Page 111 of Secret Paths

She lets out a breath, and some of the stiffness leaves her body.

“That does not mean anything,” she says.

There it is.

The small door closing.

I could challenge her, ask whether she really believes that, but I let her have the distance she is asking for.

“All right.”

“It was just a bad week.”

“All right.”

“And you were here.”

“I was.”

“And you are warm.”

“Finally, a use for me.”

This time, her laugh is real. Quiet, but real.

She curls closer, her knee sliding over mine, her arm settling more firmly across my stomach.

I hold her and stare into the dark.

Mandy can call it a bad week if she wants. She can call me warm. Convenient. Available. A man with a bed and questionable career prospects.

But she came to my door in the rain.

She said she needed me.

And with her falling asleep against my chest, I know better than to believe that means nothing.

Chapter 12

Peter

By late Saturday morning, Mandy is still in my cottage.

She has not said she is staying.

She has not said she is leaving either.

Breakfast is over. The plates are stacked beside the sink, the toast has been judged “legally concerning”, and Mandy is standing in my kitchen wearing one of my jumpers with the sleeves pulled over her hands.

I try not to look too pleased about any of that.

I fail.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“That was not a nothing look.”