Page 82 of Embers

He cocks his head, his eyes still anxious and so incredibly tender. “What’s happenin’ here, baby?”

“With what?”

“With you. Somethin’ goin’ on I should know about?” He sounds almost wary. Maybe a little bit hopeful.

“I don’t think so. Not yet. I’m still figuring everything out.” I reach out to give him a hug. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

* * *

I don’t actually know why I don’t burst out into words with my blinding recognition. Maybe it feels too big to talk about yet. Instead, I suggest we clean house since seeing the cabin so dingy bothers me, and Cal seems pleased with this idea.

So we sweep and dust and scrub and polish until the place looks the way it’s supposed to, and I have a great time fixing it up. Then afterward, since we’re both hot and sweaty, I suggest we go to the waterfall to wash up.

Cal readily agrees to that idea too.

So we hike to the waterfall, which is flowing fuller than ever, and I wash up first as I always did. Cal turns his back to me, giving me my privacy.

I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to turn away. He can watch me if he wants. I want him to. But for some reason, I’m hotly embarrassed by the situation, by the changing of my feelings, so I don’t find the courage to suggest it.

I use the soap and shampoo we brought with us, and I shave my underarms for the first time in months. The thought of shaving my legs too flickers through my mind, but I let it go without much consideration.

My legs haven’t been shaved in all the time I’ve known Cal. He simply doesn’t care about that, and it doesn’t seem worth spending time and energy and the blade on my razor on an otherwise purposeless task.

I braid my hair and pull on an oversized men’s T-shirt I grabbed from the storage closet of the cabin—it’s musty but still clean—and tell Cal that I’m done.

He scans me top to bottom with a hungry look when he turns around, but he doesn’t say anything or make a move.

I wouldn’t mind if he did.

“Can I trim your hair and beard?” I ask him, showing him the scissors I brought.

“Course you can. Been needin’ it for a while.”

“You could have done some of it yourself, you know.”

He snorts. “That wouldn’t be a pretty picture.”

I giggle at the thought and start pulling his shirt up over his head. Together, we get it off, and I try not to get too distracted by the sight of his bare torso.

Strong shoulders. Straight back. The hair on his chest. His flat stomach. The contoured muscles, tendons, and veins on his arms. The scars.

I want all of it. All of him. Viscerally. Down deep at my core.

Instead of indulging the impulse, I work on trimming his hair and then moving to the front to do his beard. I can feel his eyes on me constantly as I snip and smooth.

I love how he watches me. Deep and warm and possessive and… earnest.

“Okay,” I say, smoothing his beard down with both hands. “I think you’re good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I drop my eyes.

He reaches for one of my long, thick braids and runs his hand up and down it. “Thank you, baby.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that. I like to do it.”

“Do you?”

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