Roomies

Claire didn’t know how to react. Whether this was one of those social situations where throwing your arms around someone’s neck is too much or not.

Danny stood before her with a case, not a box or two, but a case of her favorite boxed macaroni and cheese. The one Gene didn’t have in stock when she’d bought some. The same one her favorite nanny used to sneak to her when she found out she’d never had any.

“How did you ... ” She couldn’t hide her exuberant smile, and with a clap of her hands, she let out a louder than normal, “Thank you.”

Danny smiled, opening one of the two bottles of Italian wine he brought up from Flygande before setting out milk and butter. “You ready?”

“Will you let me do most of it? And just tell me how I’m messing up?”

He stepped back, gesturing to the pot. “It’s all yours, and you’re not going to mess it up. First, you want to get your water boiling.”

“How much water?” She picked up the box and looked at the back. “It says six cups, but you opened two boxes. Will this pot hold twelve cups?”

“You only need enough to cover the pasta. Mostly full should do it.”

“Are you sure?”

He fought back a smile. “I’m sure.”

She struggled to trust him over the box, but in the end, determined to do it with a firm nod. “Mostly full.”

With wobbling ripples of water, she carried the filled pot to the stove.

“Now for the fire.”

She stepped back. “Will it explode at me?”

“I promise there’s no dragon in this stove.”

She groaned. “That note must have looked so stupid.”

“It was cute, not stupid.” Heat flushed her face, and he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is a fairly new stove and has a built-in pilot light. All you have to do is turn that knob.” He pointed out which one to turn. “And ignite.”

She gritted her teeth, and with a faint squeal, started the flame. “How long does it take?” She checked and rechecked the pot.

“From start to finish, about twenty minutes.”

She wondered if there was a way to make it longer. Especially since Danny positioned himself just behind her. Close enough to feel his body heat against her back, but not touching.

“Now add the pasta.”

She did so with gusto.

Danny yanked her back, arm gripped around her waist. “Careful or you’ll burn yourself.”

Claire was too happy making her favorite food to feel embarrassed. Or maybe it was the distraction of his arm still around her doing things to her. Beautiful things. Foolish things. Things like making her want his hand to slip under the hem of her shirt and touch her skin like she dreamed he did this morning.

He went still. Did he feel her thoughts? Her rapid breathing? Or was it because her fingers had brushed the edge of his hand?

A warm, gentle breath moved along her shoulder and without a forethought she tilted her head, exposing her neck. His grip tightened, putting her body flush with his and when his breath feathered closer to her pulse, her eyes closed.

Replaced me with the Viking already? The phantom’s words iced over her, and she went rigid.

Danny dropped his arm and took a few steps back, running a hand through his hair. “Uh, next we make the sauce.” He told her how to strain the pastaand mix the milk, butter, and cheese. All while maintaining a greater distance.

She’d ruined the moment. Or maybe she’d misinterpreted what his closeness, his touch, had meant.

Over her shoulder, she watched him walk away with his bowl of food and disappear into the living room. She closed her eyes, letting out a frustrated sigh as her fingers brushed where his breath had been.

What the hell was he thinking? God, he was stupid. He’d been so damn close to tasting her again and ruining everything.

Danny turned on some music and plopped on the couch with a quiet groan. She was here because of his security system. For a friend like he promised. And if he wanted to keep that promise, he needed to stop reliving their morning together in his head.

He pushed cheesy noodles around his bowl and took a nibble here and there. To be honest, he wasn’t even seeing the food. Just her. The pulse in her neck. Soft skin.

“Stop it,” he whispered and snatched his wine.

A gentle knock on the glass pane made him look up. Claire peeked through one of the windows, doe-eyed and chewing on her lip. Even though the other door was wide open, she acted like she was trapped on the other side. Her wary expression wasn’t helping how cute she looked.

“You need something?” he asked.

She shook her head but didn’t move.

“You can come in if you want.”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not.”

Her foot came first, then the rest of her, slipping around the door. “Is it okay?” She pointed to his still full bowl.

He quickly forked a large bite. “It’s delicious.”

