Page 29 of The Spinster & the Sock

I stand and walk over to her before pulling the bouquet of lilies from behind my back. “I’m sorry about last night,” I say.

“Oh, Blaze.” She smiles, taking the flowers and smiling up at me. “I’m sorry, too. Those dinners always put me on edge. I know you’re only trying to help.”

“I am, but I also need to remember that things don’t work the same here. I hope I didn’t make the situation worse between you and your parents.”

“They’ll get over it, just like they always do. What else do you have there?” I debate denying her a subject change, but I know it’s no use. She’s used to her family behaving this way, and no amount of my whining will change that.

“We closed the shop early today, so I popped into the bookshop across the street and did some browsing. We’ve exhausted the books we’ve borrowed and bought already, so I was looking for something new, namely folklore, myths, and what-not. I did find this though!” I dig into the bag hanging from my elbow and pull out a small, thin, leather-bound book. “It’s a farmer’s almanac! My pops has a huge collection of these guys going all the way back to when his pops was little. I think the oldest one he has is from 1946? I don’t even know if I’ll be able to actually take this with me when I go, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to try.”

I shrug, rubbing my thumb over the book’s cover. If I’m being honest with myself, I think I bought it more to remind me of home than as a souvenir.

“You’re an awfully sweet man, Blaze Hollows.” Jo reaches out to gently squeeze my arm. “Will you help me get these in water, and we can make supper? I’m absolutely ravenous.”

Like a well-oiled machine, we prepare a beef stew together, and Jo laughs as I recount my first day of work. I ask if all her customers are as indecisive as Miss Elizabeth and chuckle at the absolute audacity while Jo tells me horror stories of her worst customers, proving that dear Liz is actually quite tame. Before we know it, the sun is well past set.

“We probably should get to sleep. You do have two new dresses to work on tomorrow,” I say, trying to wipe the sleep from my face. I untuck my shirt as I head for my cozy little rock-hard sofa.

“Blaze,” Jo stops me, looking at the chaise and then back to me. “Why don’t you sleep on the bed? At least tonight? It’s plenty big enough for both of us, and I can just…” She trails off as she snatches a few decorative pillows from the floor and makes a rather impressive wall down the center of the mattress. I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up a slender finger. “You fixed the blasted thing, and you’re too big for the chaise. I know you’re not comfortable and your poor back must be killing you—and we are married. It’s not like it would be a crime for us to sleep on the same bed.”

I can tell she’s expecting me to argue, but I don’t have it in me. “Okay.” I half-shrug and walk around to the other side of the mattress. “Question,” I ask as we both flip down our corners of the blanket. “Since you seem to be a little worried about my comfort, would you be horribly scandalized if I…took my shirt off? It’s so damn hot and I’ve got all this hair.” I gesture vaguely at my chest. “Even sleeping under the window, I wake up sweating. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, so tell me no if you want and I’ll quit being a little bitch.”

Jo stares at me for a minute, like almost an entire actual minute, her face completely devoid of emotion, and then she squeaks, “Yes, of course—I mean, you should be comfortable, obviously.”

“Thank God,” I say, grateful I didn’t have to beg, because I would have. It really is fucking hot. Grabbing the back of my collar, I pull my shirt over my head and toss it through the doorway. “I swear, I’ll pick that up in the morning.”

Jo nods, and then seems to notice she’s staring and spins around, quickly flopping into the bed and yanking the blanket over her head.

“Would you mind getting the candle?” she asks, words muffled by the pillow, and I stifle a laugh.

“Yeah, I got it.” I blow out the little flame and finally crawl into the bed. Oh, yeah. This is way better than that damn chaise. “Good night, wife,” I yawn.

I’m asleep before she can reply.

Sinners and Liars

Josephine

“Would you be horribly scandalized if I…took my shirt off?” he courteously asks as if I wasn’t hoping—no, praying like the scandalous, impious scorn to society I am—that he would take off more.

I am not sure if it’s the end of summer’s heat, or the man in my bed, or…my reaction to said man, but I am glad we left the window cracked open overnight. The predawn breeze wafting over my shoulders is the only thing cooling me to a bearable temperature. As full consciousness descends upon me, I realize that sometime in the night, the pillow barrier evaded us, and my body lies flush against Blaze’s back, my legs tangled with his, and I’ve wrapped an arm firmly around his middle. Every single one of my fingertips press into his skin, sinking a little further into his heated body. He is so close, and my impulses take over. I want to be here, like this, feeling him.

A cool breeze flutters the drapes in our direction, and an earthy fragrance wafts off Blaze’s skin. With a deep breath, I savor him, pulling myself closer and snuggling into his back. I should let him go. Or perhaps I should move away before he wakes and realizes I failed to honor the barrier one night into our arrangement.

The poor man should be able to sleep in peace without a desperate spinster sniffing him.

I roll onto my back with a frustrated sigh, and again, his words haunt my memory. This isn’t real. I hate those words. I hate that I have found someone I am beginning to imagine a life with, and he’s leaving any day now. After the promenade this afternoon, we are traveling to Stonehenge. Blaze insists the circle of stones may be his door to home. I could lie in this bed alone very soon.

Lonely.

Widowed.

The thought brings a heavy weight to my chest, and I rest my hands there, feeling the way my heartbeat thrums like the wings of a hummingbird.

I turn to look at him, his back to me and slowly heaving with the breath of sleep. Tonight, he could be gone. Will I regret rolling away from him?

I regret it already, and my body responds before I can talk myself out of it. I turn once more and press myself flat against his back, wrapping my arm around him to drape a hand over his chest. There is no thought to it, no logic, no restraint, only desire pulsing through me until I nuzzle into his neck and press my lips to his hot skin, savoring the way his warmth seems to bleed into me.

Then he moans, still stuck in the trance of sleep. He melds into me further, pressing firmly against me, melting into my arms, leaning into my lips. I want nothing more than to live in this moment, to linger in the precious silence of his sleep—where my craving doesn’t torment me like a sin. What would God say if I told him I long for this man? Dream of him? Though we are married, we know it is not real, so what does that make me if not a sinner and a liar?