Getting ready for bed together feels so comfortable andnormal with him. Like it’s something we do every night. He hands me the clothes he bought—a pair of sweatpants and a plain grey T-shirt. “Like one of your fancy sweatsuits,” he says, and I laugh as I take them from him. Not at all the same, but it’s the thought that counts.
I go into the bathroom to change and wash my face while he changes in the bedroom. When I open the door to step out, he’s wearing a pair of black shorts and another band T-shirt. Pearl Jam this time. His hair is down, and it falls in loose waves, almost kissing the tips of his shoulders. I remember the way it felt to tug on those strands?—
“Which side would you like?” he asks, and my head snaps up, bringing me back to the present. I point to the left, the side closest to the wood stove, and he nods.
We climb into bed and face each other in the darkness. I’m lying on my side, with one hand under the cool pillow and my knee pulled up toward my stomach.
“Thanks for letting me stay over.” I pause. “And for getting me clothes.” They’re soft and smell like his laundry detergent.
“No problem,” his deep voice cuts through the darkness.
We lie together in the quiet of the night. I pinch my eyes shut, willing sleep to come, willing all my thoughts to disappear and let me rest. All I keep thinking about is how time is running out and how in love I am with the man lying beside me. The man I can’t have. The quiet, kind, incredibly beautiful lighthouse keeper. Iris’s words ring in my ears, and I clench my fists together and grind my teeth to try to work through the anger and frustration I feel. The pure helplessness.
Dylan must sense something because he touches my side. “Hey, come here,” he whispers, and I fall into him, his arms cradling me and pulling me closer. With my facepressed against his chest, my shoulders relax, and my hands unclench. I distract myself with the steady thrumming of his heartbeat and let my eyes finally close. I drift off with him holding me, and at this moment, right now, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Iwake up the same way I fell asleep, tangled up in Dylan’s arms. His warm breath floats over my head, and his arms are still wrapped around my waist. Sunlight pours in from the window above us and bathes the room in a golden light. We must have slept in. I don’t think I’ve ever slept so soundly as I did in bed with Dylan last night.
I wiggle for a moment, getting comfortable, and he takes a sharp breath in before giving me a light squeeze and softly whispering, “Morning,” his voice still raspy from sleep.
“Hey, you,” I say, squeezing him back. He brings his hand up to my chin and tilts it up, eyes looking into mine as the edges of his mouth curl up into a grin. I part my lips, my heart taking over, and as he leans down to meet my eager lips with his, my stomach lets out the loudest gurgle imaginable, startling us both and causing me to erupt in a fit of giggles. “Wow,” I say between laughter.
“Let’s get you some breakfast.” He winks as he rips the heavy, warm comforter off us, exposing our bodies to the chill of the morning. “And a fire,” he adds, noticing thegoosebumps dotting my bare skin. His gaze lingers before turning away.
I groan but manage to pull myself off the bed, my feet landing on the floor below me. We head downstairs and into the kitchen, where Dylan pulls out the coffee canister and gets our coffee ready.
“You were right about my car,” I tell him as I pull a carton of eggs out of the fridge. “Oil was low—verylow,” I add. “But I took it to a garage, and they fixed it up for me. So, thanks.”
“That’s great, Luce.” He takes the carton from me and places it beside the stove. “Want to help me make breakfast?”
“Uh, are you sure about that?” I cock an eyebrow at him. “I’m not the most amazing cook.”
“Yet,” he simply adds, turning on the element and placing a pan on top of it.
“Yet,” I agree quietly.
Dylan walks me through cracking the eggs into the bowl and mixing them. “Hold it in one hand and gently tap it against the bowl, like this.” He mimics the action and then takes the egg with both hands and gently breaks it in the middle where the crack is. The shell splits in two, and the egg pours out into the bowl. He places the empty shells back in the carton and hands the next one to me.
I tap a little too hard, and instead of one neat crack down the middle, it’s a flurry of cracks on either side, cascading out like little spiderwebs.
“Sorry,” I say, and he shakes his head at me. As I attempt to break it down the middle, tiny pieces of white shell fall and mix in with the egg in the bowl. “Shit,” I say, defeat taking over.
“Hey.” He places a hand on mine and tilts my chin uptoward him. “It’s okay, Luce. It happens. And it’s easy to fix. Watch.” He takes one of his shell halves and dips it into the egg mixture where the fallen ones are. As he scoops around the shells, they land in his makeshift bowl, and he easily dumps them out into the garbage under the sink. “Shell attracts shell.”
“Shell attracts shell.” I smile.
Handing me another egg, he says, “Now, try again.”
After we crack a few more eggs, I pour in some cream, add a dash of salt and pepper, and whisk it with a fork until everything is blended and creamy. Sure, in the end, I overcooked the eggs a bit, but they’re not too bad.
“You’re a good teacher,” I tell him as we sit together on the couch, eating our breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast.
He shrugs, holding his plate. “I like to help.”
We clean up after breakfast, and his eyes dart up to the ceiling and then back to me. “I have to run up and check the lens at the top. Did you want to come with me?”
“Um, yeah!” I reply excitedly, curiosity taking over at the chance to finally see a part of his job.
