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“You got lucky,” Claire said, keeping her eyes glued to the cut. “It’s shallow. Won’t need stitches.”

“Claire.”

She looked up.

They were inches apart. Delaney’s hazel eyes were dark, her pupils wide under the bare bulb. Her lips were parted, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow hitches. She wasn’t watching the cut. She was looking straight at Claire’s mouth.

The room smelled of antiseptic and pine wood, and under that, of Delaney’s skin. Claire’s palm had gone hot against her hip. Her own pulse had climbed into her throat.

Step back. She’s twenty-six, a guest in this house, and Rebecca’s star.

Her hand stayed anchored. Her thumb dragged a fraction of an inch along the smooth skin above Delaney’s hip bone. She didn’t pull it back.

Delaney let out a soft gasp. Her fingers loosened their grip on her shirt, the white cotton falling back down over her skin, but Claire’s hand remained trapped beneath the fabric, pinned against the warm curve of her hip.

“Does it sting?” Claire asked. Her voice barely carried across the quiet space.

“No,” Delaney said.

Claire stared at the small scar above Delaney’s eyebrow, the fine freckles across her nose, the raw hunger sitting plain on her face. It would take nothing to close the gap. A three-inch lean, a hand cupping the back of Delaney’s neck, and Delaney would meet her halfway.

Claire was out of her mind.

Delaney was high off a good day of shooting, living in a fantasy world.

Claire swallowed hard, forcing the tightness out of her throat. She peeled her hand away from Delaney’s hip, the sudden absence of heat leaving her own palm cool. She smoothed the edges of the adhesive bandage with two quick, mechanical taps of her fingers.

“All done,” Claire said.

She stood up, her knee joint cracking in the quiet bathroom. She packed the tape and the bottle back into the metal box, her hands stiff as she snapped the latches home.

Delaney sat still on the tub’s edge, her hands in her lap, watching Claire with a quiet, unguarded focus.

“Dinner’s in the oven,” Claire said, looking at the medicine cabinet mirror instead of Delaney’s face.

Delaney hesitated, then stood up slowly. “Thank you.” She padded out of the bathroom, her socked feet silent as she moved down the creaking hallway toward her bedroom.

Claire leaned over the pedestal sink and held onto the porcelain edge. When her hands had steadied, she ran the cold tap and let the water run over her wrists. She stared at her reflection in the glass, silently warning herself to get it together.

9

Delaney stood at the kitchen sink long after the plate was clean and the water had gone cold. She kept her hands there, staring at the dark window. Claire’s plate was still wrapped in the fridge. The truck sat beside the barn. She hadn’t come inside.

Three nights now. Three nights of early bedtimes and short goodnights and the space Claire kept between them at the table. On set it wasn’t like that. On set Claire stood close enough to reach across and correct Delaney’s hands on the reins. It was only here, after wrap, that she found reasons to be somewhere else.

Delaney told herself it was nothing. It was just the schedule, just the long days. But the tight ache behind her ribs wouldn’t ease.

She wanted to be near her.

It was ridiculous. She was twenty-six years old, not some kid with a crush. But it was true. She missed the low sound of Claire’s voice in the house. Missed the way Claire looked at her when she thought Delaney wasn’t paying attention.

Delaney dried her hands on the towel. The old canvas jacket on the mudroom hook was Claire’s, and it hung loose on her shoulders, the sleeves past her wrists. It smelled of hay and liniment and the barn. She slipped it on and stepped out the side door before she could talk herself out of it.

The night air bit at her face as she crossed the yard. The south barn doors were pulled almost shut, a thin stripe of warm light leaking between them. Delaney eased one open just enough to slide through.

Warmth wrapped around her. Hay, leather, horse, the low familiar smell of the place at night. Maple nickered softly from her stall.

She found her in the feed room.