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It’s how well these old creaky porch boards hold up after hours of two large men and one small woman tramping up and down them with heavy boxes.
When I’m halfway up the wooden steps, something tilts under my feet—the board wobbling loose—and next thing I know I’m pitched backward.
Everything flips upside down, including my stomach.
I’m vaguely aware of the box flying out of my hands and blurs of motion on both sides of me in colors that resemble Lucas and Ulysses.
The rest of me is focused on gravity.
Because gravity means bonking my head on the paving stone on the walkway right behind me.
Some part of my lizard brain tries to save me. Windmilling arms, stumbling legs, grasping at empty air to regain my balance, but it’s far too late.
I’m falling, falling, and—
Strong arms materialize under me, snatching me away from doom.
They wrap me up, pulling me firmly away from the ground.
Gasping, heart thundering, adrenaline becoming a fever, I stare up into sharp green eyes.
Lucas?
No.
Ulysses.
I’m clutched against his chest as he bends over me, holding on with one arm around my waist and another behind my shoulders, lifting me off the ground. His green eyes are oddly intense, drilling into me in a way I can’t help but notice when shock strips away my defenses.
My stomach flips over with confusion.
Especially when I realize he’s still smiling.
It’s the same charming, easy smile he always has, but I don’t get why he’s smiling like that right now.
With a shaky sound, I press my hands to his chest, pushing lightly and hoping he’ll get the message. “Thanks! Sorry, one of the steps is loose, I guess...”
“No, I owe you an apology, Miss Clarendon. Seems I’ve made another oversight, and now I have a few stern words for the handyman,” he says lightly as he turns me loose.
I shake off the dizziness once I’m on my feet again.
As he lets me go, I realize I’m practically boxed in between him and Lucas.
And Lucas has turned into this ginormous shadow falling over both of us, looking down at me with his eyes stark and darkened with—
What? Worry?
Something else?
“Hey,” he says. “You okay? You didn’t hit anything, did you? Sprain your leg?”
“No. I just scared the crap out of myself for half a second, but I’m fine.” Well, besides feeling like I’m trapped between the two wild men, and part of me wants to hide behind Lucas to escape the strangeness. The rest of me wants to run away from them both. I clear my throat. “Clumsy feet. That’s me.”
Lucas just looks at me for a long second, his brows furrowed.
It feels like he can tell what I’m not saying, just like that evening at The Rookery where we sat with our beers. That heavy silence was welcoming.
Especially when he pulls back, giving me breathing space, and circles around me to crouch down next to the box I dropped.
Thankfully, it landed flat on its bottom. The impact split the corners vertically, busting them out while still leaving the top flap closed, bits and pieces of my belongings popping out through the seams.
“Doesn’t look like anything in here got too banged up,” he says, prying delicately at something protruding from one split. “Damn. Looks like the glass in this frame busted out, though.”
I don’t keep many photo frames, not really.
Just this one.
So I know exactly what he’s talking about before I even see it.
My heart tumbles like it wants to make up for my missed date with the concrete. I pull away from Ulysses and dash to the box, dropping to my knees next to Lucas—and groan when I see what’s cradled in his hands.
A rectangular pewter picture frame in a floral design. It’s handmade, every thread-fine detail created with such loving care that the frame itself is a masterpiece.
But it’s not the most precious thing.
It’s the photo inside, an old Polaroid of my mom when she was about my age, trimmed to fit the oval opening in the picture frame. We look so much alike it could almost be an old photo of me, except I never had kids of my own—and there’s a tiny baby in my mother’s arms, swaddled up and sleeping peacefully with a wild thatch of black hair puffed out everywhere.
Me.
That’s the only photo that exists of my mother with me before I was eighteen.
The glass covering it has shattered out, leaving several shards threatening to scratch the photo’s delicate thin film.
I reach for the frame, then stop.
There’s an irrational fear inside me, a terror that I might damage it more somehow.
Lucas cradles the frame protectively, like he knows how important it is to me.
It must be etched on my face. Brilliant green eyes search mine, slowly dropping to the photo.
“That your mama?” he asks softly.
“I... Yes. And me.” I swallow. Why do I suddenly want to cry? So much has happened in just a few short days, but it’s a broken freaking picture frame that breaks me? “She... she gave it to me. I’ll have to replace it, though. The picture’s the important thing.”
