“So I’ve been told.”
Silence settles between us, not quite awkward.Charged.A little too intimate for two people who are supposed to be keeping things professional.
His gaze drifts again, lingering on my hair and the faint soot still clinging to my strands.I desperately want to shower, to wash all of this out, but everything inside me still buzzes, and my thoughts are too scattered to trust myself near that much water and quiet.
He reaches out, hesitates, then gently brushes his thumb along my hairline.The touch is nothing—a single second, barely a sweep of skin against skin—but something in my chest spasms, loosens, then constricts all over again.
“You missed a spot.”
I clear my throat, aiming for lightness.“Guess I need a better mirror.”
He doesn’t respond right away, still studying me with a thoughtful, almost cautious expression.It’s like he’s trying to work out how I ended up here, in his mother’s kitchen, wrapped in her clothes, smelling faintly of smoke and frayed nerves.
Finally, he clears his throat.“You’re staying here tonight.”
“That’s what your mom said.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“It’ll be safer.And—” His eyes cut briefly to the side.“Convenient.For interviews.”
Right.Interviews.Convenient.Absolutely nothing else.
My heart thumps anyway.
Before either of us can say more, Meredith calls from the other room.“Dinner in ten minutes, you two.”
He exhales and pushes off the counter.“You should rest.”
“I’m fine.”
A crooked grin surfaces, slow and a little dangerous, calling me out without a single word.“You keep saying that, Buchanan.One day I might believe you.”
He leaves the kitchen, steps light but shoulders tight, and I stay long after he’s gone.My tea cools between my palms, heart beating an uneven rhythm it has no business beating.Because the truth is I’m not fine.Not from the fire, not from being in this house, and not from him.
And the worst part?For the first time in a long time, I’m not sure I want to be.
Chapter15
Maddox
The house settles after dinner.Mom hums while she wipes the counters, and I put away the dishes despite her insisting I don’t need to help.It’s easier than sitting still.
I stare at the no-longer-leaking faucet in the kitchen—it’s fixed—and the electrician fixed the outdoor outlet yesterday.These are small things, but there’s quiet satisfaction in a list getting shorter.
A satisfaction that lasts about as long as it takes my mind to drift back to Grace, soot-streaked and stubborn, standing in this kitchen like she belongs here.My knees nearly gave out when I first saw her.And the thought of her facing fire alone.
She’s upstairs now, trying to wash off the ordeal.I offered earlier to fix the old bathroom window latch—it always sticks and lets in cold drafts, another thing on the list—and she brushed me off with an “I’ll manage.”
Typical.
And for reasons I’m not prepared to examine, it made me smile.
I slide the last plate into the cupboard.“You okay?”
Mom nods, though a crease stays between her brows.“A little shaken for Patsy.I wish she’d stayed here with us, but she insisted on going back to an empty house.You know how she is—she’ll land on her feet.”