Page 28 of Sparrow

I don’t like the parallel. I like even less the way I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from her, now that she’s claimed them. I don’t know the girl, don’t care anything for her, but now that I’ve noticed her, heard her laughter, I don’t want to stop staring. She’s a magnet, and she’s pulled me into her sphere.

Which is more dangerous than she could ever know.

I force myself to look away, take a deep breath, and retreat through the door behind me. The garage is town business today, and that means I’m not needed here.

But it’s a bright, beautiful day, and my bike is sitting in the driveway, crouched and waiting for an adventure.

And if there’s one place I know I’ll always belong, it’s with my bike, out on the open road where there’s no one telling me what I can or can’t do–or whether it’s a good idea.

I get home just as the sky is dropping down from the bright reds and pinks of a sunset into the dusky purple of evening. The sky stretches above me, the stars already peeking through the dimming light, and I pull the bike to a stop in the driveway and turn my face up to the freedom of the evening sky. I can still feel the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, and I hold to that for several long moments, unwilling to let the real world take me back. My favorite part of owning a bike has always been the freedom it brings with it. Just me and the bike on the open road, me and the engine I built with my own two hands roaring through the world, the two of us aligned like we were born to it.

I’ve never found a person who can match that feeling, and for all I knew, I never will.

But I can’t sit here writing sonnets to my bike while real life is beckoning, and I know it. I’m in charge of too much of Mars’ garage, and the Iron Saints and their sudden appearance in town is weighing on me. I don’t know what they’re up to or why, and that doesn’t sit right.

I don’t trust the unknown, and that means I don’t trust the Iron Saints.

My instincts are desperate to figure out what they’re doing in town–and what they were doing with Arden locked in that cottage.

I park my bike, give it one last sweeping touch, and then head for the house. It’s late enough that I’m sure I’ve missed dinner, but there are always leftovers, and if I know Mars, he’s already prepared a plate and put it in the microwave for me. Probably nothing fancy–he likes to throw everything he can find into one pot and call it soup–but his recipes always turn out better than I expect.

I walk into the house on that thought and take a deep breath, breathing in the scent of meat, broth, and bread.

Perfect.

When I walk into the kitchen, though, I don’t see Mars sitting alone at the table, a plate of food waiting for me and a lecture prepared about how I took off in the middle of the day without saying anything to him.

Instead, I find Mars and Arden hip to hip in front of the sink doing dishes. They’re not talking to each other but their proximity tells me they’ve spent enough time together today to get comfortable around each other, and he’s moving more easily than he was. Her shoulders are more relaxed, her hair coming down from the bun on her head, and they look so domestic that it stops me in my tracks.

They look like they belong together. Like they’re reestablishing some long-lost relationship.

And they’re doing it without me.

Not that I care, I think with a sharp shake. I don’t give a single fuck about the girl. She’s nothing to me, and as far as I’m concerned we need to send her right back to New York and her family. She has no place here.

Even if she did, it wouldn’t be with me. I’m not the one she’s seeking out.

I’m not the one she’s doing dishes with.

It shocks me when she spins and pins me with a look, like she knew I was standing here thinking about her. She looks me up and down once, and when her eyes come to a stop on my own, they look speculative. Like she’s looking at a puzzle she’s trying to put together.

A box she’s trying to unlock.

I meet her stare and don’t flinch, because I’m thinking the same about her. I don’t understand here or what she’s doing here–how she came to be in that cottage–and suddenly I want to know so badly I can hardly stand it. What was a girl like Arden Rossi doing in that trafficking ring, and how’d they found her? Does she know the men who kidnapped her? Why hasn’t her family rescued her yet?

How did she end up here, in Hawke’s Wood?

The heat between us grows the longer we stare, and soon I feel like there must be sparks igniting between us. My body is vibrating with tension and the need to... move. Take her in my hands and shake her and demand to know who she is and what she’s doing here.

I want to know how she feels under my fingertips. Taste the velvet of her skin and discover whether she’s as sweet, as soft, as she looks. I’m nearly shaking with the need to touch her, explore those bones and make her tip her head and laugh at something I say. Something is happening inside my chest and I–

I yank myself back several steps and break the contact, tearing it apart before it can do any more damage. And when I look at her again she has a crease between her eyebrows and streaks of color across the top of her cheeks.

Like she felt every ounce of that heat, too.

I turn and walk away before she can draw me in again, my mind racing and my heart matching it as I try to figure out what the fuck just happened and what to do about it.

I don’t know that girl, I remind myself. She’s nothing to me. And we’re sending her home as soon as we can, no matter how attached Mars has gotten to her. It’s the only safe option. The only smart option.