Page 34 of A Pack for the Wedding
But the shivering doesn't stop. This is strange, because I don't feel cold anymore. If anything, I'm suddenly warmer than I've been all night.
Arthur moves closer on my left, wrapping an arm loosely around my side. The contact is solid and warm, and a new scent hits me: herbal and rich and darkly sweet. My thoughts immediately begin to blur at the edges.
And before I can process what the hell is happening, Knox mirrors Arthur from the other side, shifting in so his arm settles across my back, his thigh pressing against mine. A third scent layers in, something warm and resinous, and the combination of all three smells is doing something to my higher brain function that I should probably be concerned about.
I should say something. Make a joke. Establish, clearly and firmly, that whatever we're doing is a purely thermoregulatory arrangement.
But I don't. Because my brain is turning to warm soup.
I am almost completely boxed in. The cold wind is entirely gone, replaced by an intoxicating wall of body heat and delicious scents.
And the last thought that rises to the surface of my rapidly dissolving mind is: Good.
10
Knox
Mason's truck rolls to a stop near our apartment.
Beth is asleep, the side of her head against the passenger window, Mason's jacket still around her shoulders, one hand curled into the collar. The streetlight catches the fog of her breath on the glass.
Nobody moves for about ten seconds.
"We should get her inside," Mason says quietly, and kills the ignition.
He gets out, rounds the hood and eases the passenger door open while I lean forward from the backseat and reach over to cup the back of her head. She lolls into my palm and her eyes flutter.
"Mmm." She opens her eyes. "Hi."
"Hi," I say, smiling as I gaze into her eyes.
"Hey Beth." Mason's voice drops from the open door, the usual gravel in his tone smoothing out into something impossibly gentle. "We're home."
"Oh." She turns her head and looks at the apartment building. Her eyes are doing about fifteen percent of their job. "Mm-hm. Far."
She yawns into the jacket collar and puts a hand out toward Mason. "Help me up?"
"I got something better," he says. Reaches in. One arm under her knees, one behind her back, and lifts her out gently, like she weighs about as much as a light bag of groceries. Beth lets out a softohand curls into his chest, her fingers finding the front of his shirt.
"Comfy?" Mason asks, almost not a question.
"Mmhm." Her eyes are already closed again.
Arthur and I get out. I close the truck door. Arthur holds the building entrance. I catch it behind them, and Mason takes the stairwell steps carefully, adjusting his grip at each landing. For a man I saw once carry a dishwasher up these stairs, he's being considerably more gentle with Beth.
"Don't drop me," she mumbles on the second flight.
"Never," he replies, his voice still low.
Arthur gets our apartment door. I move past them into Beth's room and flip on the low light, pull back the sheets. Mason crosses the room and lowers her down slowly, easing her back until her head finds the pillow. His hand stays behind her neck an extra second. Then he slides it out, careful, and Beth makes a small sound.
Arthur works her shoes off, sets them side by side at the foot of the bed. Slips out, comes back with a glass of water for the nightstand.
"Could you... could you get me my pajamas," Beth says into the pillow. One arm extends vaguely toward the wardrobe. "The soft ones."
I open the wardrobe, find them, and come back with the pajamas folded over my arm.
Beth opens one eye. Registers the pajamas. Registers my face.
