Page 129

Macalister glanced at her, and she saw the moment when he realized what he had said.

He bolted to his feet, just as she stood, knocking his hand that still held the open flask. The metal clattered to the porch floor.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she said as she made to stoop to pick up the flask at the same time Macalister did. She teetered a little, and he put out a hand to steady her. His touch on her waist seemed to draw every bit of breath from her lungs. Her eyes flicked up to his, and she felt his fingers flex against the edge of her corset and the top of her hip. She watched his eyes flick to her.

“Mrs. Whitley,” he murmured.

“Adele.”

She knew that she shouldn’t, but she let her hand drift up to his chest, her fingers dancing across the soft cotton of his shirt, the horn buttons cool to her touch. They were perched on a precipice, but how could such danger be wrapped in such comfort?

She breathed in deeply, but instead of the fresh green scent of the branches he had been cutting that day, she smelled something else.

Smoke.

“Did you light a fire tonight?” she asked with a frown.

“No,” he said. “It isn’t cold enough for it.”

She inhaled again, watching as he did the same. Their eyes locked, and they uttered the word at the same time.

“Wildfire.”

chapter forty-eight THERESA

July 2, 1960

When Theresa awoke, she hinged up on her elbows and looked around, confused. She was sleeping on the right side of the bed rather than in the middle, and the smell of coffee hung in the air.

She twisted and spotted her dress crumpled on the floor next to a brown pair of men’s shoes.

She sat up, pulling the top sheet over her as it all came back in a flash. The movies. Chinese food. Driving through the quiet night. The kiss. Matt.

She slipped from bed and padded over to the bedroom door to lift her pale blue cotton robe off its hook. Slipping it on, she tied it tight around her waist and then followed the scent of coffee.

She did not have to go far, because the studio was only three rooms: a bedroom, a bathroom, and a combined kitchen/dining/living room, all carved out of what had once been a single room. She found Matt standing at the tiny kitchen counter in front of the percolator with her transistor radio on at a low hum. He’d pulled on his trousers and wore his white shirt loose, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

A floorboard creaked under her weight, and he glanced over his shoulder.

“Good morning,” he said with a grin. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

He poured her a cup and handed it to her. “I wasn’t sure how you took it.”

“Black,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Very brave.”

She laughed, the uncertainty she’d felt since waking up abating a little. “You would take it black, too, if you tasted the newsroom coffee. The powdered creamer they give us only makes it worse.”

He leaned over and clinked their coffee cups together gently. She took a sip, hiding her growing smile at the thought that Matt was here in her studio with her after the best date she’d had in… well, she couldn’t remember how long.

“About last night,” she began.

“Yes?”

“I really—”