Chapter 9: A Stew and a Spark
The evening was mild and soft, the Saturday light amber over the rooftops as he walked through the maze of Georgian streets toward her building. He had the bottle of red wine in one hand, a nervous grin on his face that he could not quite shake, and his stomach was doing something complicated that had nothing to do with hunger.
Her building was a converted townhouse with a glossy black door and a row of buzzers. He pressed hers, and the intercom crackled almost immediately.
"Javier?"
"It's me. I brought the wine. And the appetite."
"Come up. Third floor, door with the wreath."
The stairwell smelled of someone's dinner, garlic and thyme, and he took the steps two at a time. The door with the wreath was already open before he reached it, and she was standing in the frame, wiping her hands on a floral apron tied over a soft cream sweater. Her hair was cropped short and blonde, tucked behind her ears, and her round face was flushed from the heat of the kitchen. Her blue eyes lit up the moment she saw him.
"You brought a bottle," she said, stepping back to let him in. "You said you would, but I half expected you to show up with a bag of apples and call it a day."
"I'm a man of my word." He held up the bottle. "Malbec. I asked the man in the shop what goes with beef stew, and he looked at me like I'd asked him to solve a murder."
"He probably had an opinion anyway. They always do." She took the bottle from him and turned it over in her hands. "This is a good one. You have hidden depths, marine biologist."
"I have a laptop with a search history full of wine reviews. It's not the same thing."
She laughed, that full laugh he remembered from the market, and led him into the apartment. It was warm and lived-in, the kind of space that felt like it had grown organically around its inhabitant. The kitchen opened onto a small dining space, and the counters were covered in the debris of serious cooking: a cutting board dusted with flour, a bowl of peeled potatoes, a stalk of rosemary on a plate. The air was thick with the scent of simmering beef, and a large pot bubbled on the stove.
"That smells incredible," he said.
"It's been going for three hours. I made the stock from scratch, which is the kind of thing I only do when I'm trying to impress someone." She shot him a grin. "So if you hate it, I'll be very offended."
"I could never hate anything that smells like that."
He set the wine on the counter and took off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. She had resumed her post at the stove, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, and he watched her for a moment, the ease of her movements, the way she tasted from the spoon and frowned slightly before adding something from a small dish.
"Can I help with anything?" he asked.
"You can peel the potatoes. Or you can stand there and look handsome. Both are acceptable options."
"I'll peel the potatoes. It'll give my hands something to do."
She handed him a peeler and a bowl, and he fell into the rhythm beside her, the two of them working at the counter, their shoulders almost touching. She talked as she worked, telling him about her day, the markets she had visited, a call with her mother back in Ohio that had run long. He listened, the quiet domesticity of it settling something in his chest that he had not known was loose.
"You have flour on your cheek," he said, glancing at her.
She touched her face, smearing it further. "Where?"
"Let me." He set down the peeler and reached for her, his thumb brushing the flour from her cheekbone. Her skin was warm, soft, and she went still at his touch, her blue eyes meeting his. For a moment neither of them moved.
"Got it," he said quietly.
She smiled, and the smile was different from the ones before, softer, more private. "Thank you."
He turned back to the potatoes, but the air between them had changed, thickened slightly. She seemed to feel it too, because she reached for the wine bottle and held it out to him.
"Could you open that? There's a corkscrew in the drawer."
He opened the wine and poured two glasses, and they drank as they cooked, the conversation flowing easier now, touching on their studies, their plans, the dissertation topics they were both circling. She talked about the currents off the coast of Maine, the whale migrations she had charted during her time on the research vessel, and her voice carried a kind of reverence that he recognised, because he felt it too, that awe for the deep and the unknown.
"We're lucky," he said. "To have found something we love this much."
"Some people never find it. They spend their whole lives doing jobs they hate and pretending it's fine." She stirred the stew, her face thoughtful. "I don't want to be one of those people. I'd rather be poor and happy than rich and miserable."
He thought about his bank account, the quiet millions he rarely let himself think about, and said nothing.
