Page 5 of His to Watch
"No, I'm fine," I lie, rubbing my arms to hide the goosebumps that have nothing to do with temperature.
He grunts, unconvinced, and pulls a scratchy wool blanket from an emergency kit. Before I can protest, he's draping it around my shoulders, his fingers briefly brushing against my collarbone. The contact sends electricity skittering across my skin.
"Thank you," I whisper, clutching the edges of the blanket like a shield.
He drops into the armchair across from me, the furniture looking comically small beneath his massive frame. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder and the howling wind outside.
"So..." I begin awkwardly, desperate to fill the void. "Have you…worked here long?"
"Three years." His eyes never leave my face, studying me with that same intense focus I've felt for months. "You've been here eight months, two weeks, three days."
My breath catches. "You've been counting?"
A small shrug of those enormous shoulders. "I notice things."
"Like me," I say softly, not quite a question.
"Especially you."
The directness of his response steals my breath. No man has ever looked at me like this before—like I'm something precious and rare. Something to be studied, cataloged, possessed. Like an artifact, but infinitely more valuable.
"Why?" I ask before I can stop myself. "I'm not…I mean, I'm just me. Boring, quiet Tatianna who prefers thousand-year-old pottery to people at parties."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Who told you that was boring?"
I laugh, a small, self-deprecating sound. "Everyone? My whole life has been 'Tatianna, why don't you speak up more' and 'Tatianna, you'd be prettier if you smiled' and 'Tatianna, no one wants to hear about Etruscan burial practices at dinner.'"
"I do," he says simply.
Those two words pierce something deep inside me. I stare at him, searching his face for mockery, for the inevitable sign that he's just humoring the weird, bookish girl. But there's nothing but genuine interest in his dark eyes.
"It's just…it's been lonely," I admit, the words tumbling out before I can censor them. "I love my work, I do. These artifacts, they speak to me in ways people never have. They have stories, histories, significance. But sometimes I wonder if anyone would notice if I just…disappeared. If I'd leave any mark on the world at all."
"I'd notice," Jerald says, voice low and certain. "I notice everything about you, Tatianna."
The way he says my name—like he's tasting it—makes my insides flutter. No one has ever made me feel so…seen.
"You're so focused when you work," he continues, leaning forward slightly. "The way you handle those artifacts, like they're alive. Like they matter. Your hands—" he gestures to my fingers clutching the blanket "—they're so careful. So respectful of history."
I blink rapidly, surprised by the burn of tears behind my eyes. "Most people think I'm wasting my life on dusty old relics."
"Most people are fucking idiots," he growls, then immediately looks surprised at his own vehemence. "Sorry."
A small laugh escapes me. "Don't be. You're right."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, transforming his harsh features into something almost boyish for a split second before the intensity returns.
"You're smart," he says. "Smart as hell. I've listened to you explain things to those school tours. The kids actually pay attention to you. You make history breathe."
The compliment warms me from the inside out. "Thank you," I whisper. "That's…that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a long time."
"Such a good girl," he murmurs, voice dropping even lower. "Working so hard, knowing so much."
Something hot and liquid pools in my belly at his words.Good girl.It should sound condescending, but the way he saysit—like praise, like a reward—makes me want to earn more of those words.
"I try," I say softly.
“Any daddy would be proud of you."
