skin was gleaming, and that lift down had told me he smelled wonderful, too. Like soap and clean cotton, and a faint touch of the same scent as I’d used in his shower. Honey and spice shampoo, for Islander hair that would feel thick under your fingers.
He said, “I don’t have many flowers. Never thought of growing them. Never had a reason to.”
“I’m guessing your mum likes them,” I said. “She has flowered prints in her room. Iris isn’t a flower woman?”
“You met Iris?”
“Yeh. Well, the girls did. She and Obedience have hit it off. Not sure she likes me.”
“Can’t imagine why,” he said, opening the door to the house for me again. “Two opinionated, stroppy women?”
I said, “I’m not going to dignify that with a response. Bring those branches into the kitchen, and I’ll put them in water.”
He looked at them dubiously. “Pretty sure I don’t have a vase.”
“You’ve got a jar,” I said. “That’ll do.”
When he’d handed them over, he leaned back against the kitchen bench, his hands clutching its edge, and watched me arrange them. Which gave me a pretty good view of the biceps and the chest and the tattoo, if I’d wanted to look. He said, “You’re wondering about Iris.”
“A bit,” I said.
“Not much to tell. She popped by and asked me about putting beehives on the section, five or six years ago, and I said yes, because why not? I like bees. Got a job to do, and they do it. Good for the plants, too. And then one day, she had bruises. She’d had some trouble, out where she was staying. Not always easy to be different. I had the yurt done by then, was going to move into the house anyway, so I told her to go on and use it for a while. I knew she was tidy, and anyone who can keep bees can keep a house. The whole thing was simple enough, especially since she moved out again pretty smartly.”
My hands stilled on the branches I was arranging. I asked, “Have you always collected lame ducks?”
I got a flash of heat from the dark eyes, but his voice was level when he said, “No. I know what it’s like to be skint and hurting, though. Why shouldn’t I put out a hand, if I can?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“Don’t you?” he asked.
I couldn’t pretend to be working on the kowhai anymore. It only takes so long to stick branches into a jar. I said, “You’ve got a theory, I’m sure.”
He said, “I’ve got an observation, anyway. Do you want to hear it?”
No. I didn’t. I said, “Yes,” instead, because what kind of life could you have if all you did was run away? I was scared of hearing and more scared of what would come next, but I was more tired of running. You don’t change until the pain of not changing is worse than the pain of changing. I was ready for the pain of changing. I hoped.
He said, “I think you’re scared of something. I wish I knew what it was.”
“Isn’t it …” I tried to breathe. “Obvious?”
“No,” he said. “Or it is, but it doesn’t make sense. You’re not scared of me. I don’t believe that. I lifted you down from your tree just now, and I’d swear you enjoyed it. You put your foot on my thigh and enjoyed knowing you were teasing me, especially someplace where I couldn’t do anything about it.”
He gave me some of that smolder I’d seen only in flashes. Gray could smolder like nobody’s business, and it was more effective because I could tell he didn’t do it on purpose. It was all natural. Like the rest of him. He said, “You watch me watch you, and it gives you a thrill. Just like the thrill you give me. So why?”
I was two things at once. Fluttery with nerves, and fluttery with something else. He did that thing I’d daydreamed about. He put his hand on my cheek, brushed my hair back with his thumb, and said, “You can tell me, you know. I’m right here.”
He was so close. He smelled so good. I said, “I … could need some … help.”
“You must know I’ll give it to you,” he said.
“Well, that’s good, then,” I said. “Because that’s what I want.”
He looked confused. “What’s what you want?”
“To, uh … have you give it to me. I need a sort of … well, a sort