They ate at her small table by the window, the stew rich and deep, the bread warm from the oven. She watched him take his first bite, her eyes expectant, and he let the taste sit on his tongue before nodding slowly.
"Okay," he said. "You can be very offended now, because this is the best thing I've eaten since I moved to Ireland."
Her face lit up. "Really?"
"Really. My mum's a good cook, and this is better than hers. Don't tell her I said that."
"Your secret's safe with me." She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "I'm glad you came."
"Me too."
They finished the bottle of wine between them, the conversation growing looser, sillier, the way it does when the wine is good and the company is easy. She told him about her college roommate who had tried to start a cult, and he told her about the time he had been chased by an octopus during a dive, and they laughed until their sides hurt.
Afterward, they washed the dishes together, her at the sink, him drying, their hips brushing in the small kitchen. She was close, and he could smell the soap on her skin, the faint warmth of the kitchen still lingering in her sweater.
"Thank you for tonight," she said, turning to face him. The dish towel hung over her shoulder, and she looked up at him, her round face soft in the low light. "I wasn't sure how it would go. I can be a lot, sometimes. I know that. Not everyone can handle it."
"You're not a lot. You're exactly the right amount."
She searched his face, and something in her eyes shifted, a decision made. She reached up and touched his jaw, her fingers light on his skin, and then she kissed him.
It was a slow kiss, unhurried, the kind that builds in its own time. Her lips were soft, and she tasted like red wine and the faint sweetness of the bread they had shared. He let the dish towel fall and brought his hands to her waist, feeling the warmth of her through the knit of her sweater.
She pulled back, just slightly, her forehead resting against his. "I've been thinking about this all week," she whispered. "Since the market. Since the coffee. Since the restaurant."
"Me too."
"Good." She took his hand and led him out of the kitchen.
Her bedroom was the same kind of lived-in space as the rest of the apartment, a thick duvet in a deep green, books piled on the bedside table, a scarf draped over the footboard. She stood at the edge of the bed and turned to face him, and he saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the barest hint of vulnerability.
"I want you to know something," she said. "I don't do this often. I don't bring men home from restaurants and invite them into my bed. That's not who I am."
"I know it's not."
"It's different with you." She reached up and pulled the sweater over her head, and standing there in just her bra, the soft curve of her body revealed, she looked at him. "You make me feel like I don't have to be anyone else."
He stepped forward and took her hands. "You don't have to be anyone else. Not with me. Not ever."
He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, and she melted into him. His hands moved over her back, feeling the warmth of her skin, the generous curves of her body, and she made a small sound against his mouth that sent heat through him.
They moved together onto the bed, the duvet cool beneath them, and the world outside the windows faded away. She was soft and warm in his arms, and he learned the shape of her the way he had learned the currents of the sea, through attention and care and the patient repetition of touch. She responded to him with a trust that humbled him, her body arching into his hands, her breath catching at the swell of him inside her.
"Javier," she breathed, her fingers tangled in his hair. "Javier."
He moved slowly at first, learning her rhythms, the way her hips rose to meet his, the way her breath hitched at the right angle. She came with a cry that she tried to muffle against his shoulder, her body shuddering beneath him, and he waited, holding her, letting the wave crest before he moved again.
"Don't stop," she whispered. "Please don't stop."
He didn't. He kept the pace steady, watching her face in the dim light, the way her eyes fluttered closed, the way her mouth parted. She came again, harder this time, her body clenching around him, and he buried his face in her neck, letting her pleasure pull him along until he could no longer hold back.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, the duvet half off the bed, the room quiet except for their breathing. She was on her side, facing him, and she reached up to trace the line of his jaw, her fingertip light.
"That was," she said, and paused. "I don't have words."
"Me neither."
"I thought it would be good. I thought we'd be good together. I didn't think it would be like that."
