“Why not?” I glance around my kitchen, seeking out any apparent flaws. Really? What’s wrong with here?
A blush flashes across those razor-edge cheekbones. Oh, does the man have cheekbones. His hand goes to the knot in his tie, but he’s already loosened it. He actually squirms in his chair.
“This may sound old-fashioned,” he says at last, “but won’t your neighbors talk?”
My neighbors? Talk? I probably shouldn’t show him that thread on Hey Neighbor. “Have you met my neighbors?”
“I can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure.”
I try not to roll my eyes at that—try and fail. “There’s nothing they like better than to talk. You’ll be doing them a huge favor.”
He doesn’t respond. Again, those dark eyes are unfathomable. If he’s waging some sort of internal debate, I can’t tell. But I have a confession that I hope tops any of his objections.
“Besides,” I say, and I’m surprised at how tentative my voice is, “I wouldn’t mind the company.”
His gaze alters, and those gold flecks in his irises spark into something molten, like whiskey under flame.
“To be honest,” he says, his voice soft, “I wouldn’t mind either.”
“Then?”
“I’ll stay, but I do have one condition.” He stands, pulls open the refrigerator door, and gestures—a bit wildly—at the shelves. “I simply can’t live like this.”
Five minutes after I told my new roommate about the Tuesday farmers market, we had our first fight.
He can’t go alone; he simply can’t. Everyone will charge him double as an out-of-towner. Yes, he insisted on not only cooking but completely restocking my kitchen as well. I finally won him over by asserting that I am no one’s hot house flower or damsel in distress.
Also? King’s End is my territory, and I’m the full-fledged field agent in charge.
This is why I’m upstairs, deciding what to wear. I can’t go downtown in a blood-stained shirt. Well, since this is King’s End, I can. Me, wandering around with blood splatter, would not alarm the locals.
But clearly, he expects me to change. Can I insist he pull on some jeans and a T-shirt as well? No, no, I cannot. He is Henry Darnelle, Principal Field Agent, and he will dress like Henry Darnelle, Principal Field Agent. Even in small-town Minnesota in the middle of July.
So I veto the T-shirt and jeans option for myself, along with the comfy yoga pants. Never mind the farmers market; the moment we emerge from the house together, everyone will start talking. I might as well give them something to really talk about.
This is why I step down the staircase in a pair of black cigarette pants, a pink sleeveless top with a Peter Pan collar, and a high ponytail with a coordinating ribbon. No, I don’t quite match the full regalia that is Henry Darnelle (complete with ridiculous hat), but I won’t look too out of place at his side.
When he catches sight of me, a smile blooms, one that pinches those two dimples.
“You look very fetching.”
“So do you,” I say, although I’m not quite sure what he means by that word.
In response, he merely laughs. But he sobers, those dark eyes filled with concern. “Are you certain you feel up to this? The Sight?—”
I hold in an impatient sigh. “Actually, I haven’t felt this good in ages.” There’s something cleansing about an attack, especially when you have an expert caregiver in its wake. “I don’t even have a headache. You have some seriously magical fingers.”
The silence that greets this proclamation is prolonged and deeply uncomfortable. The phrase hangs heavy and awkward in the air, and the blush hits me before I can fully register what I’ve said. Yes, those aren’t words anyone should speak outside the bedroom or, possibly, an operating theater.
“Hm. Yes. So I’ve been told.”
His words are so mild, and I can’t bear to look him in the eye, so is he flirting? I may never know. I shove my feet into some sneakers—black, with pink laces—grab my umbrella, and hope my blush will fade by the time we reach the farmers market.
On the front porch, he offers me his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman. “Shall we?”
I take that arm, and there’s something so steady and sure about him. It’s not like we’re holding hands or anything. This move is practical. We could, if needed, whirl into a defensive position, unfurl our umbrellas, and fight off an ambush.
As it is, it lets us talk. Because Agent Darnelle has a lot of questions, of a practical nature.
