Page 47 of Icebound

Our eyes connect in the mirror, and there’s no more thunder to cover our heavy breathing. His gaze travels down my wet hair, lingering on my collarbone, and dips to the swell of my breasts, then stops. The blue in his eyes darkens, raging like the Atlantic, but a second later, his expression calms. I tug his sweatshirt higher.

Using one hand, I grip the marble counter hard enough to break the ledge. “Charlie’s our sister. Charlotte.”

I’m surprised the admission slips from my lips so easily, but there’s a steadiness in him that I think my chaotic soul craves.

“You have another sister?”

“No. I had a sister. She died when I was five because of a heart condition, so I barely remember her. Most of my early childhood was spent in hospitals because of it,” I say in a robotic voice.

Time’s not an excuse for grief, but I never got to know Charlie since she left the world so young. It feels like I’m telling someone else’s story.

The only thing her memory haunts me with is a curse of anxiety because my child brain couldn’t process death. At least, according to Dr. Ghosh and her love of all things diagnoses. That woman would put me in every box if she could, but I don’t want my personality to fit inside the confines of someone else’s lines.

“I’m sorry,” Rhode whispers, and even though it’s two light words, I feel the weight of them.

“It’s really fine.” I shrug, giving him my real smile. “It was a long time ago. The only thing I remember is that every night, no matter how sick she was, Charlie would always come in and flutter her eyelashes against my cheek to say goodnight, but that stopped when she died.”

His thumb brushes my bare shoulder, stroking once, twice, three times. “I’m still sorry. Losing someone is hard no matter when it happens.”

I bulldoze right through the moment. “Thanks, it is, but I’m really fine. I’ve been in therapy for years, so that helps.”

“I bet.” He squeezes me gently. “Alright, but if you ever need someone else to listen, I’ve got big ears. We’ve all been through a little bit of hell.”

“True, except you’ve actually got really normal ears.”

With a short chuckle, he brushes away the hair on the curve of my neck, and I go rigid at his warm fingertips. “Can I ask about the four-leaf clover right here?”

“Oh. Yeah, that one’s easy. I felt like my life was a mess and I needed some more permanent luck. It hasn’t worked out that way.”

“Not sure about that. I feel pretty lucky that I met you,” he blurts. The words hang heavy in the air, steaming up our conversation.

He quickly shifts his focus and starts rummaging through the first aid kit. “Anyway, why do you have so many tattoos? Are they for fun, or do they all mean something?”

“Some are ridiculous, like the barcode on my ass, but some of them mean things. I like that tattoos are an outward sign of a person’s soul. I can’t change my appearance, but I feel like tattoos are a way to show people the parts of me that I want to be seen.”

A corner of his mouth lifts but falls just as quickly. “I like that.”

“Do you have any tattoos?”

“None that you’ll see,” he mutters, shifting on his feet. He abruptly changes the subject before I can ask where the hell he has a tattoo. “Alright, let’s see the damage.”

He examines my back, hissing in a breath. “Chicken got you good. How’re you not pissed at my cat right now? I love him, but I’m furious with the menace.”

“He was just scared.” Rhode brushes an alcohol swab against a scratch. He’s gentle, but it still stings. “People do stupid things when they’re scared. Animals aren’t any different. I’m not going to hold it against him. I wouldn’t want someone judging me at my worst.”

“I bet your worst is still better than ninety percent of people’s best.”

I scoff. He hasn’t seen me curled up in a ball and sweating on the floor. He’d probably sprint away like Isaac. “You barely know anything about me.”

He frowns in the mirror. “I know things about you.”

“Oh really? Like my first name?”

“I know more than that.” He rips another alcohol swab with his teeth. The sound ignites a flicker of heat in my core. Now, I’m imagining him doing that with a condom. “I know you like peppermint tea and plants. You’re an artist. You’re doing a pottery fellowship in Argentina—”

“You remembered that?”

“No. I listened,” he repeats my words from earlier, hitching up a corner of his mouth. “You have a complicated relationship with your sister, but I can tell you love her. You chew cinnamon gum. I know you stand up for people and that you have eight piercings on your right ear and four on your left. Maybe I don’t know the big things, but I’ve noticed a few little things about you.”