A light knock sounded, and Ben sighed. “It’s open,” he called, and he heard the door open and shut, followed by footsteps.
“Are you nearly ready?”
No, and I doubt I ever will be. Ben had avoided Rose the day after they walked to the post office, saying he was up to date with correspondence and would let her know when he needed her again. Unfortunately, he could not deny his need for her help any longer.
“Is this the letter from Mrs. Anthony?” she called.
“Yes.” He lifted the razor once more to his cheek. “I wrote some notes for the reply, andfuck—”
The razor clattered to the sink and Ben pressed his hand to the slash just below his chin.
“What happened?” Her face appeared in the mirror above the kitchen sink, her gaze dancing over his bare back before meeting his eyes.
What happened, indeed? When they sat together in the bakery and talked on the street, Ben had opened up to her, shared parts of his past he wanted to keep hidden. Something about her pulled the stories from his chest, as though she would carry some of his burdens on her shoulders if he asked. She was breaking into the castle he built around himself.
Worse yet, hewantedher, so badly he had to sit on his hand to resist reaching out for her. But slaking his needs with Rose was not an option. Abby would never forgive him, and he would violate the sense of trust that he had cultivated for the residents at 138 Willow.
His imagination would have to be sufficient. His dreams had become more and more vivid each day they were apart. Her dark hair spread like a halo over his pillow, or falling in a curtain around his face as she climbed onto his lap. In his mind, his hands explored every inch of her creamy skin, each hill and valley, followed by his lips as he—
No. “Nothing happened,” he muttered, more to himself than her. Nothing happened, and he intended to keep it that way.
Ben grabbed a hand towel and his shirt, pulling it over one arm and stepping past Rose. He paused to slide his shirt over his shoulder and winced as he extended his injured arm toward his sleeve.
“Wait.” Rose rushed to his side. “I can help.”
He held his breath as she approached. When his lungs burned, he inhaled, which was a mistake; her scent overtook his senses, leaving him dizzy. She intoxicated him, flooded his veins until the air seemed musty without her. A sweet freshness he could not place, like the first warm day of spring after a long, cold winter.
“You’ve cut yourself.” She raised her finger toward his wound.
“It’s nothing.” He stepped away and started to put on his shirt, cursing his trembling hands.
“Do you need me to shave you?”
As a native of San Francisco, Ben was accustomed to the sensation of the earth moving under his feet. But a quake could not explain his sudden need to sit, the shift in equilibrium that made his knees weak. “I-um, no, not if you—”
“Sit.” She pointed him towards the table and chairs and returned to the kitchen. “And leave your shirt off. There’s no sense in ruining it.”
“You don’t take no for an answer,” Ben grumbled as he sat.
Rose was back moments later with a bowl filled with water, his razor, and soap. She had draped a towel over her shoulder and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse. After setting everything on the table, she stood behind him and lifted his chin with her fingertips. “Are you ready?”
God no.“Yes,” he managed, certain she could see his pulse racing in his neck. “Have you done this before?”
“Only on myself.” He stilled, and she chuckled. “It’s a joke, Ben. You should try it some time.”
“I can joke.”
She scoffed as she lifted her hands to his cheeks to spread the soap across his whiskers. “I don’t believe you. You’re not the joking sort.”
“What is the difference between a jailer and a jeweler?” He hoped he could remember the answer as the pads of her fingertips softened the bristles along his jawline.
“A jailer?” Rose asked as she dragged the razor against his cheek.
“Yes,” he managed without moving his jaw. “It’s a riddle.”
“Riddles are not jokes.” The razor scraped across the plane of his cheek before she rinsed it in the bowl, the swish of water loud in his ears. “And I do not know the answer, so please illuminate me. What is the difference between a jailer and a jeweler, besides the obvious choice in professions?”
“A jeweler sells watches, and a jailer watches cells.” He turned his head to meet her gaze over his shoulder and she raised one brow.
