He disappears back into the main room, his voice trailing back to where I lie. “Are you burning something?”
“My bread.” My eyes widen as I hurry from the bed and land flat with my face smashed against the stone floor. “Oh, that hurt.”
His footsteps trail to where I lie. “Why didn’t you stay on the bed where I put you?”
“I’m not a child,” I grumble as he helps me back to the mattress that I foolishly left.
“I doubt even a child would spill wine all over their clothes and fall on their face.” Something shifts in his expression, a softening as he runs his thumb against my cheek—right where he stitched my skin weeks ago. “You’re already bruising.”
“Gabriel.” I lick my bottom lip. “Do you want to hear my secret now?”
“What secret?” He allows his thumb another pass, his touch stirring.
“I dream of you at night. Imagine what it would be like for you to kiss me again.”
He holds my gaze for several beats before he looks away, breaking contact and splintering the moment.
“Do you think of me too?” I ask, my question vulnerable. Needy.
I cannot wish the words unsaid. Maybe tomorrow I will. Maybe tomorrow I’ll regret a lot of things. Not right now. Not when he’s still here.
“Sometimes,” he admits.
Just one word. One single word, yet it has the power of thousands.
“Do you bed me when you think of me?”
Those vibrant eyes return to mine, and even though he doesn’t break contact, clouds immerse them, clouds that hide everything he thinks, feels, wants, needs.
“Say it,” I whisper, my tone raw.
Instead of answering, he swipes his thumb across my cheek for a third time, his touch tracing over that raised scar before dropping away. “Stay here while I prevent our cottage from burning down.”
“No,” I say the moment he stands and disappears into the main room again.
Smoke carries to where I lie, burning my nose and stinging my eyes. His curses follow.
I sigh and stare up at the ceiling, regretting I couldn’t make him bread like Kassandra.
He steps back into the bedroom a moment later and opens the window. “Your bread nearly burnt the cottage down.”
“I was making it for you.”
He settles his gaze on me. “You shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
A smile curves his mouth, lessening the sternness of his jaw. “Because you’re terrible at it.”
“Oh.” A laugh escapes me as I clutch at my bedcovers.
“Vow to me.” His eyes twinkle as he continues. “That you’ll never bake again.”
“I cannot.” I play with a loose thread on the bedcover, looping it around my fingers, then releasing and repeating the action. “I’m determined to make bread like Kassandra.”
“Nobody makes food like Kassandra.”
He’s probably right. It doesn’t make me any less determined to try. Tomorrow or the day after, I’ll attempt bread again. I will not drink.
