Page 33 of The Crafting Con

When I finally still and let my eyes flutter shut, Declan kneels beside me on the dusty concrete floor. “She fought valiantly until the end. May her death not be in vain.”

I crack an eye open. “I’m not quite dead yet.”

“Ah, but it’s coming.”

I push up on my elbow. “I think I might pull through, actually.”

We stare at each other for a long, serious moment, then collapse into a fit of giggles.

Declan wipes a hand over his eyes, where tears of laughter are gathering in the corners. “I was not expecting the Monty Python reference there at the end. So good.”

“You started it with The Princess Bride quotes,” I remind him, my voice breathless as I attempt to gather myself.

Declan stretches up to his feet with a grin. “All of that sword fighting has me parched. You want something to drink?” He holds out his hand, pulling me up off the floor. I try not to notice the way my palm tingles once he lets go. “We’ve got seltzer, coffee, Gatorade…”

As my laughter fades, a yawn creeps into its place. “Coffee sounds amazing.”

He stifles a yawn of his own. “It really does. How do you take it?”

“Why don’t I just come with you?” I follow him up the steps to the kitchen and a mass of wiggling fur greets me. I drop onto my haunches and scoop up Johnny Five, scratching under his chin while he peppers mine with kisses. “Who’s the best boy in the whole wide world?” I coo. “That’s right, it’s you. Such a good boy.”

Declan snorts, heading straight for the metal thermos full of coffee on the counter. “Tell that to our carpets. If I have to scrub one more I’ve been left alone for two seconds pee stain, I’m gonna ship him to Abu Dhabi Garfield style.”

“Don’t listen to him,” I stage whisper. “He’s just jealous because you get more belly scratches than he does.”

“Um, I actually prefer zero belly scratches.” He pours steaming amber liquid into two mugs before opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle of French vanilla creamer.

“That’s funny.” I sneak up behind him, fingers wiggling. “Because I seem to remember you liking them right about”—I attack his sides, tickling his ribs—“here!”

The noise that squeaks out of his mouth has me doubling over almost as much as he does, his entire torso curling into an upright fetal position while he desperately tries to swat my hands away. “Sweet Mario,” he gasps. “Sanctuary!”

“Nice try, but this is a kitchen, not a church.”

He sucks in a breath, laughter spilling out in ragged bursts. “Sanctuary, or the coffee goes straight down the sink.”

My hands fly upward. “I’ll stop! Just please, don’t do anything drastic.”

“You should have thought of that before you so viciously assaulted me,” he counters, picking up the coffee while he turns—and is suddenly right there, mere inches in front of me. Our eyes meet, and any lingering laughter vanishes in a fluttering whirl of butterflies. “Your coffee,” he rasps, his voice oddly strangled as he holds the steaming mug between us.

I reach for it, but my hands won’t stop shaking, and the next thing I know scalding hot liquid is spilling over my fingers and spattering my shirt. I hiss through my teeth, pain shooting up my forearms. “Frack.”

Declan pulls me over to the sink before I even have time to think, turning the water on and guiding my burned hands beneath the stream with a gentleness that eases the pain as much or more than the icy liquid. His hands remain carefully holding mine in place while we stand there, breath loud in the silent kitchen. Finally, he says, softly, “You okay?”

Not even a little. Not with his lean frame brushing my arm, his breath kissing my ear. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t function. What is this feeling? This… this out of body sense of being? “I’m fine,” I lie, drawing my hands back and taking a step away to dry them on the white-and-green towel hanging from the oven door. The added space does little to right my senses. “Just sorry to waste so much coffee. Please tell me that wasn’t the last of it.”

“There’s more.” Declan’s voice comes out steadier now, although he still looks concerned. “But I really think you should cool that burn for a bit. Why don’t I fix you a new cup, while you grab an ice pack from the freezer and settle onto the couch?”

“But the example daggers,” I protest, nodding toward the garage door. “We still need to get them all assembled and painted. Hot glue is melting as we speak.”

“I’ll run out and turn it off. And the daggers will get done, one way or another. Right now, though, I really think you should focus on taking care of yourself.”

Taking care of… myself?

I blink, feeling strangely dizzy.

When was the last time I put myself first?

I can’t seem to recall.