyes glinting in amusement. “Indeed it is.”

“There are no literature references on Saturdays.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware.”

“It’s a house rule.”

The sound he makes is half laugh, half scoff. “You wish me to speak plainly?”

“I wish for you not to speak at all,” she retorts, her second sip of coffee interrupted by the ringing of her phone.

“Such a cruel girl,” Seth admonishes, his eyes curious as he watches her pull the cell out of her hoodie and bring it to her ear.

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