Page 46 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“I might snore!” Gordon gasps, like that’s the worst offense possible.

“Don’t care,” I reassure, yawning, scooting over, hand held out. “You’ve never had a girlfriend until you’ve had one. Never fallen asleep with someone looking up at you like you’re her hero until it happens. Never woken up with a cat sitting on your chest, meowing in your face because he wants breakfast right the heck now,” I chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood.

With a grateful groan, Gordon all but falls to the bed, making my side rise in the air for a second before squeaking back down. Carefully, like I’m his breakable butterfly, he rests his hand on my side as we face each other.

I know he doesn’t talk much. I snuggle closer, scoot up until my head is close to his, and press a soft kiss to his brow, and then his lips. “Thank you for taking such good care of me. Just so you know, everything you did tonight? You did it perfectly.”

“Thank you.” Gordon kisses me back. Soft little kisses. Long, slow sweeps of his hand on my back.

“Rimsky,” I whisper, and the device in my bedroom chirps to life. “Play ‘Peaceful Sleep’ playlist.”

“Why turn on the music? You’ll be asleep. You won’t hear it.” Gordon asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“To have sweet dreams. And to give your brain something to do overnight. To make yourself smarter—not that you’re not smart, it’s just what my parents said. Classical music makes you smarter, they said, and they had studies to prove it.”

Gordon listens, head cocked, and his eyes get dreamy. “Debussy. Clare de Lune.”

Okay, maybe I’m not giving him enough credit, but my jaw drops. “Yeah! That’s right. So peaceful.”

“And Sails. I like the one called Sails. Although it looks like the word Veils, just misspelled to me,” he murmurs, stroking my hair, heavy, huge hand soft and light when he touches me.

“Hmm. Okay. So, you have to pick. Chopin or Debussy?”

“Chopin,” he says at once.

“Coke or Pepsi?”

“No.” Gordon looks horrified at that idea.

“Skipping that. Beach or mountains?”

He actually glares. “Mountains, obviously.”

“Beach—but the mountains are growing on me. Now, you ask. This is what couples do. They just talk. Or sometimes they watch all the silly videos of the day on their phones. Or they... Do other things until they get sleepy.”

“I can’t sleep just yet. I have to put the things into the dryer. All right.” Gordon licks his lips and thinks for a long time before he blurts out, “Favorite color?”

“Well. It was royal blue, but now? I think it’s like... Like slate. Mixed with seawater. Remember, I love the beach. It’s the most perfect shade of green and gray.” My hands caress his face. Travel down a neck that’s like a sapling. Over his broad shoulders until my hand tangles in the shoulder strap of the sheet.

“It’s in the forest, too. Mountains. The rocks by the river. The surface of the water at Blue Moon Lake when you’re in the shade. Trunks of trees that turn silvery and mossy.”

Gordon’s voice is slow and steady when he talks about the woods and mountains, a soothing rumble that seems to massage something inside of me and relax every nerve. “Show me?”

“As soon as you’re well enough to walk. Or I could carry you.”

“I liked being carried. But I’ll be better soon. Okay, my turn. Favorite sport?”

“Hockey. Because we have a local team and I support this town.”

“You sure do. Your turn.”

I don’t remember what Gordon asks. All I remember is the feel of his solid hand stroking down my spine and his words rumbling like rain on the roof, sending me into a deep, contented sleep.

Chapter Eleven: Lover

I don’t sleep much. Oh, I could have slept, believe me. Adrenaline dies off hard once Andrea is asleep, and there are no more questions to ask or answer. (Such an efficient way of doing things. If I had known you could just ask humans about themselves like that, maybe I would have talked more during the last six years. Then again, since they could have asked me those same questions in return, probably not. Chopin has nestled into my side and is massaging me with tiny toes, purring softly, a living heating pad with an adorable little face. And then there’s Andrea, looking like a cherub in a pink cotton nightgown that’s ridden up over her hip in the night, showing me her perfect leg and the softly padded rear and hip that I have to use all my willpower not to pet. Just once.

But I don’t. I stay awake by sheer stubbornness and greed. I want these sights, and I might never get them again, so my eyes remain open, drinking in Andrea’s peaceful face and Chopin’s cute paws. I memorize the songs on the playlist that repeats over and over in the night, and I know how they sound layered with Andrea’s even breathing and Chopin’s purring. Perhaps the best thing isn’t what I can see or hear, but what my sense of touch discovers: the soft heat of sharing a bed, the feel of her breath on my bicep, and how she reaches for me in her sleep. A few times, I scoot my arm away from her (even though there’s not much room to move in this tiny bed) and each time, she curls closer until her skin finds mine again.