Page 34 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

He dabs at my eyes. “Need me to get another shirt to staunch the leaks?”

I snort out a laugh. “No, but you might want to get a shirt anyway.” I step back and flap a hand at him. “This is kind of distracting. Not in a bad way. But . . . just . . . yeah.”

“Ah. Um. Okay.” He spins away, practically diving at his dresser, where he tosses aside the towel around his neck and takes out a T-shirt. His neck flushes, like it so often does, and I’m not sure which of us is more embarrassed, but it’s too late to take back my words now. Also, despite what I texted to Amelia, and despite Dylan’s welcome misinterpretation of my staring just now, I’m pretty sure he already knew I was attracted to him. I’ve never been able to hide what I feel.

While he puts on the shirt, I grab the bucket off the floor and empty it in the bathroom, buying myself a moment to blow my nose, wipe my eyes, and clear my head. I don’t know how I went from panic about the house to a fireball of desire to a blubbering, clingy tangle of gratitude and affection, all in a matter of seconds, but the onset of a tempest seems like as good a time as any to be all parts of myself at once, without reason or regulation.

Dylan gestures at the T-shirt he’s wearing as I reenter his room. This one says Temple of Joy, with a little bird carrying a sun across a cloudy sky, holding tight with its tiny claws.

“This better?” he asks.

I nod, because better is relative, and I can’t articulate a clear reply.

His eyes drop to my chest as he takes the empty bucket from me.

“You might want to change, too,” he says. “You know. If we’re avoiding distractions.”

I look down to see that my thin white Henley is soaked through, revealing every contour of my bra and breasts, most notably, the distinct, dark peaks of my nipples. Dylan’s tone wasn’t suggestive—more you have spinach stuck in your teeth, less I want to run my strong hands over every inch of your hot, naked body—but for a moment, I consider embracing the circumstances and suggesting we distract the hell out of each other while the storm rages around us. But only for a moment. Then I head downstairs, rein myself in, and change into dry clothes.

The rest of the day is a wearying relay race of keeping up with the buckets, tacking thick plastic sheeting under the gaping hole in the roof now that we can reach right through Dylan’s ceiling to do the temporary patch job, wringing out towels, and running wet linens through the dryer. Worried the electricity might die any second, we gather candles and flashlights, and we get a fire going in the living room fireplace using the offcuts of our July pruning efforts. Then we drag Dylan’s heavy, wet mattress downstairs and lay it in front of the fireplace so the side that got soaked can dry out. By the time the storm dies down shortly after 8:00 p.m., all I want to do is curl up in a very dry, very warm place and sleep for days. Instead, I get out my laptop, which miraculously still has internet, so I can research home loans that might help me buy a new roof.

Out of sheer habit, I skim my inbox first and find emails about two of the jobs I applied for, one in Colorado and one in Iowa, requesting my availability for video-call interviews with the search committees. I’m not as excited as I should be, and I leave the emails unanswered. For now.

I’m sitting in the kitchen, fruitlessly filling in the umpteenth preliminary loan application for which I have to list unemployed as my job title and estimate my income and assets with little to go on, when the electricity goes out, as expected. As I light a big pillar candle I preemptively set nearby, Dylan pads into the room in his quiet sock feet and sets a hand on my back.

“Dinner?” he asks.

“What’d you have in mind?”

He wraps his hand over the lower half of his face, hiding a smile.

Right. Dumb question. Even if we had a working stove.

“Can we at least add cheese or vegetables?” I ask. “And maybe a salad?”

“Sure. Whatever goes well with this.” He sets a bottle on the table in front of me. Rum, of course. The bottle’s still sealed. The liquid inside is a beautiful dark amber. A simple parchment label notes the brand, with the words Gran Reserva. “I think we’ve earned this tonight.”

I glance up at Dylan, trying to read his expression, failing utterly.

“Okay,” I say. “Just one drink, though.”

He gets a look on his face I’ve never seen before. It’s subtle, like most of his expressions, but for the first time ever, I could swear there’s a hint of mischief in it. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he walks over to the fridge, finds my chickadee magnet, and places it squarely under Dare, folding his arms over his chest as he turns to look at me.

I choke out a nervous laugh. “I told you I—”

“I know.”

“I might get all—”

“Fully understood.”

“Even if I—?”

“Even then.”

I eye him suspiciously. “Is this because—?”

“No. Maybe.” His eyes dip down and then return to my face. “But not just that.”