“Easy,” he said, voice low near my ear. “I’ve got you.”
My laugh puffed out white into the space between us. “You really are committed to this lawsuit-prevention bit.”
“You’re not allowed to break anything before your big debut,” he said. His hand slid from my arm down to my fingers, giving them a quick squeeze.
His palm was rough and warm, dwarfing mine, grounding me in a way that had nothing to do with ice and everything to do with the last few weeks in that house. I squeezed back, just once, then forced myself to release him before I got too attached to the feel of our hands fitting together.
Snow glittered around us, quiet and bright. The inn’s windows reflected a smaller version of us on the glass—two figures in the cold, moving in the same direction.
This,I thought, as we started walking again, notebook retrieved, fingers still tingling.
Thiswas what it would be like if we were just ... together. No lessons, no secrets, no rules on the fridge.
Just us, showing up places as anus.
The driveback from the farm was one long, contented hum.
My notebook sat open in my lap, full of scribbles and arrows and terrible sketches. Wes’s hand rested loose on the wheel, the other draped over the console, fingers drumming to some low classic rock station he’d turned on.
“Heading home?” he asked when the turn for Main Street came up. “Unless you need to stop anywhere.”
“Um, the Crooked Spine,” I said, chewing on my pen cap. “I wanted to grab a book. I can run in?—”
“I’ll come in,” he said, like it was nothing as his shoulder lifted. “I could use coffee.”
I blinked at him.
Old Wes would have dropped me at the curb with a grunt and gone back to his solitude. This version of him turned on his blinker, eased us into a parking space in front of the bookshop, and killed the engine like willingly entering a crowded public space was no big deal.
Something warm and gooey swelled under my ribs.
Inside, the bell over the door jingled, and the Crooked Spine’s familiar moody vibes wrapped around us—shelves crammed with books, mismatched chairs, the hiss of the espresso machine, the smell of coffee and sugar and paper.
Selene was tucked into a corner with a paperback, Winnie curled beside her on a fat armchair, reading a picture book upside down and narrating absolutely none of the actual words.
Selene’s eyes flicked up. Her brows shot toward her hairline when she saw Wes behind me. “Well, well,” she murmured as I leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Look who left his cave.”
“Field trip,” I whispered back. “Try not to spook him.”
She smirked and squeezed my hand. “Give me five minutes later. We found something weird in the archives.”
“Ominous,” I said as a tingle raced up my spine. “I love it. Tell me now.”
Winnie lunged up to hug me around the waist. “Aunt Clara, Aunt Clara, Aunt Clara, I read three whole books today,” she announced.
“Upside down?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said proudly.
“Genius behavior,” I said solemnly. “I’m terrified of your superpowers.”
Wes peeled off toward the counter with a little salute, already pulling his wallet from his back pocket. I watched him longenough to see him order two coffees without looking at the floor or the door, then forced myself toward the back hallway.
Selene had a folder already on the table in the little reading nook—printer paper, copies of old records, the latest chapter in our ridiculous hobby.
“So,” she said, flipping to a new page. “Remember how we were hunting for Alma’s baby?”
“Very distinctly,” I said. “Mysterious small human, big scandal, all roads lead to Hayes looking like a cursed farmhand. What’s up?”