Page 85 of Sparrow

I spin her again, laughing at her pleasure, and then start to dance. “Maybe.”

“Where on earth did you learn to do that?”

“In a past life,” I murmur, my lips against temple. “A life that doesn’t belong to me anymore.”

And because she’s Arden, she accepts it without questioning me or making me explain. “You’re just full of surprises,” she murmurs.

I chuckle. “Like you should talk. This is all because of you, you know.”

She pulls back and looks at me, frowning. “What is?”

And fuck, there are a lot of answers to that. The smile on my face. The relief in Mars’. The last week of laughter and cinnamon rolls. New traditions about 2 AM and whiskey in hot cocoa. My sudden realization that I don’t have to wear a mask for people to like me.

My further realization that it’s safe to let someone actually see down into my dark soul.

I don’t choose any of that, though, because those aren’t things you say out loud, even if you’ve thought about them.

“The garage.”

She looks around like she’s seeing it for the first time, and it’s no surprise if she is, as she’s been busier all day than anyone else, directing and helping and laughing and making sure everyone knows how valued they are. This is the first time I’ve been able to talk to her today because other people have been claiming her, and though I haven’t blamed them at all, having her attention back on me feels like finally coming home after a very long, very crowded day.

“You’re not going to take credit for it, are you?” I ask.

I’m not surprised. I would have been surprised if she did. But I’m going to tease her for it when she doesn’t.

She shrugs. “It wasn’t me. It was Wood.”

I pull her back in and put soft fingers to her cheek. “You know that’s a lie.”

When she looks up at me, I see the truth in her eyes. She knows it’s a lie, and that she was responsible. But if she admitted that, it would take away from the gift she gave us.

It would weaken the gesture.

“Are you going to let him say thank you?” I ask quietly.

A ghost of a grin brushes her lips. “If he thinks he must. But it’s not necessary.”

I kiss her then, unable to keep my lips from hers. This girl who came into our lives in a rush, full of fear and doubt and positive that she had to repay us for everything.

Positive that we wouldn’t care for her unless she proved herself useful.

That version of her is still in there. I can see it peeking out sometimes. But she’s starting to realize that she doesn’t have to perform for her supper, here, and she sure as hell doesn’t have to convince us to love her.

We’ll do that no matter what she does or doesn’t do.

The kiss grows deeper, softer, and dreamier, and I tip her head and take as much of her as she’ll give, my body singing at the contact with her. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being allowed to touch this beautiful, giving girl.

But I’m never again going to question it.

I reach down and slip her shirt up over her head, then trail my fingers down over her breasts and belly. Her skin quivers under my hands and she gasps, trying to break the kiss, but I don’t let her. Now that I’ve claimed her mouth, I’m not giving it back. I spread my hands and brush my palms over her belly, reveling in the fact that this girl is mine to touch.

Mine to hold.

Mine to love.

“Hold on,” I tell her.

I leave her for moments only, just long enough to spread a shop blanket on the floor. Then I gesture for her to come to me.