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"I think Quinn means things that do not involve rough-housing or breaking things. Or watching TV," Cale offered.
"Does Miss Jane have a TV?" Evan asked.
"No, she does not," Quinn replied. "We'll just have to think of other things mouse children would like to do."
"Well, why don't you two think about old Jed here while you wash up for dinner," Cale suggested.
"Okay." They nodded, and, miraculously, flew from the room without argument.
Alone with her, Cale hesitated, feeling awkward. Until she smiled up at him and his knees began to unravel. He sat on the sofa before they could betray him.
"So, that's Jed, eh?" he said, to have something to say.
"Jed Mousewing." She smiled, her heart pounding, and she blushed, certain that he could hear it banging against her chest.
"Where did the Mousewing come from?" He licked dry lips with an equally dry tongue.
"Actually, her original name had been Mousding, as in small mouse. But the daughter of a friend of mine, who had trouble with her's, pronounced it Mousewing. I thought it was cute, so I kept the name." She shrugged, feeling trapped all of a sudden. While the boys had been there with her, it had been easier to ignore the fact that he was here, and she was here, and after all this time, they were together. Just as she had dreamed they would be someday. It was a dream she had never had much faith in. Until today.
"I guess you've done well for yourself, then," he said.
"I'm doing what I like to do." She shrugged and tried to sound nonchalant.
"So was I," he told her, the slightest hint of shadow darkening his face.
"I was sorry to hear about your accident," she said softly. "I know how much it must have meant to you, to have been able to play…"
He started to shrug it off as perhaps not so big a deal, as he had done so many times over the past six months, then stopped, suddenly feeling no need to pretend.
"It hurt like hell to give it up," Cale said quietly, his words barely above a whisper.
"I'm sorry, Cale." Instinctively, she had placed a hand upon his, and the softness of it, the tenderness of the gesture, shot through him like a bolt.
"Well, so am I." He stood abruptly and her hand fell away. The place where her fingers had touched his wrist seemed marked as if by fire. He cleared his throat again—a nervous gesture that he hadn't found the need to use for years—and backed away from her in the direction of the kitchen. "Dinner will be ready in about two minutes. I hope you don't mind having your spaghetti sauce come out of a jar."
"Not at all," she assured him.
Cale fled back into the safety of the small kitchen, where he would not have to look into her eyes.
"How ‘bout if I set the table?" Quinn was just a few steps behind him.
Cale resisted the urge to sigh openly. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide…
"Sure." He forced a smile and pointed to the cupboard behind him. "Plates and glasses in there."
He tried to pretend that her presence wasn't disconcerting, that he wasn't watching her, but it was impossible not to in so confined an area. Their backs collided mildly as she reached for plates from the shelves above her head. She brushed against him when she sorted through the flatware drawer for knives, forks, and spoons. His awareness of her was closing in on him at a pace that was rapidly accelerating.
He turned and brushed aside the curtain at the kitchen window. If anything, the storm had intensified. There was no chance she would be leaving before the morning.
How would he last a whole night with her here, under the same roof with him?
She looked up and smiled again, and he felt his insides begin to twist and twitch.
This could very well be the longest night of his life.
* * *
Chapter Seven
