is a horse, hind legs reared up in the air, its white mane caught as if in mid-jump. "And these clocks?"
"I collect them."
"Are they valuable…?"
"What do you think?"
I hear the humor in his voice, turn around to find him seated at the desk pushed up against the wall. I walk over, lean over his shoulder to find him looking through a magnifying glass at the guts of a clock.
"You repair them?"
He picks up what seems to be forceps, and which seem too delicate for his thick fingers to hold, and begins to tinker with the parts of the clock.
"You’re an uh, horologist?"
"I like to repair clocks. It’s a way to unwind."
I snicker, "Ha, you can be funny sometimes."
"Yeah, that’s me—a hoot," he says in a voice that signifies something to the contrary.
I stare at his bent head. His dark hair falls to about his shoulders, and is mussed on top. Has he been running his fingers through them? The locks had been surprisingly silky to touch yesterday when I’d held onto those ears and… I shift my weight from foot to foot.
"But you disabled the clocks in the cabin."
"They came with the house. I hadn’t acquired them."
"So, because you found—" I wave my hand in the air, "all these, and fixed them, you’re fine with them?"
"I put them together; I know what they are made of. I can trust them to be accurate."
"Unlike the ones back there."
"Yep."
"So, you are fine surrounded by these…" I turn a circle, "time pieces on the wall, just not the ones you didn’t acquire yourself."
"Sounds about right."
"You know how weird you sound?"
He shoots me a glance, "Says the woman who calls her phone Hedwig, and who uses the names of desserts as swearwords."
"So, what’s wrong with that?" I frown.
He snickers, "My point exactly." He focusses on his work.
I shuffle my feet, wind a strand of hair through my fingers.
"I haven’t forgiven you yet," I mutter.
"You can leave at any time."
But I don’t want to, and therein lies the problem. What the hell is keeping me here? Him? This chemistry between us that I have to explore? What happens if I do explore it further? Will I survive the time we spend together?
And what if I did walk away?
Would I forever wonder how it could have been between us? What if he was…the one? Ha, me and my romantic notions. But this is Christmas; I’m allowed to indulge myself, right?
I lean around him and stare at the contents of the clock’s insides on the table.
He continues tinkering away…or whatever it is he’s doing there.
The pieces of the machinery seem to be disjointed, yet they come together to form a certain symmetry, to dance together and make music. Like us.
If he were to only give us a chance. Do I want to give him a chance? "Weston, you’re not a douche, you know."
He grunts.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Why do you have to be this macho?"
"Why are you still here?" he growls.
"Because I cooked bloody breakfast and came here to call you. Then, you had to go and pull that…"
He straightens, "What?"
"That…" I wave a hand in the air. "That…obnoxious McFuck act of yours."
He swivels around to face me, "What was that? What did you call me?"
"Obnoxious?"
"After that."
"Mc…McFuck?"
What does it mean?"
I raise my shoulders, “Dunno, it just, uh, seemed appropriate."
He chuckles, "You’re a funny one, Buttercup."
I groan, "I am not sure I like that name yet."
"I am not sure I like you either." He looks me up and down, his tone serious, "But hell, if I don’t want you to stay."
"Is that an apology?"
"For what?" He glares.
"For being horrible to me."
"Was I?"
I huff, “Fine. Whatever. And," I tuck my elbows into my sides, "I’m sorry too."
"For what."
I jerk my chin toward the reddened skin of his cheek.
"I deserved it," he replies.
I open and shut my mouth, "You…you did?"
"You should know though, that it turns me on when you get physical with me."
I squeeze my eyes shut. Do not lose it; do not. I draw in a breath, "I’ll ignore that."
Turning, I stalk to the door.
"Where are you going?"
"I made breakfast." I pause, then turn to scowl at him, "Aren’t you coming?"
Fifteen minutes later he pushes back the plate with a sigh. I’d made chocolate pancakes for me, regular ones for him. Why had I bothered…? Good question. Perhaps because, as much as I hate him, I hate seeing him starve. Food is sacred. It’s how we nourish not just our bodies, but our souls,