Page 34 of Sparrow

I look at the pastry and then look up and meet Penny’s eyes. She’s twinkling like this is the funniest thing she’s ever said, and I glance at Mars out of the corner of my eye.

“I take it you come here a lot.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, affronted. “I almost never come in here.”

“Just every Tuesday,” Penny says, winking at me. “And then again on Friday. Sundays, if he’s feeling fancy.”

I look up to see Mars blushing from his neck to his hairline, and shake my head.

“Three times a week, Mars? In the city they’d call that an addiction.”

He snags the plate and heads for a table without answering, but I can see the flush creeping up the back of his neck, and I can’t help but laugh. The man tries to pretend he has no feelings, no vulnerabilities, like he can solve any problem for anyone without spending of his own energy, but I’ve watched him for two days now and I don’t think that’s true.

But it’s the mask he wears, and he’s committed to the bit.

And boy does he hate when people look under that mask and see the soft, squishy little thing underneath.

I wonder why he does that–what can be so bad that he keeps it so carefully hidden–but then decide it’s going to be way more fun to tease him about the pastry addiction than ask him about his secrets. I grab the cinnamon roll Penny’s handing me, give her a mischievous grin, and then head for the table Mars is sitting at, looking like a bear who’s somehow found his way into a cafe and decided to sit in a chair three sizes too small for it.

By the time we leave, I’ve admitted that the advertising on the window is right. Penny makes cinnamon rolls that could easily double for the food of the gods, and I’m still licking sticky cinnamon glaze off my fingers.

Mars watches me with something that could be laughter. “You going to actually eat your fingers next?”

I stop what I’m doing and stare at him.

That might be the first time he’s actually said something funny to me.

“What would you do if I did?” I ask experimentally. “Would you stop me?”

He snorts. “Of course I would. I don’t want a cannibal living in my house. You’d be a bad influence on Orion.”

He walks away from me and I stare after him, my mouth hanging open. The man was always friendly and entertaining in New York, but since he rescued me he’s been all business. Give the girl the room. Tell her where the clothes are. Make sure she has enough to eat. The jokester from the city had left the building.

But suddenly he’s back.

And the sudden reappearance is doing something funny to my heart.

I run after him, suddenly intent on making him actually smile, and realize that he turned the wrong way for the boutique.

“Hold up,” I huff when I catch him. “I said I needed clothes, and that shop is the other way.”

He glances down at me, from the corner of his eye, and if I’m not mistaken, there actually is a smile hidden in the corner of those full, stern lips.

“You also said you need a book.”

I look past him to see that we’re stopped outside the bookstore, and tip my head. “Well sure, but clothes are slightly more important.”

“Depends on how much you like clothes, I guess. You said you wanted a book. I want to buy you one.”

The rush of heat under my skin at his words should be illegal, and I take a long, slow breath, reminding myself to calm down. That he takes care of everyone in town and that this is no different. I’m not special. I’m not different.

I’m just another girl he’s decided to take under his wing.

This doesn’t stop the hammering of my heart behind my ribs, and it doesn’t make it any easier to breathe.

“I can’t let you do that,” I protest weakly.

He leans in, his breath tinged with cinnamon when it brushes against my ear. “You can. And you will.” His voice is a rumble, his intentions clear.