Page 40 of Set It Right
I missed them something fierce, but sitting with Lily and Connell, accepting their brand of comfort, was almost as nice. It wasn’t the same—how could it be?—but it settled a little piece of my wobbly insides.
The back door creaked open just as Connell launched into a story about getting stranded in Lisbon. A rush of cool morning air slipped into the kitchen, along with the steady thud of running shoes on the mudroom tile.
I didn’t turn at first. I didn’t have to look to know it was him.
“Morning,” Cormac called, slightly winded.
Then I looked.
That was my first mistake.
He filled the doorway between the mudroom and kitchen, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled pulls of breath. His shirt was twisted and tucked into the back waistband of his black shorts, and a fine sheen of sweat coated his skin, catching the light streaming through the kitchen windows.
His hair was damp and pushed back from his forehead. My gaze followed a droplet sliding from his temple down the side of his neck before disappearing along the ridge of his collarbone.
That was when I saw something I hadn’t expected.
Script inked in dark lines. Words I couldn’t read from where I was sitting, but they followed his shape. Lower, his bicep flexed as he reached up to drag a hand through his hair, revealing a black-and-gray landscape wrapped around the muscle.
I averted my gaze, very carefully studying my coffee.
“How many miles today?” Lily asked.
“Five,” he replied, stepping into the kitchen fully. “It’s going to be a beautiful day. The sky is clear.”
Clear.
Unlike my head. Why wasn’t he putting his shirt on? He definitely should have.
Connell tapped Lily’s hand. “Want to take a walk with me?”
“If it’s along Main Street and ends with a glass of wine at Joy’s, I’d be delighted.”
His smile was warm and indulgent. “That’s exactly what I had in mind.”
Cormac crossed to the sink, the muscles along his side stretching and shifting as he reached up to grab a glass from the cabinet. I swallowed. Hard.
He turned on the tap and filled the glass, then braced one hand on the edge of the sink, drinking it down in long pulls. His throat worked as he swallowed. A bead of water escaped the corner of his mouth, tracking over his sternum.
I absolutely did not follow it with my eyes.
Except I did.
When he finished, he refilled the glass and tipped his head back slightly, eyes closing for a second as he drank. His skin was flushed from exertion, golden and alive. There was a small scar beneath his ribs I didn’t remember. And when he turned, he revealed ink stretching across his back. Another tattoo, this one bigger.
Lowering the glass, he finally looked at me, his gaze flicking over my borrowed cardigan, my braid, then my face. Something shifted in his expression. Not quite a smile. Not quite concern.
“You’re up,” he said.
“I am. Not us up as you, but I’m up,” I replied, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere near breathless.
“How’re you feeling?” He pushed off the counter, turning to face me fully.
“Alive,” I said. “Marginally.”
“That’s always a good sign.”
He stepped closer to the table. I tried not to stare at the tattoo along his collarbone again and failed miserably. I was curious, wanting to know what it said.