He pulled her closer, her head tucked under his chin, and she let out a long, satisfied sigh. He could feel her heartbeat, slowing gradually, and the warmth of her body against his felt like the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm so glad I met you," she said quietly. "I know it sounds crazy. We haven't known each other long. But I feel like I've known you forever. Like we skipped all the awkward parts and went straight to the place where you just fit."
He kissed the top of her head. "I feel the same way."
She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. In the low light, her blonde hair was tousled, her eyes soft and warm, her round face open. Something about her expression struck him, a familiarity he couldn't place at first, and then it landed: the curve of her face, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, the lightness of her hair. She looked like Roisin. She could have been her daughter.
The thought was disquieting for a moment, the two threads of his life tangling, but then he pushed it aside. It was only that he loved them both, in different ways, and love sought out patterns, echoes, familiar ground. He kissed her again, gently, and let the thought go.
"I should text Roisin," he said, reaching for his phone on the bedside table. "I promised."
Molly smiled. "You're a good son."
He typed quickly, the message simple.
At Molly's. All good. I'll be home late, don't wait up. Love you.
The reply came almost immediately.
Thanks, love. Be safe. Mum.
He set the phone down and turned back to her, pulling her into his arms. She closed her eyes, her breathing slowing, and he felt the ghost of her smile against his chest.
"Stay tonight," she murmured. "Stay until morning."
"I'll stay."
She curled into him, and he lay awake for a while, watching the shadows move across the ceiling. The city was quiet outside, the last of the traffic fading, and he could feel her heartbeat steady against his ribs.
This was real. Whatever this was, it was real. And for the first time in a long time, he let himself hold it without waiting for it to slip away.
Sunday morning arrived grey and quiet, the light through the curtains soft and diffuse. He woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of pages turning, and when he opened his eyes she was sitting up in bed beside him, a book open on her lap, a mug in her hand. Her hair was flattened on one side, and she had a smudge of sleep at the corner of her eye, and she looked so utterly at home that something in his chest cracked open a little wider.
"You're awake," she said, without looking up. "You snore, by the way. Not badly. Just a little."
"I don't snore."
"You do. It's very cute. Like a small bear."
He laughed, and she smiled at the sound, and he reached for her hand. "What time is it?"
"Almost ten. I let you sleep. You looked like you needed it." She set the book aside and handed him the mug. "I made you coffee. There's breakfast in the kitchen if you want it."
He sat up and took the mug, and the warmth of it bled into his palms. "You're spoiling me."
"I'm figuring out what you like. It's a project. I'm thorough."
They ate breakfast at her small table, eggs and toast and the last of the bread from the night before, and the conversation was easy, unhurried. She told him about a paper she was reading on thermohaline circulation, and he told her about a dive he had done off the coast of Galway where the visibility had been so poor he had nearly swum into a wreck he had been trying to find for two years. She laughed at the story, and her eyes were bright, and he thought that this was what it felt like to be known.
"Stay today," she said, as they cleared the plates. "We can study together. I have a stack of papers that will put you to sleep, but we can make it through them together."
He had planned to go home in the afternoon. But the words came out before he could think about them. "I'd like that."
So they spent the day together, books spread across her kitchen table, their chairs angled toward each other so that their knees touched as they read. She worked through a paper on cetacean navigation, annotating the margins with a pencil, and he read one on deep-sea thermal vents, making notes on his laptop. The hours passed in comfortable silence, broken by the occasional comment or question, the kind of shared focus that felt like another form of intimacy.
At some point in the afternoon, she looked up and caught him watching her.
"What?" she said.
"Nothing. Just looking."
"You're supposed to be reading about hydrothermal vents."
"I finished. I was admiring the view."
She threw a pencil at him, and he caught it, and she laughed, and he put the pencil down and leaned across the table and kissed her. She tasted like the coffee she had been drinking, and her hand came up to rest on his jaw, and the kiss deepened until the papers were forgotten entirely.
"I think," she murmured against his lips, "that we should take a break."
"I think you're right."
