Page 32 of Room for Us
My heart pounds as I imagine my aunt’s condemnation, but the words come out anyway, “How about I make you some Chamomile tea? I have some every night. It always helps me relax.”
His shoulders drop a notch. “Yes, please. That sounds great.”
I grab the kettle and fill it from the tap. Once the stove is lit and the water heating, I look around for something to do. But the kitchen is clean, all the dishes done. Leaning a hip on the counter, I cross my arms, then uncross them and clasp my hands together. I don’t know where to look. Christ, I’m thirteen again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy his crooked grin. “This is a little awkward, huh?”
A startled laugh escapes me. “Yes, it is.”
He coughs lightly. “So… have you been doing this long? Running the inn?”
I consider lying, but the truth pops out, “You’re my first guest, actually.”
“Oh? I never would have guessed.”
The deadpan tone pulls another laugh out of me. My eyes find his of their own volition. They really are the most extraordinary color. More green than yellow under the kitchen lights.
“Don’t feel bad,” he continues with a smirk, “I’ve lived alone most my life, so this is new to me, too. I’m a nightmare guest, aren’t I?”
I match his deadpan tone. “You’re an angel.”
He laughs, low and musical. Deep and rich. The kind of laugh that warms a room and brings smiles to people’s faces. I’m not immune. Heat flushes my face as I smile back at him.
“I can’t promise I’ll get any better,” he adds. “I’m used to having things a certain way.”
“Eh, you’re not as bad as all that.”
“Liar.”
The kettle’s whine drowns out my surprised laugh. He watches silently as I prep two mugs with teabags and my special concoction of honey and frothed milk.
I slide a mug in his direction. “I hope this helps. Let it steep for a few minutes.”
He takes the mug, big hands curling around the ceramic. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I fiddle with my teabag, expecting him to leave. Instead, he crosses to one of the stools at the island and settles onto it.
“Join me?”
My stupid heart skips a beat. “Uh, sure.”
I slip onto the last stool, leaving an empty seat between us. By the arch of his brow, my effort to create space doesn’t go unnoticed. But at this point, I don’t trust myself any closer to him. I might do something unforgivable, like smell his shoulder.
After a minute of companionable, tea-sipping silence, he says, “I heard that bartender last night tell you ‘welcome home.’ I assume you grew up here, but just recently came back?”
The tea on my tongue turns sour. “Yep, that’s right.”
“Did you leave for college?”
“Yes.”
“What brought you back?”
“My aunt died.”
And my husband cheated on me and filed for divorce and I lost my mind and now I hear dead people.
