Page 41 of Head Under Water

Will tilts his head, a slow, cocky grin flaring on his lips before it fades entirely. He waits, blinking, eyes skating across my features as if he’s memorizing them. Learning something wholly new and strangely captivating.

When he speaks again, his words are slow and deliberate. “You can sit over there and let me make our dinner. Or…we can just keep having this staring contest and both die of starvation. Choice is yours.”

I release a breath through my nose, then turn away. “Fine. If you don’t want my help, do it yourself.”

From my seat on the other side of the island, I watch as he splits the dough into two separate crusts and works them with a rhythmic pressure—push, fold, turn, repeat. Slow and methodical. There’s something intimate about the way he’s shaping the crusts, the heat of the kitchen, and the way his hands seem to know just what to do.

They’re nice hands.

I swallow. Look away.

What is wrong with me? Who cares about his hands?

I’m just hungry, that’s all. And thinking about what his hands were doing earlier.

My eyes flick back to the hall. She’s being extremely quiet in there. Maybe she already left.

“Did you wash your hands?” My voice is too sharp in the quiet space. It interrupts his rhythm. He comes back to my eyes in a daze, like he was lost in thought and just remembered where he is.

“Of course I washed my hands. I’m not an animal.” His expression is strange, like he’s trying to figure something out. “You keep looking at my door.”

A lump lodges itself in my throat. “Was I? I’m just…daydreaming.”

His eyes narrow. He’s not buying it. “You think someone’s in there.”

Heat flames in my cheeks, and I sigh. “Well, you weren’t exactly quiet earlier.”

He purses his lips, fighting a laugh, and drags his gaze up to the ceiling with a slow nod. After a moment, he steps away from the island and heads down the hall.

From the shadows just outside his bedroom, he turns back toward me. Our eyes meet, and he nudges the door open with his arm, careful not to touch anything with his hands, dough-covered fingers curled inward.

My eyes flick away from his and scan his room.

It’s…empty.

I swallow.

So, he sent her away. I must’ve missed it when I was in the bath earlier.

At the end of the hall, his eyes hold mine for several seconds, the air thick between us. “There was no one here, Opal. I didn’t realize you were home.”

Slowly he moves back to me, his feet dragging across the floor with heavy footsteps, and when he reappears in the kitchen light, his cheeks are stained pink. Probably from the heat radiating off the stove, but maybe it’s embarrassment.

Because…

“Oh.”

It lands for me finally, what he’s saying. Relief that has no business in this conversation touches every part of my body.

“Oh,” he repeats, his voice a flat, knowing echo as he meets my eyes briefly before returning his focus to our dinner.

Heavy silence settles between us. Minutes pass, but it feels like hours. Finally, I clear my throat.

“You were…loud.”

“Well, I’m very good.” It’s a joke, I think, but hot honey swims through my veins as he looks up at me from behind hooded brows. “And I thought I was alone.” Then he lifts his chin just a bit farther, looking at me more fully. “Trust me, if I had a woman in there, you’d know it. She’d have been loud, too.”

There’s that arrogance that’s been missing from his gaze.