Page 95 of Danger

Winnie grins. “Baking must have tired him out.”

I look back at Fisher, who has a cookie in one hand, a glass of milk in the other. His head is on the countertop, asleep right there, a ring of milk on the surface where his cheek meets the stone.

“He had a good night.” I lift him up, his arms going limp over my shoulder, and carry him down the hall. His bed’s a mess of dinosaurs and half folded blankets. I set him down and cover him up. For a second he’s just a kid, small and soft. Still my baby even if he doesn’t think so. I brush the hair out of his eyes then shut the door behind me.

When I come back, Winnie’s at the sink, up to her wrists in suds. She has the radio on, Dolly Parton is playing as she works her way through the dishes. Her hips sway in time, almost without her knowin’. She’s got this little curl at the nape of her neck, slipping loose from the rest, and I want to touch it. But I don’t.

I lean in the doorway, arms folded. “Let me finish that.”

She glances back. “It’s no biggie.”

She shakes the bowl in her hand dry, then lines it up on the rack.

“You sit,” I say, handing her the towel to dry off.

When she finally turns, her cheeks are flushed. She takes the towel and dries her hands then hops up on the counter, legs pressed tight together so I can’t see up her skirt.

She leans back, palms flat behind her. “You surprise me every day, Danger Stetson.”

I turn off the sink, wipe my hands on a towel, toss it over my shoulder. “Why’s that?”

Her black satin panties flash as she shifts, just a hint, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

I step into the light, close enough that her knees brush my hips.

She shrugs. “You’re just… different than I expected.”

“What, worse?”

“No. Better,” she says, tilting her chin, taunting.

“You don’t have to say that, you know. I can handle the truth.”

I slide closer, arms braced on either side of her. “Just like I truthfully think you make the best cookies I’ve ever had.”

She laughs, breathless. “Your son helped.”

“Uh huh.”

She spreads her knees just enough that her skirt rides up even higher. My eyes catch the movement before I drag them back to her face. She notices. The corner of her mouth lifts.

“So,” she says, “you know about mine, can you tell me about yours?”

I’m biting my lip to try to focus and stop thinkin’ about everything under her skirt. “About what?”

“These.” She pushes up my shirt and trails a fingertip over the ink carved along my ribs. Goosebumps explode across my skin.

I give her a look that saysdon't make me say it out loud, then exhale. “That’s Fisher.” I point to the script near my ribs and then to the one below it. “This is for my first horse.”

Her finger drifts to the next one. “And this one?”

I flinch like the touch is a spark. “P.J.’s favorite flower.”

I can tell she knows I felt her touch everywhere.

She pushes my shirt up higher, brushing the edge of the tattoo on my chest. “And… this one?”

It takes me a moment before I speak, like I’m gathering the right words. “That one… it says ‘I love you backwards’. My granddaddy used to say most folks don’t love right till it’s too late. Until they lose someone. Said if he could do life over, he’dlove his sweetheart on the first day he met her just as much as he loved her the day she died. So he… he loved us backwards. Always.”