Page 26 of The Spinster & the Sock

The question startles me, and a wave of vulnerability washes over me. How did he recognize my hesitation as fear before I did?

I reply slowly, carefully, fearful that saying it the wrong way might make me seem ungrateful, “I’m worried nothing will change, or maybe that everything will, but not for the better.”

“Better for who?” Blaze asks gently, his eyes locked on mine. He listens to understand, though something in the way his brows arch makes me think he already does.

I withdraw from his touch and sit upright, smoothing the skirt of my nightdress. I test the question, and try to imagine what exactly I would change if I could, and as I picture a different world in my mind, it feels wicked, like if I were to whisper it as a prayer in church tomorrow, the minister may very well rebuke me.

“You don’t have to watch what you say around me.” It’s as though he knows what I need to hear. “It won’t make me think any differently of you.”

I trust him, and I believe he means that. So I reply, “Better for me—or people like me…”

He’s quiet. Too quiet for a moment, his hazel eyes scanning the space above as if the answer he’s searching for is on the ceiling, and when he speaks, I sense both grief and pride in his voice. “Women had to work hard for it,” he says with a firm nod. “There will be something called the women’s suffrage movement. You’ll see the start of it in your lifetime, but it’ll take about a hundred years to really make much of a difference, and even then, in my time, sometimes people still need reminding. My great-grandmother was one of the women who fought for the right to vote, hold property, and have her own money. Without being scorned by society.”

My heart stills, and to my horror, the inside of my nose tingles as my vision blurs. “Without scorn—?” My earnings aren’t much of an issue; being a spinster means I keep what I make. Granted, if you were to ask my family, my income is now Blaze’s. But the idea of being a self-made woman without the indignation of my peers, that would be a change.

Blaze nods, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Your great-grandnieces will be empowered to do everything you can’t, Jo.” His voice trails off, and he turns his eyes from me to the crackling fire. Gently, he reaches out to place a hand over mine. “Things aren’t that great in 2025 either, but if a woman doesn’t want to get married, if she doesn’t want to be a mom, if she wants a career, that’s her choice and nobody else’s.”

The fading glow of the fire slips through the crack in my door. I can see the outline of the large man on the undersized chaise from where I lie. He’s snoring, but it’s low and soft. He fell asleep faster than a gentleman I witnessed get knocked senseless by a whiskey bottle a few years ago. Yet here I lie, caught between thoughts for the future and breathless daydreams inspired by the past few hours.

I am certain beyond all doubt that a scorching path remains on my skin where Blaze’s fingertips explored, and I wonder where they were headed when the bed broke beneath us, interrupting what is quite possibly the most exhilarating experience in all my twenty-six years.

But his words? Those left a trail of fire on my heart.

How can he possibly be asleep right now while I’m here, close but too far in this bed, tortured with desire to touch him more and to be one of the women from his time…for more reasons than one.

A ridiculously stupid desire for more reasons than one. I push the heels of my palms into my eyes, willing the visions of liberated women and a naked man to pass.

“This isn’t real.” And he was right to say so, because it isn’t.

We are simply two lonely people who temporarily need one another to avoid ruination and death. But these feelings? They aren’t real and nothing good can come of giving them an opportunity to grow. Or so I keep telling myself.

I stand, shivering with the cold of the wood floors against my bare feet, tiptoe across the room and firmly close the door.

This isn’t real.

Hair drenched from his now-weekly pond dive to return to his time, Blaze meets me in front of the church. “Are you trying to go home, or avoid another ‘religious waterboarding session’?” I ask as we slip inside to find our pew.

“If I told you I was trying to catch a raw and wriggling snack to tide me over through this miserable sermon, would you believe me?” Blaze shakes his head vigorously as he says raw and wriggling and I stare startled at him, as does everyone else it would seem. “Lord of the Rings reference,” he chuckles, side-eyeing the aghast woman next to him who lifts a fan as a barrier to obstruct their views of one another. “You’re too young for it…no wait…too old. Either way, you wouldn’t get it.”

Right about the time the minister said something about raising spirits higher, Blaze, bored out of his mind beside me, let out a ghastly snort, muttering about not needing God to get high. That’s how we ended up both laughing in the pew, and as we stand outside the church now, I’m about ready to combust into another fit as Blaze whispers in my ear.

“The mushroom debacle, Jo—my mom was high as a kite on funky fungi. I was making a drug joke.”

I press my hands to my mouth and silence my laughter, though I feel the tears forming in my eyes.

“Disgraceful, the both of you!” Mother storms down the steps of the church towards us. “What on earth was so funny?”

Standing close behind her, Georgia glares from beneath severe brows, and Blaze lets out a slow whistle. “Yeesh, I think they need a mushroom debacle of their own.”

“Does it help with disagreeable attitudes?” I ask under my breath, tucking an arm inside his and straightening to answer my mother. “Mama,” I say apologetically. “It was merely a poorly timed—”

Blaze cuts me off, and I watch something akin to panic betray him. “I ripped ass and totally crop-dusted the congregation.”

Mother gasps. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was awful,” he drones on. “Smelled horrible.”

I flash him a brief, sidelong, inquisitive glance, then decide if he wants to take the fall in such a humiliating manner, who am I to stop him. “Truly,” I agree. “I rushed him outside, thinking we might need the doctor.”