Page 115 of One Small Spark
“That is disturbingly adorable.”
“Can you see yourself living here?”
I turn to glance around at the living space and kitchen, leading to the bathroom and bedroom in the back. It’s only about six hundred square feet, but it would all be mine. I could watch whatever movies I wanted to. Go to bed when I choose without being asked why I was up so late the next morning. Decorate, cook, and live however I want.
Beautiful, chaotic anarchy. I want it.
“I can see it. The only trouble is telling my mom.”
She hasn’t forbidden me from getting my own place, but from all her dire warnings when Tess moved out over the summer, her disappointment was obvious. She liked us all together, as close as possible for as long as possible. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I can’t go on living in my childhood home forever.
“Do you want me to be with you when you tell her?”
“That’s sweet.” Of course he would offer. He might be the most supportive person I know. “I can do it. But thank you.”
I snuggle in closer, not quite kissing, but making my intentions extremely obvious. “I might ask for some help when I move, though. I’ll need to find a man with a big truck and rippling muscles.”
I tilt my chin up until our mouths are a breath apart. “Do you know anyone?”
He hugs me closer, one hand drifting into my hair to hold me in place. “Don’t tease.” He kisses me once, softly. “I’m here for you, whatever you need.”
“Are you sure? That’s a lot of stairs to climb.”
His eyes darken as he gazes down at me. “I can always be persuaded.”
I melt against him. “I’ve got that covered. You see, that’s a magical stairwell. There’s a legend that says anybody who carries boxes upstairs with pure intentions will fall in love?—”
He dances his fingers along my ribs before I can finish, nuzzling against me as I laugh.
I’ll consider him successfully persuaded.
THIRTY-THREE
WREN
Holidays at Blackbird’sare always criminally busy, but Thanksgiving is the worst offender. Someone’s in the back making pies during all business hours so we can keep up with the demand. Our normally moderate crowds turn into an unending flow of customers, most of them frazzled and making last-minute purchases for their special dinners. My pores ooze pumpkin.
But the income boost helps tide us over during slower seasons, so I can’t complain.
Ha. Not true. I go into great detail in my complaints.
The day is winding to a close and Jamie and I are cleaning out front. Tess is in the back finishing up with prep work for tomorrow, and Mom is probably somewhere at home making out with Daniel.
It’s fine.
My favorite customer walks through Blackbird’s door, decked out in multiple forms of flannel and worn gray jeans. The smile that pops onto my face when I see Shepherd is automatic. Like a reflex or buying up every sarcastic shirt I see.
He approaches the counter, gaze stuck on me. We haven’tbeen able to see each other nearly enough since the other night. Ourbignight. Where we showed how we feel about each other with mouths, hands, and a whole lot of skin. I went to his house the next night, but it was a pie-baking day, and I fell asleep while we cuddled on his couch. I drooled on him, which was mortifying enough, but he somehow saw it as endearing.
The bar seems low for his affection if drooling on the man makes the cut. Probably a good thing for me.
“What can I get you, Shepherd?” Jamie is an eager beaver.
I wave him off. “I’ve got him, thank you.”
I consider trying to temper my grin, but it’s too late in the day to put on an act. I let my smile hang out like that couple at the hot spring.Allthe way out.
“What’s your favorite pie in the case today?” How can a perfectly simple question get this weird bubbling sensation going in my stomach? Am Igiddy? Over Shepherd?