She remained awkward and shifted her feet. Looking around his room, she ended on the old turntable. “What is this song called?”

“‘Eleanor Rigby.’When my parents moved away, my mom left all her old Beatles albums.”

Her head cocked to the side as she moved toward the speaker and lowered to her knees. He watched her—eyes closed, mouth pursed—feeling every word until it ended.

“Drive My Car” blared, and she jumped with a giggle. She thumbed toward the speaker with another laugh. “That’s me.”

Confused, he zeroed in on the lyrics and smiled, shoveling more food. He was pretty sure “Eleanor Rigby” was her too.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said in a high voice. “Will you drive my car?”

“More like, ‘Ahem. I’m ready to go. Get the car ready.’”

He winced. “Ouch. Yes, ma’am.”

“See?” She pointed to herself. “Snob.”

“You like the Beatles, so you can’t be a snob.”

Her humor dropped as she stood and cautiously walked toward him. “Do you normally eat in here?”

Crap. He didn’t want to ruin the lighter mood by saying he was hiding from his stupidity. “Sometimes.”

“I didn’t mean to intrude on you.”

“You’re not intruding.” He scraped the last bite out of his bowl. “This is your home for now too. You should feel free to go wherever you want.”

“But will you tell me if I ever bother you? Or do anything to make you uncomfortable? I know how much of a sacrifice this is for you.” He opened and closed his mouth several times, but she kept talking. “I mean, we only just met, and then I crashed your home. Literally. I’ll pay for the food and of course all this wine you’ve given me and whatever extra for rent or mortgage. I won’t be a burden to you, Daniel.” She finished with a deep inhale.

He set down his bowl and said, “First of all, I invited you to stay, and I don’t pay rent or mortgage. I own the place. I’m also drinking this wine and eating this food, so you don’t owe anything for it.” Stretching out his legs, he added, “As for bothering me, I’m pretty open about things that bother me, and you’re not on that list. And you don’t make me uncomfortable.” He sucked in his nerves and rushed out the last words. “But I made you uncomfortable and for that, I’m really sorry.”

She straightened. “Uncomfortable? You’ve never made me uncomfortable.”

“But,” he blinked a total of three times, fast, “out there, when I held you for too long?”

Her eyes dropped and she lined up her feet. “That didn’t ... ” She paused. “That didn’t make me uncomfortable—you don’t make me uncomfortable.” She scratched under her suture. “You are an incredibly generous, thoughtful, and kind man, and I don’t want to take advantage of your goodness.”

He let everything she said warm over him and held her eyes. “You’re not taking advantage.”

“I think I was.” She nodded toward the door. “Out there?”

Did she mean when he held her or the cooking lesson? Either way, neither took advantage of him. “Maybe we agree to disagree on this and have more mac and cheese with wine.”

She slowly smiled. “Only if we listen to more music?”

“Done.”

The soft guitar strum of “Yesterday”filled the room, and he went quiet. Claire lowered herself on the other side of the couch, watching him. He tried and failed to not let the lyrics of lost love affect him. But the growing strain of raw emotions tightened his face.

Claire said nothing, but took a deep breath and pulled up her legs, tucking her chin between her knees.

“Can’t Buy Me Love”came next, breaking the tension.

“I bet Greyson, my son, would love the Beatles too,” she said.

“I didn’t know you had a son.”

Her shoulders drooped, and a sadness tugged on the corner of her mouth.

“He’s sixteen and every bit the teenager that doesn’t want to talk to his mother.” She laughed it off, but he knew there was more to it. “Can I ask you something?” She faced him. “I saw an old picture of you and Ian in your room. You both looked so young. Have you really been friends that long?”

He nodded and swirled the wine in his glass with a hint of a smile. “We’ve been friends since the day we met. He was always getting into trouble, and I was always getting him out of it.”

“Ian? Really? I can’t picture it.”

His smile faded. “He had it rough with his dad growing up and it made him lash out sometimes.” He stared into his wineglass. “He didn’t know how to stop the cycle of feeling bad, then lashing out, back to feeling bad for lashing out. He struggled off and on for a while.”

