Page 54 of His Daughter

Thea chuckled. "He was talking about art, not about my inability to cook garlic."

After dinner, Dominique took Lena to bed. Mrs. Parrish had already left. Julian stood, stretched, and picked up his jacket.

"Thea" — he opened his arms — "it's been a genuine pleasure."

She looked at the open arms. She hesitated for one second. Then she stepped in and let him hug her. Julian wrapped his arms around her and squeezed.

Nolan was already at the door. He nodded at Thea. She nodded back. Nolan said nothing. They stepped into the elevator. The doors closed.

And we were alone in the kitchen again. The last time we were alone here, she yelled at me. What was going to happen now?

Thea moved to the sink. She began running water over the plates, her sleeves pushed up, the dish towel back on her shoulder. I picked up the serving bowl from the counter and brought it to her. She took it without looking.

I picked up the glasses and brought those too. She washed. I dried.

"I'm sorry." Her hands kept moving in the water. She didn’t stop to look at me. "About yesterday. I was harsh. You were trying to help, and I know that." A plate. Rinsed. Handed to me. "I just don't know how to let people help without hearing something else underneath it."

I took the plate, dried it, and set it on the counter.

"I'm sorry too." I picked up the next one. "I should have asked what you needed instead of deciding for you." The towel moved over the plate. "That’s the only thing I know how to do."

She handed me another plate. Our fingers brushed on the ceramic. She didn't pull back. Neither did I.

"Your partners are interesting," she said.

"That's one word for them."

She laughed. Her eyes crinkled, her mouth opened, and the stiffness in her shoulders dissolved. The laugh was full and bright, bouncing off the kitchen walls. I stopped mid-dry with the dish towel in my hand and stared at her.

The laughter faded. She looked at me. I was still staring.

"What?" she said.

I didn't answer. The dish towel was in my hand. I was thinking about how this kitchen never smelled like anything before she moved in, and now it smelled like burnt garlic, butter, and lavender, and I didn't want it to stop.

She saw me looking. She didn't look away. Her hands came out of the water. She dried them on the towel on her shoulder. Her eyes were on mine.

I left the plate on the counter and stepped toward her. She didn't step back.

My hand came up and found her chin. My thumb against her jaw, my fingers light on the side of her neck. Her skin was warm. Damp from the steam.

I kissed her. Slowly. Her lips pressed back. Her hand came up to my wrist as she held on. We pulled apart. Inches between us. Her breath in my mouth.

"What are we doing?" she whispered.

"I don't know." My thumb moved along her jaw. "But I like where it's going."

I kissed her again.

FIFTEEN

THEA

I was at my desk, cross-referencing two case files, my pen moving between the pages. I needed the Whitfield file. I'd left a draft of the grant narrative in Margot's shared folder. I walked down the hall and pushed open her office door. She was gone — her chair empty, her coat on the hook, her reading glasses on the desk beside a mug of cold tea.

I sat down at her laptop to pull up the shared folder. The screen woke. An email was open. I frowned as I read it.

The Harmon Foundation. The subject line: Re: Second Interview — Schedule Confirmation.