They made love in the afternoon light, slower than the night before, the urgency replaced by something more deliberate. She was soft and warm beneath him, her curves fitting against him like they had been made for it, and he took his time learning her, the places that made her breath catch, the way she sighed when he kissed the hollow of her throat. When she came, it was with a long, shuddering exhale, her fingers gripping his shoulders, and he followed her over the edge with his face buried in her hair.
Afterward, she lay against his chest, her hand flat on his heart. "That was even better than last night."
"I didn't think that was possible."
"Mm. I have a theory. It's going to keep getting better. We're just getting started."
He kissed the top of her head. "I'm okay with that theory."
In the late afternoon, he texted Roisin. The message was simple:
Staying with Molly today. Home for dinner tonight.
The reply came back within minutes:
Wonderful. Seamus is making his roast chicken. Don't be too late, the good leg goes fast.
He showed the message to Molly, who laughed. "Your mum's a character."
"She's not my mum, technically. She's my landlady."
"She signed a text 'Love, Mum' and she's saving you a chicken leg. She's your mum." She stretched, her back arching, and smiled at him. "You're lucky. Family's important. The right kind of family is rare."
He thought about the O'Sullivan house, the warmth of the kitchen, the way Seamus clapped him on the shoulder and called him son. He thought about Roisin, her bright eyes in the hallway, her hand on his arm. He had never had brothers or sisters. He had never had parents who looked at him like he was something precious. And now he had two of them, a man and a woman he had met by chance in a coffee shop, who had taken him in and made him theirs.
"I am lucky," he said. "I know that."
The evening came on slowly, the light outside turning amber and then fading. He packed his things, kissed her goodbye at the door, and she held him a moment longer than necessary, her arms around his waist.
"Come over again soon," she said. "Not just for the weekend. Any time. My door's always open for you."
"I will. I promise."
He walked home through the gathering dusk, the streets quiet and familiar now. The house was warm when he let himself in, the smell of roast chicken filling the hall, and Seamus's voice boomed from the kitchen.
"There's the man himself. We were starting to think you'd moved out."
"Just for the day. I promised I'd be home for dinner."
"And you are." Seamus appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a tea towel, his face creased in a grin. "Sit down. It's nearly ready."
Roisin was at the table, setting out plates, and she looked up when he came in. Her face was pleasant, composed, and she smiled at him, but there was something in her eyes that he couldn't quite read, a flicker of something private.
"Did you have a good day?" she asked.
"I did. We studied, mostly. She's smart."
"She sounds it." She set the last plate down and smoothed her apron. "You'll have to bring her over sometime. We'd like to meet her properly."
"Maybe I will." He pulled out his phone, scrolling to a photo he had taken earlier, a selfie of the two of them at her kitchen table, her head on his shoulder, both of them grinning. "Here. This is her."
Roisin took the phone, and her expression softened. She studied the photo for a moment, and Javier watched her face, the way her eyes moved over Molly's features, the curve of her smile, the blonde hair.
"She's beautiful," Roisin said quietly. Then she looked up at him, and there was a glint in her eye, warm and approving. "You like bigger women, son. You have good taste."
Javier felt his face heat. "Mum."
"What? I'm just saying. I've seen the girls you mentioned before. The ones in London." She handed the phone back. "You didn't mention any of them looked like her. This one's lovely. Properly lovely. She's got a good face on her."
"She does," he said, and he heard the pride in his own voice.
Seamus came in with the chicken, golden and steaming, and the conversation moved on, but he caught Roisin's eye once across the table, and she smiled at him, a warm and knowing smile, and he felt something settle in his chest. She approved. That mattered to him more than he had expected it to.
They ate, and talked, and the evening passed in the easy rhythm of the household. He helped with the dishes, and Seamus told another story about the site, and Roisin hummed along to the radio. When he climbed the stairs to his room, he felt the warmth of the day still on him, the memory of Molly's body against his, the scent of her skin on his shirt, and he fell asleep with a smile.
Monday morning broke cold and grey. He woke to the sound of the house stirring, the creak of floorboards, the murmur of voices from the kitchen, the front door opening and closing. He lay in bed, listening to the silence settle, and then he heard the familiar sound of Seamus's van starting in the driveway, the low rumble fading down the street.
