Page 14

Brilliant, Laura. Heat reaches my face before I can stop it. I haven’t had a man tell me I’m beautiful in so long that I’ve forgotten what I’m supposed to do with the information, particularly when the man in question didn’t exist ten minutes ago.

“Thank you.”

His brow relaxes. Whatever else he may be struggling to say, apparently that was worth the effort.

Then I make the mistake of looking lower. He’s very naked.

“Right. Clothes.”

The contents of the basket are still scattered across the counter. Four balls of yarn, two knitting needles, and the unfinished scarf I swore I’d never put another stitch into.

It has one more job after all. I pick it up. It isn’t long enough to qualify as much of a scarf yet, but it’s wide enough to solve the immediate problem if I’m creative.

I hold it up. “Temporary.” He looks at the knitted fabric, then lower.

“Exactly.”

I step closer and stop before touching him. “Can I?”

He touches the scarf once, then nods. The small deliberate motion does more to convince me there’s a person standing in front of me than anything else has.

I move closer. His warmth reaches me before I touch him, spreading across my hands and the front of my shirt as the space between us narrows. I shouldn’t be surprised. Locke is warm too. Some stubborn part of my brain still expected freshly created wicker to feel dry and cool.

Instead there is a living man’s heat where there hasn’t been one this close to me in years. I concentrate on the scarf.

My knuckles brush the side of his waist as I pass it around him. The weave isn’t remotely like skin. It’s firm but has a little give, the finer fibers between the thicker willow compressing slightly beneath my knuckles and springing back when I move.

I can see that he’s alive. Feeling the living weave yield beneath my knuckles makes it real in a way seeing him didn’t.

I bring the ends of the scarf together at one side. He’s large enough that the fabric barely reaches, forcing me closer as I make the knot.

My fingers brush a tightly crossed place low on his hip. A vibration hums into my fingertips, low enough that I feel it more than hear it.

Kel. I freeze and pull my hand back.

I stare at the place I touched, then put my fingertips against it again.

The vibration comes stronger this time, humming into my fingers.

Kel.

His hand closes over mine.

“Kell?”

His eyes widen.

Then he works his mouth carefully around the word.

“Kell.”

The word comes rough and deliberate. I’m still holding the ends of the knitted scarf, and somehow he’s just given me his name.

“Okay,” I say quietly.

The vibration fades. I still can’t decide whether what I felt was sound, movement, or something closer to resting my hand against a speaker, but Kell is waiting and the scarf isn’t yet accomplishing its assigned purpose.

I finish the knot. He tests it with two fingers, then raises his head again. His mouth works around the next words.