Page 33 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“You look like you do.” His eyes narrow, taking in my precarious perch.

“I should have brought a blanket. I used to love it when I was little, and we would spread out the beach towels in the park, and the whole family would watch the fireworks go off. That was before Tita Anna had a house with a yard and a grill,” I explain.

“You could lie down here. I’ll stand.”

I don’t know what makes me say it. I’ve been holding his hand all night, and his arm found its way around my shoulders a few times. I know there may be things in his past that make him hesitant to touch others or be touched. I guess the night has been so relaxed and perfect that I blurt it out. “We could lie down together? I have an emergency blanket in my car. I could go back and get it.”

“I need to stay with the truck in case any embers cause a problem,” Gordon says.

“Oh, well, we could both—”

“I’m much bigger than you. You could sit on me?”

Every x-rated thought that I’ve ever had tries to escape. Gordon realizes what he’s said, or rather, what it might sound like, and he bolts upright.

“It’s okay. That’s... I mean, you are the size of a loveseat. In the best way. Your dad must have been pretty tall?” I make small talk, keeping things light while my heart is hammering in my throat. I tiptoe to the space between his feet and then stick my hand back. “Help me down?”

For a second, there’s silence between us, even though overhead, the first volley of bright red and gold sparks lights up the night. Everyone around us cheers.

Gordon takes my hand and guides me into his lap—and then puts his arm across my waist and pulls us both into a reclining position so we’re staring up at the stars.

“My parents were very tall. All of my brothers, too, except the youngest. Hugo. He’s still bigger than a—normal person. But he’s small compared to the rest of us.” I can feel him swallow. “I should have brought him with me when I left.”

“He didn’t want to go?”

“No. No, leaving was not acceptable in my family. He was too afraid to leave, but I think I should have persuaded him.”

“Oh.”

Gordon is rigid under me now. His muscles are like planks (but surprisingly comfy ones, like an ultra-firm, warm mattress), and he doesn’t move, except for his jaw. His arms are at his sides. No more hand holding.

“But you did it. You left.”

“Yes. I had to.”

I swallow. This isn’t the best time to ask, but my timing has been pretty sucky all summer, right? “Gordon? We don’t have to touch if you don’t want to. I was totally fine sitting in my own space. I don’t want to... I don’t want to bring up bad memories. Want me to move?”

“No.”

I bite my lip. This is so not the time to laugh, but he makes me want to. A whole paragraph of nervous chatter just came out of my trembling lips, and he said one word. I watch the red sparks in the sky turn to neon blue and ask, “No? Which part?”

His voice is low and deep, even more than usual. Quiet, but penetrating, the kind of rumble you feel in your bones, especially when you’re lying on top of the one speaking. “In my old life, touch meant pain. Fight. Hit. Touch in Pine Ridge is different. Save people. Pet the cat. Pet the rabbits.” He pauses. “Hold your hand. I like that the best.”

Well. That’s a clear indication of preference. I gently reach down and find his muscular arm, slide my fingers until I connect with his wrist, and then slowly drape his arm under my breasts, over my ribs, making sure the whole time that I feel his arm moving with me, willingly.

My eyes close, and I sigh happily. I’ve never felt so snug and secure. Gordon can’t seem to help himself, curling his arm around me tighter, breathing out my name with a contented whisper.

“Andrea. Sweet, wonderful Andrea.”

“Wonderful, heroic Gordon.” I stroke my thumb over his knuckles and enjoy the feel of his chest rising and falling. “This is nice.”

“This is the best.”

The up-do that holds my hair is starting to kink my neck as I rest on his broad chest, so I reach up and undo it. Gordon’s free hand starts to softly smooth it out, making a fan over his muscles. “You have the softest hair. And the softest skin,” he praises.

“I like yours.” I hesitate, then roll over so I can look into his face and massage the thick mass of dark hair that hangs over his brow.

“I think you’re a kind person. You see the best in people.”