Page 10 of Smoke Signals

“I like them too,” he says. “They’re impressive, and a little misunderstood.”

Something warm and unexpected unfurls in my chest.

Oh no.

The thought hits me hard and uninvited.

He’s hot, and the way he’s so easily adapting to talking with my girl is sexy as hell.

Not in the obvious way, not in the I want to tear his clothes off way, but in the dangerous way; the quiet competence, the steady voice, the way he treats Alaska like she’s already capable and deserving of respect.

I’ve always known I’m attracted to both sexes. That part of me has never been a question. But men have always stayed theoretical, a possibility that never turned into want. None of them ever caught my attention long enough to make me curious.

I shift my weight, suddenly hyperaware of my hands, my breathing, the fact that I haven’t moved from the doorway.

“You said you’re tutoring while you’re on leave,” I say, because I need to say something that isn’t wow, you’re affecting me in ways I didn’t consent to.

“I am,” he says easily. “Mostly younger kids, some older ones too. Depends on what they need.”

“And you’re okay with,” I gesture vaguely, “this situation?”

He focuses on me intently, and his eyes show understanding, as if he knows my unspoken question.

“I’m okay with whatever makes her feel comfortable,” he says. “We don’t have to do anything tonight beyond introductions.”

Alaska colors while we talk, her crayon strokes steady. Stellan doesn’t interrupt her, doesn’t correct, just observes.

“What happened to your shoulder?” I ask before I can stop myself, immediately wishing I’d kept that thought inside.

He rolls it gently, testing the joint.

“Work injury,” he says.

“And tutoring helps fill the time,” I say.

“And keeps me useful,” he replies, smiling slightly.

There it is again, that sense that he sees more than I’m saying.

Alaska suddenly pushes her coloring book toward him, taps one dinosaur, then looks up at me.

“She wants you to color with her,” I translate softly.

Stellan glances at me.

“Go ahead,” I say. “She’s picky about colors.”

“Good,” he says, picking up the crayon. “So am I.”

They sit like that for a while, coloring together, Stellan careful with his movements, favoring his shoulder without drawing attention to it. Alaska relaxes inch by inch, her foot swinging a little faster.

I watch them, my thoughts a tangled mess of relief, fear, attraction, and something dangerously close to hope.

Stellan glances up at me once, catches me staring, and there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Not smug or teasing, just aware.

Which somehow makes it worse.

I clear my throat and move farther into the kitchen, needing to feel like I’m part of the room again. I lean against the counter, arms folding loosely even though my pulse hasn’t slowed down yet.