"Wes—that—"
I placed a finger on his lips. I wanted a few more moments of silence to look into his eyes. I hadn't kissed anyone since I was a teenager. It was so long ago that I didn't want to think too deeply about what I'd missed.
When I pulled my finger back, Eric smiled. "That was nice."
Nice. It was the understatement of the century, but at the moment, it was the perfect thing to say. It didn't demand anything and only acknowledged that something real had passed between us.
We stood there for another heartbeat, the weight of what had just happened settling between us like dust after an explosion. Eric's hand still rested against my chest, and my pulse raced beneath his palm.
There's a moment—right after something you've secretly wanted becomes real—when your mind doesn't rejoice. It panics because now that it's possible, you remember how badly you wanted it. And nothing is more dangerous than wanting something you're not sure you're allowed to keep.
A gull cried somewhere overhead, breaking the spell. Eric's hand slipped away slowly as if reluctant to lose the connection. He bent to retrieve the fallen hockey stick, and when he straightened, there was something different in his movements—less careful and more sure of his welcome on Ironhook.
"We should probably..." I gestured vaguely at the overgrown sections we hadn't touched yet.
"Yeah." Eric's grin was soft and a little dazed. "Though I must say, this is the best work break I've ever had."
The comment startled me and made me laugh—short and rusty but genuine. "Get back to work, Callahan."
"Yes, sir." He was still smiling as he headed toward the wild roses to clear sight lines between the penalty boxes. I focused on stabilizing a section of boards that had come loose from their supports, using rope and leverage to pull them back into alignment.
Neither of us spoke about the kiss. We didn't need to. It had happened, and it had been good, and now we were both processing what it meant. The work gave our hands something to do while our minds caught up.
Part of me wanted to pull him closer, bury my face in his neck, and let all my years of isolation crack open like an egg. The larger part wanted to run—not only to the cottage but to the ferry dock and back to a world where I could disappear again beforewhatever was happening between us demanded more than I knew how to give.
By early afternoon, we'd accomplished more than I'd expected. We didn't restore the rink, but we did reveal it. Visible. The bones of what it had been were clear enough that someone could imagine what it might become again.
We gathered our tools. It was time to return to the house for lunch.
Eric spoke quietly. "Thanks for helping with this. For showing me how to do it right."
I knew he wasn't only talking about the clearing work.
"You're welcome."
Chapter seven
Eric
The kiss lingered in my dreams and followed me into waking—the memory of Wes's mouth against mine, warm, uncertain, and hungry all at once. I stretched beneath the wool blanket, muscles pleasantly sore from yesterday's work at the rink, and let myself float in that drowsy early morning liminal space.
Coffee was already brewing. The rich scent wound through the cottage like an invitation, and I heard the familiar sounds of Wes moving around the kitchen—cabinet doors opening and closing and the soft clink of ceramic against the counter.
I pulled on yesterday's jeans and a clean flannel shirt, running fingers through my sleep-mussed hair as I padded toward the living room. My whole body buzzed with anticipation that something good might happen again.
"Morning," I called out, rounding the corner with a ridiculous grin.
Wes stood at the kitchen window, shoulders rigid beneath his gray henley, studying something in the distance that required his complete attention. He didn't turn around.
"Coffee's ready."
The tone landed with the force of a slammed door. His voice had none of the warmth that had been there yesterday.
I poured myself coffee from the pot, adding a splash of the vanilla creamer I'd found tucked behind the sugar. I was suddenly back to feeling like I was borrowing someone else's kitchen instead of sharing space with them.
"Sleep okay?" I tried for casual.
"Fine."
