Page 28

We’re pressed together.

He’s holding me close.

And I’m okay.

Embarrassment heats my cheeks, and all the doubt and discomfort come rolling back in. No… not discomfort, Disbelief, maybe? Definitely self-consciousness.

I unwind my arms from around his neck and place my palms high on his chest. With as tightly as he’s holding me, it’s the best I can do.

“I… I’m sorry. I, um, I… I…”

“Don’t. You’re perfect, Truie. I’ll tell you that until you believe it.”

When I brave a glance at Teague’s face, a small grin pulls at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes are creased with fine lines.

Beneath the tips of my fingers, the ridge of his collarbones gives way to the dip of relief below. I touch and press, exploring the different sensations. Bone and muscle covered by cotton and wool.

Teague murmurs, “Hummingbird,” low and full of gravel.

Air seizes in my lungs, and I jerk my hands away, balling them into fists and pressing them to my cheeks. Gravity catches up with me and before I’m ready, my feet are back on the ground. The space between us swirls with cold, cold air.

Fucking awkward. I’m so fucking awkward since…then. I stare straight ahead, letting my eyes go unfocused on the dark gray wool of his coat. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Warm palms cup either side of my face. “Hummingbird, come back to me. Don’t let the darkness take you, we have gelato to eat. We have shit to celebrate, yeah?” The smallest bit of pressure has my gaze lifting to meet the warm dark pools of his irises.

“I’m sorry.” I try to shake my head, but he holds me fast. I don’t like being restrained like this, but the fact that Teague doesn’t let me run and hide from him is not as bad as it could be. I think I might like that he does this. Like maybe I’m important enough for him to hold onto. Maybe.

“No apologies. Come, I have blackberry, lemon, and hibiscus sorbet and chocolate and coffee gelato. And, darlin’, we don’t need to choose. They’re all here just for you.”

The inside of the house is more magnificent than I remember. Last time I was here I was in the throes of a full-on freak-out from sensory overload. The only thing that could have made that worse is if I were closed inside the trunk of a car.

Gleaming wood and stacked stone contrast with black granite and stainless steel. Deep leather sofas face each other flanking a floor-to-ceiling fireplace with green velvet chairs angled cozily in a nook by a wall of windows. I want to sit by a roaring fire with my gelato—or maybe the sorbet—or curl up in one of those chairs, a mug of tea between my palms, Teague’s wool coat draped across my lap.

It’s cozy without feeling closed in.

Dishes clink on the counter, spoons clattering next, and then tub after carton after container of delicious, sweet, icy promise.

“Mind dishing it out while I get a fire started?” Teague asks. Already striding toward the back door, he leaves me unattended in the kitchen.

Outside, Teague piles split logs into one arm, loading more and more. More than I’d think possible, more than maybe necessary. Just more.

He pushes back inside, locking the door behind him, and takes in the fact that I haven’t moved a muscle. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t cater to me or berate me or even scowl. He just notices and then goes about unloading the wood from his arms into a copper trough beside of the mantle.

He sheds his jacket, tossing the dark wool across a chair so casually, like it doesn’t matter at all.

I stare at it a moment, tempted by the warmth it holds from his body, the scent of him imbued into the wool, held there for me. But then… Jesus, he crouches down on his haunches and with all the surety and confidence I only wish I had, he lays the fire. He’s patient with the small spark, coaxing it into flame. Feeding it, nurturing it until the flames dance and the fire roars.

Seemingly satisfied, Teague stands, hands on his hips, and assesses his work.

The finely knit wool of his sweater stretches across the broad expanse of his shoulders, tapering down to a narrow waist. His forearms, exposed by the sleeves he pushed up and a single roll of his cuffs, should be illegal. They taunt and tease and have the audacity to end at those strong hands, thumbs framing the curve of his ass.

I’m completely and utterly engrossed when the low huff of a laugh catches me, red-cheeked and staring.

“You okay there, hummingbird?”

I melt. I die. I curl in on myself and go completely still.

“Uh uh. Don’t do that, I’m just checking on you.” He drops his hands and turns toward me, a handful of long strides bringing him right in front of me. His gaze darts to the countertop where he laid out everything we need, and the bowls still sit empty. “Smart.”