Page 111 of Her Wicker Guardian

Rachel comes down several minutes later wearing loose gray pants and a soft shirt that slips low enough on one side to leave the curve of her shoulder bare. Her hair is tangled from sleep, and there is a faint crease along one cheek. I notice all of that before she reaches the kitchen.

Yesterday I would not have understood why. Today I understand far too much.

She stops when she sees me sitting up on the couch. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

“You sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Rachel continues into the kitchen while I fold the blanket and put it over the back of the couch the way she does. By the time I join her, she’s standing at the counter.

I look at the bare shoulder again, and she turns her head and catches me. Her eyebrows rise. “Subtle.”

“I was looking.”

“I noticed.”

The idea of telling her what happened on the couch sends warmth low through my body again, but I am more interested in something else first.

“Did you sleep?”

“Pretty well, actually.”

Without listening?”

She knows what I mean. The humor leaves her face as she glances toward the living room, then back at me.

“Mostly.”

Something inside me eases.

“I’m glad.”

Something softens in her face. “You’re getting very invested in my sleep.”

“It was important to you.”

“It was.”

Then she catches me watching her again. “What?”

I have learned that this question sometimes means tell me and sometimes means please do not tell me. I am not certain which this is.

“I thought about last night. And about you this morning.”

Rachel pauses. Color climbs her cheeks before she asks, “Anything else?”

I could give her the easier answer. I don’t want to.

“I touched myself.”

Rachel’s hand slips against the counter. “Okay.” She stretches out the word.

“You asked.”