He stretched, luxuriating in the quiet of the empty house. The weekend had been good, full and warm, and the memory of it hummed under his skin. He swung his legs out of bed and stood, feeling the cool air of the room against his bare skin. He had slept naked, the way he always did, and he didn't bother reaching for clothes. The house was empty. There was no one to see.
He walked down the stairs, the wood cool under his bare feet, and crossed the hall into the kitchen. The morning light was pale, filtering through the window over the sink, and the house was still. He filled the kettle and set it to boil, leaning against the counter as he waited, his body loose and relaxed.
The kettle clicked off, and he poured the water into a mug, added coffee, a splash of milk. He leaned back against the counter, cradling the warm mug in his hands, and took a sip.
The front door opened.
He heard it clearly, the sound of the latch turning, the weight of footsteps in the hall. A voice, light and familiar.
"Seamus? I forgot my —"
Roisin stopped in the kitchen doorway.
She was still in her work clothes, a dark coat over a floral dress, her handbag clutched to her chest. She had come back for something, a phone charger, maybe, or a set of keys, and now she stood frozen, her eyes wide, her breath caught in her throat.
Javier stood at the counter, naked, a mug of coffee in his hand. The morning light fell across him, catching the lean planes of his chest, the flat muscle of his stomach, the lines of his shoulders and arms. He was a boxer's build, lean and powerful, and there was nothing hidden about him, nothing softened by clothing or shadow. He was fully, completely bare, and she saw all of him.
Her gaze flickered down, and then up again, and her face flushed red. She did not move. She could not move. Her breath came shallow and quick, her hand tightening on the strap of her handbag, and for a long, suspended moment, neither of them spoke.
Javier felt the heat rise to his own face. He set the mug down on the counter, and the sound felt loud in the silence.
"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice came out rough. "I thought you'd gone. I thought the house was empty."
Roisin made a small sound, something between a gasp and a laugh. "I forgot my keys," she said. "I came back for my keys." Her voice was thin, high, not her own.
He reached for the nearest thing, a tea towel hanging from the oven door, and held it against himself, covering himself as best he could. His face burned, and he could not meet her eyes.
"I'll go upstairs," he said. "I'm sorry. I should have thought."
"Yes," she said. "Yes, you should go upstairs." But she did not move. She stood in the doorway, rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on his face. He looked at her then, and saw something in her expression that he couldn't name, something that flickered and died as quickly as it had come.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"It's fine." Her voice steadied, but it was still not quite her own. "It's my own fault. I should have rang the bell. I just didn't think." She took a step back, into the hall, her hand still tight on her handbag. "I'll go. I'll see you tonight."
"Mum," he said, and the word came out before he could stop it. "Roisin."
She paused at the threshold, not looking back.
"I'm sorry," he said a third time. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, softly, "You didn't, love. You didn't embarrass me."
She walked out, her footsteps quick on the floorboards, and the front door closed behind her with a soft click.
He stood in the kitchen, naked, holding the tea towel against himself, and the silence of the house pressed in around him. The coffee had gone cold in its mug. He set it down and climbed the stairs back to his room, and when he reached the landing, he stood for a long moment, staring at nothing.
In the street below, he heard an engine start, and then the sound of her car pulling away.
She sat in the car for a long time, her hands gripping the steering wheel, the engine idling. The house loomed in the rearview mirror, solid and familiar, and she could not bring herself to look at it. Her heart was hammering in a way that had nothing to do with the walk back to the car.
She had seen him. She had seen all of him, the lean strength of his body, the flat planes of his stomach, the powerful lines of his shoulders. The curve of him, heavy and full, had been impossible to miss. Her mind had registered it in a single, searing instant, and it had not let go since.
