Quickly, I slide the drawer back onto its slider.
Looking through his belongings feels like such a betrayal of a man who has done more for this country than Cillian ever has.
But it’s Michael at risk if I don’t.
Guilt eats at me as surely as if it were a corrosive substance in my stomach.
I leave spying behind, too churned up to focus, and try to make us dinner. I decide to roast the potatoes so they are easy to reheat. Then I make a marinade for the steaks and throw it all together in a container I found in the cupboard. I shuck the corn outside, watching up and down the trail for any sign of him coming home.
Every step I have to navigate around my wrist brace. I’m already sick of it.
Once everything is prepared, I set about trying to make the rest of the place look nice. I stoke the fire, wipe down the table, and cobble together place settings for the two of us. I saw some wildflowers on the edge of the property, so I take a cup out with me and cut some.
As I walk back into the cottage, I wonder if he’s coming back soon. He said to stay. And strangely I feel safe enough here. I’ll be okay for the night. I have fuel and food, but if he’s not back in the morning, I’ll have to put the bus network to the test or call Kasey to see if she’ll come get me if I pay for her gas.
It’s not lost on me that if Cillian had brought me to a cottage, then told me to stay while he drove off, I wouldn’t feel quite so comfortable.
When I’ve remade the bed and done all the other little jobs I can think of, I pour a glass of white wine and go out to sit on the small deck off the living room. The spot is rustic, a gravel lane down to the lake. I can see trees, the air is fresh, and I can breathe.
As I sip, I hear a bike in the distance, the rumble of the engine getting louder until it’s a roar just outside the house. When the engine cuts out, I know he’s home.
The old curtain blows out of the doorway, then flutters back into place, my sign he’s in the cottage again. Booted footsteps thud across the wooden floor, then the deck creaks as he steps outside.
Spark falls into the second chair, beer in hand.
He doesn’t say a word. But he bridges the gap between us and takes hold of my hand, rubbing the back of it with his thumb.
I fold my fingers around his, and we sit like that, sipping our drinks and listening to the birds, the odd peal of laughter from down by the water, and the chirp and buzz of insects.
When the buzzer on my phone goes off, we both jump. “Shit, potatoes,” I gasp as I place my wine on the table and hurry inside. Using the checkered cloth, I pull the pan out of the oven. Thankfully, they’re cooked to perfection.
Spark follows me in. “Smells good in here,” he says. “Want me to grill the steaks?”
He sounds normal again. Like the ride sorted out his rough edges and he feels comfortable in his own skin again.
“Sure.”
On his way to get them, he wraps his arms around me and kisses the top of my head. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I look up at him. “I’m here for you. And whatever it is, we can face it. But hiding things from me isn’t going to work in the long term.”
He nods, even as my stomach turns over. Who am I to lecture him about keeping secrets? And what chance of a long-term relationship do we even have?
“Got it.” He tips my chin and kisses me softly.
And as I watch him step back out onto the patio to grill the steaks, I wonder what’s really at risk and whose side I’m actually on.
19
SPARK
I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, running my fingertips up and down Iris’s naked back. Her skin is so smooth beneath my calloused fingertips that I can’t stop touching her. Sex with her was the best I’ve ever had, but this, these moments in bed . . . I had no idea such peace existed.
She’s asleep, her head on my chest. I feel the occasional puff of her breath and wonder how I deserved the good fortune to find her. Instinctively, she knew what I needed tonight, and that was to not be dragged back to a place where there is too much heat and dry dust in the air. To a place where screams punctuate every second.
She didn’t ask again after telling me that secrets wouldn’t work in the long term.
Not once.
She didn’t ask me what my dream was about, even though I scared the crap out of her. Even as fractured parts of the dream still scored their way through my veins.
She didn’t ask as we ate, as she told funny stories about the children she teaches and clearly loves, nor did she when she confided in me that she thinks one of her kids is being abused. She didn’t ask as we cleaned the dishes or sat on the patio beneath the clear, starry sky.
And she sure as fuck didn’t ask when my dick was in her mouth or buried so deep inside her that neither of us could think straight.
But now, I’m wide awake, wondering how to explain to her that I can’t be that person, the one who shares all the shit going on in their head. Because I don’t want those images to get stuck in hers.
Iris’s starts to fidget in my arms, and I wonder if it’s because I’m awake. I move to kiss the top of her head when her forehead crashes into my chin. I wince as I rub my jaw.
“Bathroom,” she mumbles, before leaping out of bed and running down the hallway.
I grab my jeans and tug them on, and by the time I reach the closed bathroom door, I can hear her retching. “You okay, little chick?” I say through the door.
“Don’t . . . come in,” she groans.
She’s got no fucking chance of making me stay on this side of the bathroom, but I give her a minute to get the worst out. Knowing she’s naked in there, I grab my hoodie from the back of the chair in the kitchen. It’s the easiest thing to slide over her head. I also grab her a glass of cold water, because there’s nothing worse than the taste in your mouth after puking.
A soft moan precedes the flush of the toilet, and I open the door. “Come here.” I crouch next to her, feeling a wash of protectiveness flow through me. Somehow it makes me complete, chases away the last cobwebs of my earlier dreams.
“You don’t need to be here,” she mutters through teary eyes. “Must be something I—” She leans back over the toilet and hurls again.
Gently, I scoop her hair back from her face with one hand and wait until she’s done. When I remember the glass I’m holding, I hand it to her. “Here, sip this.”
Her hands shake as she takes it and drinks a few sips. When she puts it down on the floor, I flush the toilet, then put the hoodie over her head. The tile is cold beneath my feet, so I sit with my back against the bath and tug her onto my legs.
She shivers as she leans her head against my chest. “Sorry,” she whispers.
“Nothing to be sorry for. Are you okay?”
“Food poisoning, if I had to guess.”
I let my head fall back. “I brought you here for some time away from everything, just the two of us. To help you get some rest and recover from the accident.” I run my hand over the black brace between us. “Instead, I scare the shit out of you and get you sick.”
A soft smile graces her lips for a moment, even as sweat beads on her forehead. “I’m glad I came. But my stomach is really crampy.”