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At the bottom of my stairs, I stepped up onto the first step and turned around. It put us almost eye to eye.

“Thank you,” I said. “For today. All of it.”

He didn’t answer. He reached up and pushed a piece of hair back from my face, slowly, and let his hand stay against my cheek.

I closed the space between us and kissed him.

His lips were warm and soft and barely moving against mine. His thumb stroked along my jaw. He kissed me back slowly, carefully, one small kiss and then another, and each one lasted a little longer than the one before.

I slid my hands up into his hair. He made a low sound in his throat, and his mouth opened over mine.

Then it wasn’t slow at all.

He pulled me against him, hard. His hands went under my jacket and spread across my back, warm through my sweater. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on. He kissed me deep and unhurried, his tongue sliding against mine, and he didn’t stop to breathe. I could feel his heart pounding against my chest, or maybe it was mine. I couldn’t tell anymore.

His hands slid down to my hips and pulled me flush against him. I felt how much he wanted me, and I pressed closer, and he groaned against my mouth.

He kissed the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the spot below my ear that made my knees go weak. I tipped my head back to give him more, and he took it. When his teeth grazed my neck, I gasped his name.

He came back to my mouth. I didn’t ever want him to stop.

When he finally lifted his head, he didn’t step back. He pressed his forehead to mine. We were both breathing hard, and his hands were still on my hips, holding me against him.

“If I come up those stairs,” he said, low and rough, “I’m not leaving.”

“I know,” I whispered.

He was quiet for a long moment. His thumbs moved slowly over my hip bones through my jeans, and I shivered.

“So I’m going to say good night,” he said.

He kissed me one more time, slow and deep, like a promise. Then he let go.

“Good night, Hazel.”

Chapter Eight

Shepherd

“Is that a smiley face?”

Hazel froze halfway up the ladder. “Where?”

“Inside the third rib. Under the seam.”

“No.”

“Hazel.”

“It’s very small,” she said, without turning around. “It’s on the inside. Nobody will ever see it.”

“I’ll see it.”

She looked down at me over her shoulder, paint on her cheek and her braid coming loose, and smiled. “Exactly.”

I didn’t have an answer for that. I was running out of answers for her in general.

It had been five days since I’d walked her down the hill and left her at the bottom of those stairs. Five days of reaching for the same brush and both pulling back or catching her looking at me across the shop and looking away, and her catching me doing the same. I’d made it through an entire Thursday without saying “fine” once. She’d noticed. She’d smiled about it all afternoon.