Page 45 of Blackwood

“I couldn’t resist.” He laid me on the bed and ran his hands up my forearms, keeping my hands latched around his neck. “If it bothered you, you could always have called black.”

He was so close that my mind seemed to scramble. “I wasn’t afraid.”

“No?” He pulled my arms free and laid them next to me. Hovering above me, his mouth curving wickedly, he was every bit the villain—one who scorched me to my core. “You should be.”

Chapter Seventeen

“No, that’s sugar.” Ilaughed as Garrett stared at the measuring scoop in his hand with a confused expression.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” I pointed to the next large jar on the counter. “That’s the flour.”

He plucked the red lid off and stared down into the contents. “This looks just like the one I picked.”

“No it doesn’t. Flour is powdery. Sugar is grainy. All in the consistency. Did you never take a home economics class or even watch your mom cook?” I flipped the eggs and eyed the crisping bacon.

It was our fourth morning together after Bonnie brought groceries. Teaching Garrett how to cook had proven more difficult than I’d first thought, but he’d learned how to make an omelet, broil meat until it was done, and whip up a decent chicken salad.

“No. I was busy.”

“Doing what?” I scooped the bacon onto a plate covered with paper towels.

“Chasing girls, I guess.” He shrugged.

I arched an eyebrow as he leveled a scoop of flour and dumped it into a mixing bowl. “Literally or figuratively?”

He smiled. “A little of both.”

The more time we spent together, the more I saw the version of him that existed before Joan, before Lillian, and before everything that seemed to trap him at Blackwood. It scared me how much I liked him, the real him. He hadn’t slept with me again after that first night. I didn’t ask, though I wanted to keep trying to break down his walls. As he cracked an egg into the flour and started digging out the pieces of shell, I realized Iwasbreaking them down. Cooking with Garrett seemed an impossibility only a week ago. Now we worked in the kitchen like a team, easy with each other in a way that should have seemed peculiar but didn’t.

“You get all the shell?” I peeked around him as he flicked a jagged piece into the sink.

“Think so. What now?”

“Buttermilk.” I pulled open the fridge and handed him the carton.

“How much?”

“Pour. I’ll say when.”

He opened the container, his large hands making quick work of the cardboard. I let my eyes wander up his sinewy forearms to the ink at his elbow. Other than some looks that could melt a glacier, he hadn’t touched me or made a move. The tension built, invisible but so thick it was almost tangible. I had to force myself to stay in my room at night instead of creeping to his.

My leg had healed since my run, the wounds sewing together faster the second time. My limp was all but gone, and I intended to restart my investigation in the next few days.

“That much?”

I snapped out of my gawking at his arms and looked in the bowl. He’d poured almost all the buttermilk because I hadn’t said “when.”

“When!” I put my hand on his wrist. “My bad.”

“Daydreaming over there?”

“No, I was, um… Just stir the batter and add another cup of flour. That should sort it out.” I returned to the stove and slid the eggs onto a plate.

We wound up making enough pancakes to feed all of Browerton, but the food was good, and we enjoyed each other’s company as we ate.

When I’d cleaned my plate and rubbed the food baby growing in my stomach, a grating noise from outside caught my attention. I turned to stare out the dusty dining room window. “What was that?”

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