Seven seconds of silence that time.
"Paige Adulsa."
"I know."
"Does he treat you right?"
"He fixed my stirrup in the rain without telling me he did it."
She went quiet again, but different this time. Softer.
"Bring him for dinner when you're back. I'll make the good chili."
That's Mama's version of a blessing. You don't get the good chili unless she's decided you're worth feeding.
The trail up to his cabin is dry today, ruts baked hard from three days of sun. Serenity knows the way now, which should concern me but doesn't. She turns at the fork without being asked, picks the high side of the creek crossing, and walks the last stretch through the firs like she's coming home.
His truck's there. The mill's running. I hear the blade whining before I see him, and when I come through the last stand of cedar, he's at the deck in a white T-shirt gone translucent with sweat, feeding a log through the carriage with both hands.
I stop Serenity. Sit there.
The muscles in his back move under that wet cotton. His forearms flex against the log. Sawdust sticks to the sweat on his neck, his beard, the dark hair curling at his collar. He works the way he does everything. Deliberate. Sure. Like his body's been doing this so long his mind's free to go wherever it pleases.
My thighs tighten against the saddle. Serenity shifts underneath me.
"I know," I mutter. "Hush."
He kills the blade. Turns. Sees me.
Something happens to his face when he sees me now. Since the kiss. The wall's still there, but there's a door in it, and it opens a crack when I ride up, and the man behind it looks at me like I'm cold water on a hot day.
"Hey." Wiping his hands on his jeans. Walking toward me.
"Hey yourself." I hold up the folder. "Madison booked flights. We leave Thursday morning out of Portland. Gabe's driving us to the airport."
"Gabe doesn't need to?—"
"Gabe doesn't need to do anything. Gabe wants to. Quit arguing with people who are trying to help you, Harrison."
That almost-smile in his beard. The one I've been collecting since week one.
I dismount. Hand him the folder. Our fingers touch on the paper. Neither of us lets go for a beat too long.
"Sandwiches are in the bag. Turkey and swiss, before you ask." I tie Serenity. "Also brought the thermos, because I know for a fact your coffee is still terrible and I refuse to let you suffer."
"My coffee's fine."
"Your coffee is a war crime, Aiden."
He opens the folder. Reads. His brows pull together at the flight times, the hotel confirmation, the return date. Madison's booked us four days.
"One room?" he asks.
My face goes hot. "We're supposed to be together. Separate rooms would?—"
"I'll take the floor."
"You will not take the floor."
