Page 84 of The Midnight Frequency

“I suppose you have a better idea?”

“Well, you might be a little too much of a love-hater for most of my silly favorites. But I have a few black-and-white movies that might work for you.”

“Romances?”

“Everything I watch is.”

“I suppose I can suffer through.” If she was going to be on the couch beside me.

The cookies made their way into the oven, and Maggie shuffled away, complaining about her waistband suffocating her. Whatever that meant.

Alone, I found myself drawn back toward the bookshelves, reading flagged passages full of long looks, of yearning, of things that felt strangely familiar in a way I couldn’t explain. Or, perhaps, wouldn’t let myself.

When Maggie emerged again, she wore a pair of thick beige sweatpants and a sweatshirt that swallowed up her frame, the sleeves slipping over her fingers. Her dark hair was down, but she’d taken a moment to twist it into braids behind her ears.

“I could see if we have some clothes to fit you, if you want to be more comfortable.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable.”

“Oh, cookies,” she announced when the timer dinged.

I followed her toward the kitchen, watching as she grabbed colorful potholders and ducked to pull the tray out of the oven.

It happened too quickly for her to react. She set the tray on top of the oven. Her potholder slipped. And her finger slid across the too-hot baking sheet.

She hissed, snatching her hand back.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow.”

I reached for her wrist.

“Let me see,” I demanded gently, uncurling her palm.

The edge of her finger was red and angry, but not blistered.

“Here,” I said, wrapping my fingers around it.

She jolted at first, expecting pain, but was met with nothing but the cool compress of my fingers.

“Oh.”

“Better?” I asked, glancing down at her.

“Yes.” Her voice was tiny, breathless.

“Nobody look!” Tess yelled from the hallway, making us break apart. “I’m naked.” Her voice carried as she ran from the bathroom toward a bedroom down the hall.

“What else is new?” Maggie called back, stepping out of the cage of my body and quickly putting several cookies on a plate. “Movie?”

“I shall try to keep any cynical commentary to myself.” I followed her toward the couch.

“I think you would combust,” she teased.

After some hemming and hawing, she decided on It Happened One Night, a vaguely familiar film from back in the Golden Days of Hollywood.

Maggie sat down on the couch, patting the space beside her, then reaching to pull a quote-covered blanket off the back of the couch and drape it over us.

I tried to focus on the movie, but her nearness was distracting.