Page 22 of The Spinster & the Sock

“Jo–” Blaze rudely interrupts the memory as he paces back and forth, waving a ‘useless’ book in the air. “Are you listening to me?”

I realize we’ve spent the last ten minutes on him rapidly launching time travel ideas my way. All the while, I have been gazing at his mouth, wishing I could kiss him again.

It has been a month since we said our vows, and from that evening on, we have honored our agreement: married on paper only.

Blaze sleeps on the chaise by the fire, and I, alone in my bed.

He kissed me on our wedding night and hasn’t touched me in that manner since. I can only hope God will forgive me, but I have daydreamed time and again of his touch, and all I want is more of it. Ever since he decided my first kiss ought to at least be memorable, he seems to have cursed me with nothing but that memory. I am behind on orders, and I can’t focus when anyone, especially Blaze, talks to me. I am entranced.

I may not be a spinster anymore, but now I feel like a fool.

“This is the moment where you tell me about the damn convenient circle of stones you have been hiding from me right around the corner,” Blaze continues, and I simply watch him. I watch the way he leans over the book in frustration, tugging at the ends of his thick hair. I admire the way his shoulders broaden with deep breaths. He bites his lower lip and I still, catching my breath.

Then I sit upright and properly jab my sewing needle into my forefinger, immediately yelping. Blood beads and drips down my finger, and I jerk away to protect the fabric.

“Jo,” Blaze mutters, pacing across the floor to take me by the wrist, gently examining the prick. “Sorry,” he says with a sigh. “I am distracting you.”

I close my eyes and will the distraction to fade. Naturally, it doesn’t. In fact, it gets worse as his hand cups mine and brings my bleeding finger to his mouth, sliding it between his lips. He sucks the blood from the small puncture, and the gentle warmth of his tongue soothes my pain.

I simply can not concentrate in these conditions, so as he continues his attentive care of my prick, I suddenly blurt: “Why don’t you try jumping back into the pond, Blaze?” Anything. I will try anything to get this man on his way back to the year 2025 and out of my house. His presence here is only ruining my focus as well as my resolve, and while I am fond of him, there is no sense in allowing those feelings any room to grow.

He needs to leave.

Blaze hesitates, and when I open my eyes, I see a perplexed expression on his face. Finally releasing my finger, he looks up and sideways, clearly deliberating. In the last month, we have tried all manner of absurd things, including visiting an apothecary in Cheapside who claimed her tonic could defy time. All he needed to do was drink the contents of the tiny vial we spent a fortune on and think of when he wanted to be…we discovered quickly that we had spent nearly three pounds on something that simply gave Blaze indigestion. It would appear we share the same thought, for Blaze finally answers.

“I know I said I didn’t want to risk drowning again, but I may be a dumbass. I really should try that already. Besides, after that ass-destroying tonic I drank, I am willing to attempt just about anything.”

I stand. “Fine, let’s go.”

“What…now?” His brow furrows, and he nods down at my work. “We can wait until you’re done.”

With a shudder of dread—for what, I don’t know—I shake my head and offer Blaze a weak smile. “No, I would hate for you to jump in later when it’s chilly.” I nod towards his ‘waders’, as he calls them. They live draped over the back of a chair. He puts them on any time he makes an attempt at returning so he doesn’t have to resurface in his time dressed like a London society gentleman. “Get changed. I will meet you downstairs.”

I rush away to Blaze joking about ‘nothing you haven’t seen before’, and I shiver, brushing a hand across my face as I run like Joseph away from temptation.

Blaze meets me downstairs, and together we greet the sweltering temperature of July. I try not to giggle as he steps into the raging heat, his futuristic ensemble disguised beneath a long, heavy black trench coat, and immediately he looks flushed and miserable.

“The pond sounds welcoming right about now, doesn’t it?” I quip, accepting his arm when he offers it. “If people didn’t assume I was already crazy, I would jump in too and cool off.”

Blaze seems tense and only flashes the briefest of smiles before trudging with purpose towards the pond. We make an unlikely couple to begin with, so I am not surprised and have even grown accustomed to the odd glances we get when we are seen in public together. No matter how hard I have tried to style Blaze to match societal standards, he isn’t from this time, and I think, in a way, it is obvious. I have learned in the last few weeks to ignore the probing looks. Sometimes, I think Blaze doesn’t even notice them. Or, wherever and whenever he is from, he gets scrutinized there too, so perhaps he’s used to it. I haven’t asked. For all the quiet evenings we have passed discussing this and that, there seems to be a barrier of temporary left between us, and we both know not to cross it.

So when we finally reach the edge of the pond, I find myself inadvertently smiling at the memory of him nearly tackling me.

And for a second, I am sad. In all my life, I have not experienced companionship as I have these last five weeks, and I shall soon return to how things were before this man—my husband—fell from the future.

Blaze clears his throat and hands me the overcoat before facing the water at the end of the dock. “Well,” he says with a sheepish grin over his shoulder, and behind the stoic charisma, I swear I see sadness in his eyes. Maybe that is wishful thinking. “With any luck—which won’t be much without my socks—this will be goodbye.”

My belly twists, and I smooth the front of my dress, looking anywhere but his half-smiling lips. “I guess I ought to bid you farewell, husband.” I pinch my lips together and force an unreadable expression. Of all our time-travel experiments, this one seems the most likely to work. “I hope your mother has your favorite lasagna waiting for you when you get home.”

Blaze turns towards me now, taking a few steps away from the edge of the water. He reaches out, taking my hand. “Thank you, Jo. I don’t think I’d have survived a day here without you. With my luck, I would be on the grippy sock vacation of my life.” He clears his throat. “You know, I think I’m going to miss you—just a little. That chaise is the worst, though. I hope the rest of London treats you as a contented widow and that your needles are always sharp. Oh! And if you ever find my socks, bury them deep under a stone in that spot where George likes to tie the boat. Maybe I’ll stand a chance at finding them when I get home.”

He rambles for what must be an eternity before ending on the topic of that damned sock. I force a smile and nod, not daring to utter a word lest I say something improper like, “Or you could stay and keep me company.”

Without further wasted time, my from-the-future husband dives headfirst into the water, and I let out a heavy sigh.

I wait.

I watch the surface of the water for disturbances.