She pulled out of the driveway and drove toward the boutique, but she did not see the road. She saw him. She saw the morning light across his chest, the way he had stood there, unashamed and beautiful, the towel pressed against himself, his face flushed. She had told him he hadn't embarrassed her, and it was true. He had not embarrassed her. He had undone something in her, something she had thought was locked away for good.
The boutique was quiet when she arrived, the morning rush still an hour away. She let herself in through the back, hung her coat on the hook in the office, and stood at the counter of her shop, surrounded by silk and lace, and she could not stop thinking about him.
She thought about Seamus. She had married him at twenty, a lifetime ago, and she had loved him every day since. He was a good man, a solid man, a man who had given her a home and a life and a quiet, steady love. She had never looked at another man. She had never wanted to. And now, at fifty, she stood in her own shop, the scent of expensive perfume in the air, and she felt a heat between her thighs that she had not felt in years. She felt young. She felt alive. She felt ashamed.
It passed through her in waves. She saw again, in perfect detail, the way his body had looked in the morning light, and the shame receded into something else, something warmer, something that wanted to look again.
A customer came in. Roisin smiled and served her, her hands moving through the familiar motions of the trade, measuring and suggesting, and all the while her mind was elsewhere. She thought about his face, the confusion in his eyes, the way he had said her name, that word, mum, the word that should have anchored her, that should have reminded her who he was to her. It had not. It had only made the heat worse.
The customer left with a bag of lingerie and a smile, and Roisin stood alone in the shop, the silence pressing in. She moved to the window and looked out at the street, the grey Dublin morning, the passersby with their heads down and their collars up. The city had no idea. No one knew what she was feeling. No one could know.
She thought about Molly. The girl in the photo, the round face, the blonde hair, the warmth in her eyes. She was lovely. Javier was lucky. She had meant it when she said it, and she meant it still. He deserved someone like that, someone young and bright, someone who could give him the things a fifty-year-old woman could not.
But the thought, for all its good intention, did not quench the fire. It only banked it, smothered it for a moment before it flared again.
By mid-morning she had made a decision. She would be normal. She would go home tonight and she would look at him and she would see her son, the boy who had come into her house and filled it with noise and warmth. She would not see the man who had stood in her kitchen, naked and beautiful, and made something in her chest crack open.
She held to that through the afternoon. She served customers, she balanced the books, she restocked the shelves with new arrivals, and she held to it. But underneath, like a current beneath a river, the image would not leave her. It surfaced at odd moments, unbidden and unwelcome, and each time it came it was sharper than before, more detailed, more real. The dip of his waist. The strength in his thighs. The way he had held the towel, almost shyly, the flush on his face.
At five o'clock she closed the shop and drove home. The evening light was amber and low, and the house was warm when she let herself in. She could hear the low murmur of the television from the sitting room, and the smell of something good from the kitchen. She hung her coat and walked through the hall, and she saw him.
He was in the kitchen, setting the table. He wore a soft grey sweater and jeans, and he looked up when she came in, and there was a wariness in his eyes, a guardedness that had not been there before. He said her name, and she heard the hesitation in it.
"Roisin. I'm sorry about this morning. I should have been more careful."
She waved a hand, the gesture airy, dismissive. "Don't be silly. It's your home. You should be comfortable in your own home." She kept her voice light, even, the voice she used with customers who were nervous about a purchase. "I'm the one who should have rung the bell. My own fault entirely."
He nodded, but the wariness remained. She crossed to the stove, where Seamus had left a pot of something simmering, and she stirred it, her back to him, her heart hammering in her chest.
"You and Molly," she said, keeping her voice steady. "It's serious, isn't it?"
"I think so. I think it could be."
"Good." She turned to face him, and she smiled, and the smile was real, genuine. "I'm happy for you, love. Truly. She's a lovely girl."
"I think you'd like her."
"I'm sure I would." She turned back to the stove. "Maybe you'll bring her over. For dinner. Soon."
"I'd like that."
The evening passed in the usual rhythm. Seamus came in from the sitting room, and they ate together, and the conversation was easy, familiar. Roisin laughed at the stories, asked the right questions, passed the salt. She was normal. She was herself. But underneath, all evening, she felt it, the heat that would not go, the image that would not fade.
