Page 19 of Townshipped
Em lets out a long sigh. I guess it would feel good to have the assurance that people you knew had a way to reach you eventually.
Jesse leaves after he’s finished gathering Em’s information.
“I’m exhausted,” Em says when I shut my door and lock it behind the two visitors.
I don’t usually lock my doors out here, but something in me loves the finality of that click right now.
“Why don’t you go rest. I’ve got some work I can get to, and we’ll go check the goats and Lily, my llama, when you wake.”
Em smiles and walks over to me. She stands about a foot away, and then before I know what’s happening, she’s wrapping her slender arms around me, giving me a tentative hug.
She’s all alone in the world.
I wrap my arms behind Em’s back and hold her, hoping she finds some comfort in my arms. Her frame feels frail, but soft. I glance down, taking in the way the light plays off her hair—copper, with slight strawberry-blond highlights near her face, the underside nearing an auburn. I inhale her floral scent. It’s the shampoo I keep in my guest bath, but more.
Em hangs on to me for a moment, seeming to lose herself in our embrace as much as I almost did. Then she clears her throat and steps back.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean … I just … Thank you.”
“Not much to thank me for,” I say.
“If it weren’t for you …”
“Let that go. I’m doing what anyone would. And it’s no hardship. Go rest. I’ll see you after you nap.”
She turns and walks down the hall and I watch her despite the voice in my head telling me I need to look away. The feeling of her in my arms remains imprinted on every nerve ending across the front of my torso and legs. My hands feel warm where my palms met her back. I can still almost sense the light feathering of her hair across my knuckles.
How long has it been since I held a woman? And what does it mean that holding her felt too much like finding something I’ve been missing.
8
“EM”
On my third morning on the farm, Aiden and I are drinking our morning coffee and bantering about breakfast.
“I think I know how to make a really good omelet. You should let me try,” I say as I grab for the whisk he’s holding.
Aiden sidesteps me with a playful smirk on his face, turning so the whisk is out of my reach. “I don’t want to waste six perfectly good eggs.”
“Your loss,” I retort. “I have a feeling I could make you the omelet of your dreams.”
“News flash,” he says with a pop of that dimple that makes him look all dimply and gorgeous and pretty much the fulfillment of most women’s fantasies. “I’ve never dreamed of any form of eggs.”
I grab at the whisk again, knowing Aiden’s not going to let me take it, but enjoying taunting him a little anyway.
“Oh yeah? What do you dream of?” I ask with a wag of my eyebrows.
His laughter rumbles up from his chest, deep and reverberating, causing all sorts of goose bumps to rise on my skin. What is happening to me? I barely know this man, and yet, he’s really the only person I do know.
There’s a knock at the front door, and that’s when the bubble we’ve been sharing is officially popped. Several elderly women stand on the porch wrapped in winter coats and carrying various serving dishes.
I follow Aiden and stand behind him, taking them in.
“Good morning, Aiden,” one of them says when he opens the door. She glances over his shoulder at me, smiling a wide, toothy smile. “We heard you were harboring a fugitive out here and we figured you might need some food seeing how you’re used to only feeding yourself.”
I suppress a giggle while Aiden looks only mildly bothered and mostly amused.
They walk into the house past Aiden while continuing to talk to him. He looks at me with an apologetic lift of his eyebrows, his mouth drawing tight.
