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Or it would be, except Flint never pushes for more.
Never nudges my legs apart or lifts my dress over my head.
Never gives into my pleading whimpers, my wordless begging for him to strip me down and claim me, damn it.
No, Flint kisses me long and deep and filthy, kisses me until my head spins and my pulse thuds languidly between my thighs—and then he backs up, a pleased glint in his hazel eyes when he sees how rumpled I am.
“It’s Saturday,” he says, brushing a pancake crumb off my chin. “The bar’s open late tonight.”
God, how can he be so calm after that? Flint’s voice is steady, and that is so unfair. He should be panting too, utterly ruined by a single kiss. There’s no justice in the world.
“Uh-huh.” Me, I’m swaying on my stool, trembling beneath my sweater dress. Still overcome by that kiss and silently, desperately wishing for more.
“So don’t wait up for me, Marigold,” Flint’s saying. “Get some sleep.”
I squeeze the fork, trying to order my thoughts after this man scattered them so thoroughly. “Because… you’ll be home late?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll come with you.” Duh. “Maybe I’ll draw you behind that big, serious desk in your office. I haven’t done that yet.”
Flint lifts one shoulder, his standard sign of agreement, then goes back to the kitchen to wash up. No blueberry pancakes for him, apparently—this was all a Marigold treat. Can’t compute that right now.
“If you don’t mind,” I add a beat too late, because what if Flint doesn’t want me following him to work like a needy puppy? Isn’t it bad enough that I’m living in his cabin now, trailing him from room to room so I can sketch him day and night? There’s no way this can last; no way he won’t tire of this soon.
That’s why I’ve been sketching so furiously, filling a whole new book just with Flint, drawing him until my hand cramps and my eyes itch with fatigue. The last seven days have been the most productive in my whole artistic life, and it’s because there’s an imaginary clock ticking down in my brain.
“I don’t mind,” Flint tells the sink, swirling his fingers in the hot water as bubbles fill the plastic tub. He’s so hard to read when he’s turned away like this, his voice calm and neutral. Sometimes, this man is so confusing that I want to tear my hair out and scream.
Does he really want me here? For how long? Why?
And will he ever do more than kiss me? Maybe just once before I leave?
I stuff a giant forkful of blueberry pancake into my mouth, blocking those questions before they can escape.
Breakfast. Pancakes. This steaming mug of coffee.
Better focus on things that make sense.
Eight
Flint
We get our first big October storm after Marigold’s been in my cabin for two weeks. Black clouds hang low over the mountains, threatening heavy rain all day but never quite bursting—then as night closes in, the wind starts to howl.
I’m at the bar, like always, serving customers when Jana needs a break and grappling with stock orders in the office otherwise. A few brave souls have come out for an evening drink, huddled around their regular booth, but the bar’s mostly empty tonight.
Good. Most folks in Starlight Ridge know better than to get caught out in a big storm.
When thunder rumbles loud enough to drown out the speakers, I stride out of the office and give Jana a nod. We’ll close up early tonight, because there’s no sense keeping people out in bad weather and making ‘em vulnerable. Especially Jana, who hasn’t actively chosen to be here.
“Text that fiance of yours,” I tell her when I reach the bar, sliding behind it to start unloading the dishwasher and wiping down. “Tell him you’ll be done in ten minutes and to come walk you home.”
Jana scoffs, tossing down a cloth. “I can make it home on my own, Flint.” But she whips out her phone and taps out a message anyway.
Another loud rumble of thunder, then lightning strobes the night sky. I rub my jaw and stare out of the window as rain starts to lash down, blown sideways by the strong wind.
Thank god Marigold stayed home to draw pet portraits this evening. She should be tucked up warm and dry, sheltered from the storm.