“How did he change?”

He set down his empty glass. “A few things happened at different moments—he calls them graces. Where he was headed in the wrong direction and one of these graces stepped in. One of them was your books.”

She gripped the top of her shirt. “Is that what he meant when he said my first book saved his life?”

He nodded and poured more wine into her glass, then the last of the bottle into his.

“But how?”

“I think he’d like to tell you the full story himself. But he’d gotten into more trouble than I could get him out of and ended up in juvie.”

“Jail?”

“Does that bother you?”

“No, it’s not that. I guess I can’t imagine him getting into that kind of trouble. He’s so nice.”

“He’s always been nice, only dealt a bad hand and a bad temper. No one has a bigger heart than him, though. And miraculously, he managed to change because of you, his girlfriend Molly at the time, and a priest named Joe. The same priest who made him want to become one.”

“And you, I think.”

He shrugged, lost in all the memories. “I’m his bràthair.”

“Scot Gaelic for ‘brother.’”

“Yes, how’d you know?”

“I used it in one of my books.”

“Ghost Crossing?”

She straightened. “Yes, actually.”

Danny slowly smiled. “That’s his favorite.”

“I’m so humbled right now.” Claire gripped her chest. “How long has he been reading my books?”

Danny looked at the ceiling, his head resting close to hers. “He got your first novel as a gift from Molly when it came out. I think he was sixteen. So, since then.”

“That long? I was twenty when that released.”

He did a quick calculation. That made her four years older than him. Would the age difference be a problem for her? Dear God, stop it. He shifted in his seat.

“How old was Ian when he moved here from Scotland?”

Danny barked a laugh. “He’s one hundred percent Solsken, born and raised.”

“But his speech, his accent?”

“Family pride and a long visit to the Motherland a while back. When he returned, he decided Scottish was the only way to live and speak. And I’ve endured years of kilt wearing and Scottish verbiage ever since.” He grinned when she snickered.

“That makes him truly endearing.”

“Yeah.” He sipped his wine, still smiling. “I wouldn’t change him for the world.”

She tucked her knees closer to her chest and grabbed her toes, squeezing and rubbing them.

“Are your feet cold?”

“I thought these socks would be warm enough.”

“Cotton is the worst for cold weather. Hang on.” He left the room and returned a few moments later with a pair of bulky socks. “From my sister in the Faroes. They’re made of Faroese wool.”

“But what about your feet?”

“I have another pair that actually fit me.” He pointed to the long, thin tops. “My sister forgot I don’t have skinny legs.”

Claire laughed and slipped them over her feet, sliding them up to mid-calf. “They’re in-cred-ible,” she stuttered into a long yawn.

“Why don’t you head to bed.”

“Where’s the guest room?”

“Right there.” He nodded to the door across the hall.

“That’s your room.”

“It’s the warmest room in the house because I have a separate thermostat in it.”

“But—”

“I can sleep anywhere, Claire. If you remember from the first time you walked into Flygande.” He rubbed his brow and puffed a small laugh. The reddening of her cheeks made him wonder just how much of it she remembered.

“Are you going to sleep now too?”

“Not quite yet.”

“Well, I can stay up for a bit longer. Unless you want some quiet. Brandon always needed his alone time.”

He wasn’t about to unwrap that. “I don’t need to be alone, and you can stay if you want.” He walked to the stereo and placed another record on the player.

Thirty minutes was as long as she lasted before her head drooped. Danny shifted, so she touched down on his shoulder and stayed like that until she fell into a deep sleep.

Slipping an arm behind her shoulders and one under her legs, he lifted her, holding her against him. She nuzzled into him the way she had last night, and he slowed his movements, taking his time, soaking in the feel of her.

When he reached the room, he placed her onto the bed and re-tucked all the pillows around her the way she’d had them the night before, covering her with the heavy blanket.

For a few moments, he watched the slow rise and fall of her breathing. “Just so we’re clear,” he whispered. “I don’t need space from you for quiet.” Catching a strand of hair, his finger ran along her cheekbone. “You’re becoming my quiet, Claire.”