Later, after Seamus had gone up to bed and the dishes were done, she stood in the kitchen alone, the lights low. She heard his footsteps on the stairs, and then the soft click of his door. She stood at the counter, her hands resting on the cool marble, and she closed her eyes.
She saw him. She saw the morning light. She saw the strength of him. She saw the way his body had been made, lean and powerful, the body of a man in his prime. And she felt it, that low, insistent pulse between her thighs, and she did not push it away. She let it be. She let it wash over her. She let it remind her what it felt like to want.
She opened her eyes and looked at the hallway stairs, dark and quiet, leading up to his room. She heard the faint creak of floorboards as he moved above her.
She did not go up. She turned and went to her own room, where Seamus was already asleep, his breathing deep and even. She undressed in the dark and lay down beside him, and she stared at the ceiling, the image of Javier burning behind her eyes, and she did not sleep for a long time.
The next morning she woke early, before the alarm, and the first thought in her head was him. She lay still for a moment, the memory of the morning before playing behind her eyes, and then she pushed herself up and went about her day. She made breakfast. She packed Seamus's lunch. She kissed him goodbye at the door, and she did not allow herself to look toward the stairs.
She went to work and she served her customers, and the image stayed with her all day, a steady, quiet presence at the back of her mind. It did not fade. It sharpened. She caught herself, at odd moments, thinking about the weight of him, the fullness of him, and she would have to force herself to focus on the task at hand. She was a woman in charge of her own mind. She was fifty years old, a wife, a mother in every way that mattered. She could not be undone by a glimpse of skin.
But she could. And she was.
On Wednesday evening, she found herself in the hallway, pulling the sheets from the linen closet, and he came down the stairs, a book under his arm. He was wearing a tracksuit, loose and soft, and he smiled at her, the wariness gone, replaced by something easier.
"Are you changing the guest room sheets?"
"Your sheets. Time to wash them." She held the bundle against her chest. "You're not sleeping badly, are you? The mattress is good, but the pillow might be too soft for you. Seamus has that problem. He likes them like rocks."
"The pillow's fine. Everything's comfortable." He paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You worry about me a lot."
"Someone has to."
"Seamus does. And I'm grateful." He took a step closer, and he was close enough that she could smell the clean laundry scent of his shirt, the faint warmth of his skin. "I know I'm lucky. Finding this house. Finding you both. I don't take it for granted."
Her heart was hammering again. "We're lucky too. You've brought life into this house. More than you know."
They stood in the hallway, the sheets between them, the silence stretching. She could feel the warmth of him, the presence of him, and she was acutely aware of how close he was, the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his jaw. She loved him. She loved him like a son. But there was something else there, something she had been working very hard to keep buried, and in the quiet of the hallway, she could feel it straining at the lock.
He broke the silence first. "I'm going to meet Molly for a coffee after my lecture. I could text you if you want. Let you know I'm safe."
"You don't have to do that. You have your life. I trust you."
She trusted him. She did. It was herself she did not trust.
He smiled and went on his way, and she stood in the hallway, the sheets clutched to her chest, and she watched him go. She told herself she was glad he was with someone. She told herself she was glad he was happy. She told herself the heat she felt was maternal love, a fierce protectiveness, a deep and abiding care for his well-being.
But as she climbed the stairs to change his sheets, her hands smoothing the fabric over the corners of his mattress, she could smell him on the pillowcase, the faint, clean scent of him. And she could not help herself. She lifted the pillow to her face, and she breathed him in, and she closed her eyes, and she let herself remember.
When she pulled the pillow away, her hands were shaking. She smoothed the fresh sheets and made his bed, and she left the room without looking back.
She went downstairs and poured herself a glass of wine, though it was barely noon, and she drank it quickly, standing at the kitchen counter. She was a grown woman. She had been married for thirty years. She could not be feeling what she was feeling.
But she was. And the feeling only grew.