Page 52 of Her Wicker Guardian

None of it is sexual. My body has failed to get the memo.

Heat spreads slowly through my chest and lower, settling with embarrassing certainty in my stomach.

I open my eyes.

The bear drawing is still on the table in front of me. Upright. Proper shoulders. We have a civic emergency, I’m late for work, and I’m standing on my back porch letting a man who was a wicker bear three days ago braid my hair.

This is my life now.

“You are quiet,” Locke says.

“I’m enjoying having hair left.”

His hands stop for half a second.

“That was a joke,” I tell him.

“I know.”

I glance back at him. “Good.”

His fingers resume their careful work through my hair.

I smile toward the table.

He really is learning fast.

A few seconds later, he says, “Rachel.”

The way he says my name makes me straighten.

“What?”

“Stay.”

Every muscle in my body goes alert before I can stop it, and Locke’s hands leave my hair immediately.

I turn around.

He points toward the braid. “Stay there,” he says more slowly. “Hair.”

Relief comes so fast I almost laugh. “Oh.”

I turn back around, though my hands are still cold despite the warm morning. He said one word. That’s all. Stay. Trent could put an entire command into that word. Locke only meant hold still while I finish your hair.

His fingers don’t return until I settle again.

“Say ‘hold still’ next time.”

“Hold still.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I look toward the woods behind the house, deciding how much explanation I can manage before work. “Because stay can mean something else.”

“What?”