“Do we fight?”
“Mmm. Sometimes.”
He considers this for a moment. “Is that why I’m sleeping on the couch?”
“No! No. ’Course not.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
I look out at the pines, the warmth of his arm around me, lighting me up like fire. “Well, I suppose, we did fight right before your accident.”
His hand pauses and I feel his attention. “What was it about?”
I shrug. “It’s not important.”
“I’d still like to hear about it.”
I think about the day we met and my glass shattered around me. I point at the stone barn. “See that barn?”
He nods. “Sure.”
“That’s my studio. I’m a glassblower. We had a fight and you told me my work was…” I shrug.
“What?” He frowns at me.
“Uninspired. Drab. Ugly.”
He cusses and I lift my eyebrows.
“Was I always such a dick?” he asks incredulously.
I can’t help it, I grin at him. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
He scoffs, then his eyes sober. “Does it count if I say I’m sorry, even though I don’t remember?”
My stomach lurches, and I have no idea what to say to this. “I…”
He reaches up and touches my cheek. “I’m sorry.”
I nod and try to wave away the feelings I’m having at his finger dragging over my skin. “What else do you want to know?”
He pulls his hand away and shrugs. “Everything. Why do I work with Big Tom? Do I like my job?”
I bite my lip and try to keep from fidgeting. He works with Big Tom because Gran thought he deserved a taste of difficult, dirty work, and Diedre used her charm to convince Tom to bring him on. But I can’t really say that.
“Well, you needed a job and Tom was hiring.”
Gavin stares at me. “That’s it?”
I nod. “Pretty much. It’s a good job. You work hard, you make honest money, you get to come home at the end of the day. It’s not a glamorous job, nothing to brag about, but being able to provide for people you love, that’s what makes doing the job worth it.”
In the end, I’m not talking about Gavin. I’m talking about all the jobs I take on, the housecleaning, the taxiing, picking up waitressing shifts at the bar, selling my glass. But at my words Gavin squeezes me closer.
“You’re right. A man wants to take care of his family. I’ll do whatever I can. You don’t have to worry. I might not remember my job, but I’ll work hard.”
I close my eyes and try not to breathe in the reassuring scent of clean soap clinging to his skin.
“I’m not worried,” I tell him, even though I am.