Page 20 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“It’s soothing,” I snap.

It is. The music is light and tinkling, rushing, then changing. There aren’t words, and I don’t mind. I just picture Andrea playing the piano, smiling at me, light little fingers flying.

“You don’t seem all that soothed,” Sunderland says, arms crossed. “How was your date?”

“Nice.”

“You gonna go out again?”

“No.” We’re staying in.

That sounds wrong. But it’s a technical truth, so I hope Sunderland won’t—

“You going to see each other at all?” he asks, eyes disappointed.

“Mm.” I nod jerkily. The music switches, but I like it, too. It’s bouncy and joyful.

“That’s good. Glad to hear. Did you get her some fudge?”

“Yes.”

“You taking her flowers?”

I swallow hard. I wasn’t even supposed to get to a second date. “I got her candlesticks.” I’m tempted to ask if that’s good. After all, Sunderland’s been married for ages. He ought to know.

Then again, my mother and father were married for at least twenty years, too...

I keep my mouth shut, which is usually safer.

“Candlesticks!” Sunderland’s eyebrows slide high on his forehead. “Skipped right over the flowers and went to the precious metals, hm? Fast mover, boy.”

“What? No!” I gasp. “I didn’t know there were steps! The candlesticks are stone.”

“Ooh. That’s worse. Stone doesn’t tarnish.”

“Worse?” It’s only after my heart threatens to combust that I see the smirk and matching twinkle in Sunderland’s eyes. “Stop,” I say firmly.

“Oh, no. This is too much fun. I’m an old man. I need my harmless kicks. Can’t go chasing girls myself.”

“You wouldn’t. You caught yours.”

Sunderland’s smirk turns into a soft smile. “Sure did. Now, you gotta catch yours.”

The very thought makes my skin turn cold. “I will not catch anything.”

“Oh, now, Gordo, what if she wants to be caught?” he chuckles.

From cold to hot in a split-second, my nervous insides heat. Andrea? My beautiful, graceful, lithe, and long-legged little Andrea, running to my outstretched arms? There’s that light, joyful music playing in my head, matching her bounding steps. But I stop short, even in my fantasies. I have carried dozens of people, hauled them, even thrown them to safety from burning cars—but I’ve never embraced someone with love. Not even my own family.

Especially not my own family.

“She is a strong, smart, talented woman,” I say, knowing I’ve already said this before, but no one seems to understand it but me. “She’s just a little lonely, looking for someone to show her around town.”

“Then why are you two staying in?” Sunderland asks, arms crossed over his chest, the image of smugness. “Because you are, aren’t you? Is she cooking for you?”

“Nosy,” I hiss, and hit send on my report.

“If she cooks, and she’s a strong, smart, talented woman... You’d better skip flowers and move to jewelry, bub.”