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He crouches on his haunches, his knee brushing my thigh. He stares intently, scrutinizing my face as if searching for the answer to an unspoken query. The air between us is palpable, so intense it warms me from my fingers to my toes. He leans into me, and again, I think, hope, and pray he’ll kiss me. The headlamp flickers, breaking the spell like a bad omen.
“We should clean this up before the battery dies.” His arm brushes past me, and my heart sinks. “We’ll sort things later.”
Things? Like, what’s between us? What I hope can be between us?
The harsh reality is difficult to swallow. The only sorting Roman has in mind belongs in the box of old memories my grandparents stored on the closet’s top shelf.
We finish picking up the floor, and Roman hauls both boxes into the living room. He follows me around the cabin, providing light as I search for candles. I find a utilitarian stash of plain white pillars in the mud room where Grandpa kept emergency spares for times like this. I don’t recall a time when the power went out while visiting my grandparents, but they were always prepared for emergencies.
Wind whistles outside, cooling the cabin as the temperatures drop. I light the candles while Roman stokes the fire, my only heat source since I neglected to purchase a backup generator, as Blake told me to. I didn’t follow his advice out of stubbornness. I hate it when he’s right. Just this once, I would have liked to say I told him so. But no, Mother Nature isn’t on my side tonight.
Roman grabs a thick wool blanket from the woven basket Grandma kept handy for nights like this. When we were younger, Blake, Roman, and I would throw down the blanket to insulate the floor and huddle in a pile of blankets and pillows in front of the fire. That time of innocence seems so long ago.
“We had a lot of good times here, didn’t we?” I light a tray of candles and place them on the coffee table.
“The best.” Roman tidies the box of string lights he abandoned, then tosses sofa cushions onto the wool blanket. “Ghost stories.”
He remembers those times, too.
“And roasted marshmallows,” I recall fondly, staring into the fire. My grandparents indulged our every whim on the condition we’d never rat them out to our parents. “Mum’s the word,” I whisper so softly I’m not certain I said it aloud at all.
“Mum’s the word,” Roman repeats.
My eyes dart to his. The fire’s reflection dances in their pitch-dark irises, fierce and burning. The light softens his features, highlighting beauty where roughness usually resides. He shifts his gaze and settles into the pile of pillows with a groan.
“You’re hurt.” I kneel by his side, fluffing the pillows and covering his outstretched legs with another blanket.
“Nonsense. I’m too old and mean for pain.” He chuckles, but his eyes betray him with an unconvincing, obstinate gleam. He pats the space beside him, inviting me to sit. “Pull that box over here. We’ll take a trip down memory lane since we aren’t going anywhere else.”
This time, I don’t balk at being told what to do. I reach behind me, dragging the box to the blanket, and snuggle in beside the man of my dreams, vowing to enjoy the moment no matter what if anything comes next. Opening my heart to the memories made in this house is exactly what I need, and Roman’s the only man I want to relive them with.
“We’re not so different, you know. You’re an obstinate pain in the butt, but I’m not sorry about saving it today.” I snicker as I lean into his shoulder, trying not to read more into his offer than what’s being extended to me. I press my lips to his whiskered cheek, stealing a kiss from the man I trust with my heart and soul.
And wishing he’d trust me with his as well.
***
Roman
Bea doesn’t linger with the chaste kiss. I’m grateful, though my gut twists in knots, wishing it had packed more meaning beyond friendship. For fuck’s sake, the woman tries my patience. Every word, look, and touch she extends lights a fire in my belly.
Is it too much to ask the universe for the love of a woman who knows more about me than I know about myself?
Bea plucks the photo album from the box and opens it.
“It must be fate.” She taps the page and smiles up at me. Her rosy cheeks plump, just like in the photo. Grandma’s s’mores recipe.”
I stare at the photo. Blake and I sit cross-legged in front of a campfire with straightened wire hangers outstretched into the fire. Tiny Bea sits snuggled in my lap, looking up at me with bright eyes filled with... I glance up from the photo to find Bea staring at me with the same look in her eye.
Has she always looked at me with such intensity and wonder?I’m a fool for dismissing her as a nuisance so long ago. The only thing disruptive about Bea is how she makes my heart tick faster with a single look.
“Heh,” I chuckle, not wanting to give away my private thoughts. “You always charred your marshmallows to a crisp, then burned your tongue trying to swallow them whole. Always an impatient Honey Bea.”
“Hey, not fair.” She rears back, giving me a stern, yet playful eye. “I had to eat fast. You and Blake hogged everything. Do you know how hard it is to keep up with you?”
She flips the page as she lets out a satisfied harumph.
“Made you tough, didn’t it?” A niggle of guilt and regret wrestles with my conscience.
