Page 134 of What We Brave
"You can't just—" His fingers move, and the rest of that sentence dies somewhere between my brain and my mouth. My head falls back against the mirror. I'm already so wound up from the tire, from Blake'shands on mine, from watching him work in the cold, from the drawer — and now Reid's touching me like he's got some kind of map to every nerve ending I own and I'm thinking about pulling him into that guest room and forgetting dinner entirely?—
"HEY!" Blake's voice booms up the stairs. "I'd appreciate a little help down here!"
Reid freezes. The sound that comes out of me is half laugh, half whimper.
"Ignore him," I whisper.
"FOOD'S GETTING COLD!"
Reid's forehead drops to my shoulder. "He's not going to stop."
"I hate him."
"No you don't."
"I hate himright now."
Reid pulls his hand back slowly, and I want to scream. He kisses my forehead, my nose, my mouth — soft, apologetic, promising.
"Later?" he murmurs.
"You promise?"
"I promise."
He unlocks the door and slips out, and I'm left gripping the edge of the sink like it's the only thing keeping me upright. Which, honestly, it might be.
Later. He said later. I can survive dinner. I've waited this long. What's a few more hours?
I splash cold water on my face and look at myself in the mirror. Flushed cheeks. Hair a disaster. Eyes that belong to a woman who just got thoroughly wound up and then left standing in a bathroom alone. Because that's exactly what happened.
I fix my hair, straighten my sweater, and head downstairs.
The kitchen smells incredible — garlic and herbs and something roasting. Blake's at the stove, sleeves pushed up, a towel slung over one shoulder.
Reid is standing in front of the upper cabinets. He reaches for the handle, pauses, and then yanks the door open while simultaneously leaping backward like it might explode.
Nothing happens. Just neatly stacked plates.
He lets out a heavy breath, steps forward again, and grabs three of them.
"You know," I say, leaning against the doorframe, fighting back my laughter. "If you live in fear, Margaret wins."
Reid spins around, the plates clattering slightly in his grip. "Margaret is a demon from the seventh circle of hell and you two are sociopaths for bringing her into my home."
Blake doesn't look up from the stove. "It's just a doll." I catch his grin and it makes me laugh too.
"You're in on it too, asshole. I'm not talking to you." Reid glares at Blake's back, then looks at me. "Three times, Laine. Three times in four days. The shower. The microwave. And mypillow. Who puts a haunted Victorian child under the covers like she's taking a nap?"
"She gets tired," I point out.
"She has no soul!" he shrieks, making me cackle.
Blake glances up, grinning. Those dark eyes track over my face — my still-flushed cheeks, my hastily-fixed hair — and his mouth twitches.
"You look a little warm."
I feel my cheeks get hotter. "It's warm upstairs."
