Page 22 of Her Wicker Guardian

“What kind of anything?”

A little humor finally gets through her worry. “I ran out of categories when the wicker started weaving itself.”

I laugh. Shannon doesn’t at first, but then she squeezes my arm once and heads for her car. I follow her to the corner of the house, then stop there and watch until her taillights disappear down the gravel drive. The yard feels suddenly empty. Then I go inside.

The cottage feels unnaturally quiet after hours of five women talking over one another. I stand for a moment with my hands on the counter, surprised by how steady they are.

Two hours ago, my biggest problem was what to do with a wedding ring I didn’t want anymore.

Now there’s a living man on my back porch who may have something to do with where it went.

I gather a clean sheet, a pillow, a blanket, several bottles of water, and Janet’s can of DEET from beside the kitchen door. Then I carry everything outside and walk the short distance along the side of the cottage to the screened porch entrance. He’s standing near the screen looking toward the woods when I let myself in. He turns at the sound of the screen door, but he doesn’t move toward me.

“Hi.” I say, hoping my smile telegraphs that I mean him no harm.

I set the water and bug spray on the small table, then carry the bedding to the chaise. Halfway through it, an alarm goes off inside me.

My back is to him! I straighten and turn. My gaze goes first to the space behind me, then to him.

He’s still no closer than he was before. He hasn’t moved toward me at all. The tightness between my shoulder blades takes longer to ease than it should.

I’d stopped tracking him. I can’t remember the last time I forgot to do that around a man I didn’t know.

I turn back to the chaise and finish straightening the pillow.

“Sleep.” I put my palms together beneath my cheek and close my eyes for a second.

His head tilts.

I demonstrate again. “Sleep.”

He looks toward the chaise.

“That’s promising.”

I pick up a bottle of water, twist off the cap, and offer it. He doesn’t take it.

“Fair.” I drink first and hold it out again.

He looks from my mouth to the bottle. This time he accepts it, turns the plastic slowly in one hand, then raises it and copies me.

Water disappears between the fine woven strands of his mouth.

For one horrible second, I expect it to pour directly through his chest.

It doesn’t.

He lowers the bottle, examines it, and takes another drink without waiting for me to show him again.

“Okay. Good.”

He drinks once more.

“Water.” I point to the bottle. “Water.”

He turns back to me and goes very still for a moment, as though hearing the word requires something different from watching what I do.

I reach toward the DEET and stop.