“Rye, spell it out. I have no idea what you mean.”
“When I first met Oakley, you’d brought her to drama class as another girl for the cast.” Embry nodded, because, well, yeah. “And when you immediately suggested she’d be perfect for the Baker’s Wife—”
“You were an ass and saidifshe could sing she would.”
“I wasn’t being an ass—I was being diplomatic. In any case, do you remember what Oakley said after my diplomacy?”
Embry actually didn’t. Her head shook just slightly.
Rye went on. “She said, and I quote,Oh, I can sing well enough you’ll want to give me top billing.” His green eyes seemed to darken as they settled on her now. “And I’m guessing that if you don’t remember that part, then you won’t remember that immediately after she said that out loud, you smooshed her and Alistair together and made a case for them to be the Baker and the Baker’s Wife.”
Embry swallowed and fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest and extinguish her light. “That sounds familiar, but what does it have to do with me?”
Rye’s expression softened. “Everyone knew that Jonesy hadverbalized that you’d be the lead, the Witch. There were twenty witnesses to it. And whether you were intentionally doing it or not, it looks like you were trying to exert your influence on the situation to protect your assumed role.”
“I… I wasn’t.” At least she thought she wasn’t.
Rye nodded, and for that Embry was grateful and maybe a little relieved.
“Yes, but that’s what this is pointing to. Oakley accused you of taking credit for her popularity. That little exchange with twenty witnesses is exactly the kind of background the investigators are collecting when they’re trying to get a full picture of your relationship. So, her being displayed in your costume is a way of bragging about something you had, and she wanted. It’s technically—”
The slamming of a door cut Rye off cold. Embry jumped at the noise, snatching his forearm in surprise. Frozen, they stood there, listening.
Footsteps.
Moving down the hall from the very same door they’d entered in. Coming their way.
“It’s before dawn,” Embry hissed at the same time Rye whispered, “Into the closet.”
“What closet, they’re all full—”
Her words died out as Rye hooked one arm around her and hauled her toward the largest built-in closet on the wall nearest to them. The hinges groaned like a ghost with a migraine, yet Rye deposited Embry inside, stuffing her between a mannequin and a void created from the sawhorse currently being used to hold both ends of Milky White the cow. Actually, not between the mannequin and the void, because Rye quickly stuffed himself in the empty space. They both doused their lights as keys jangled audibly from the door across the room. Rye shut them in.
Suddenly, the space he’d found wasn’t much of a space at all.Rye was taller than the top of the built-in, and his shoulders were wedged between the back of the closet and Embry’s body. He had to twist and duck to fit, especially with Embry already inside.
She wasn’t sure of the exact posture of his body, given it was pitch-black, no seam of light anywhere to be found. But her already-racing heart kicked at the reality of their tight spot—both literal and figurative.
Rye’s chest nestled into Embry’s back, his ducked head lining up one cheekbone with her temple. His forearm was still hooked around her middle. She could feel the rabbiting of his heart against her spine, his warm breath against her cheek.
He was in the perfect vantage to whisper into her ear a warning to stay silent. Instead, keeping her firmly wedged between his body and the vise grip of his forearm, Rye slowly brought his free hand upward, until a single pointer finger pressed softly against her mouth. The universal symbol from one to another, done in the most intimate way possible.
Be quiet.
CHAPTER 21
OH, THE DRAMA (ACT 2)
GODDESS, HE SMELLED GOOD.
Somehow both like soap and woodsmoke, as if he’d showered after the violence of the coven meeting, yet the night still clung to him. And then there was the matter of the rosemary oil in his hair. It descended upon them, spicy and clean. Enough to overpower the dusty, mothball musk of the space, but not so much as to be more than a whisper between them.
Embry had once researched what benefits it provided, and none of them fit Rye, so she assumed he did it for that woody, delicious scent. Possibly to drive her crazy.
Speaking of—his forefinger was still pressed to her mouth. His skin was warm, the pressure tender, and despite the gesture and the situation, a curl of something hot and flustered rose in Embry’s gut.
The instincts that had grown up with the pair of them—the same that had her smacking his calf in the kitchen that first day of school—were lingering dangerously just under the surface. And though instinctual, Embry knew they were a risk.
Embry wouldn’t bat away Rye and risk tapping the closet door. Nor would she bite him and risk the sound. But he couldn’t keep touching her like this—the proximity alone was enough to make her want to slip out of her skin.
