Chapter 5: A Story Told
I wrapped my fingers around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my palms, and I told him the story. It came out smoother than I expected, the practiced words sliding off my tongue as if they'd always lived there. "I grew up in Buffalo. My parents, they had me late, and I was an only child. They were good people. My mom was a schoolteacher, my dad was a mechanic." I paused, looking down at the dark surface of my coffee, letting a beat of silence hang between us. "They passed away two years ago. A house fire, while I was at work. There wasn't anything I could do."
Deputy Cole's expression shifted, the warmth in his eyes softening into something gentler. "I'm sorry. That's a hard thing to carry."
I nodded, swallowing. "It was. I stayed in Buffalo for a while, but I couldn't. Every street, every corner, it felt like I was walking through a memory I couldn't escape. The insurance money was enough for a fresh start, and I'd always wanted to see Vermont. I just wanted somewhere quiet. Somewhere that didn't know my parents were gone." I looked up at him, meeting those flint-grey eyes. "So here I am. A new house, a new town, and a lot of quiet."
He held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Well, Miss Parker. I think you picked the right place for that."
I held his gaze for a moment, then let my eyes drop to the table. The silence between us was comfortable, the kind you let settle when you've just shared something heavy. He didn't push. He just sat there, cradling the mug in his hands, letting me have the space.
"Thank you," I said quietly. "For coming by. It's nice to know someone's looking out for me."
"That's what we do here," he said. "Small town. Everyone watches the road, checks in on the new folks. It's not much, but it's something."
I almost smiled at that. Justin had never trusted small towns. Too many eyes, too many questions, too little anonymity. But Sabrina had moved here because she wanted quiet, wanted someone to know her name, wanted to feel like she belonged somewhere. I was living her life now, and that meant I was grateful for the knock on the door, grateful for the warm voice and the steady gaze, grateful that this handsome deputy had taken the time to welcome me.
The thought made something shift in my chest, a heat that started low in my belly and spread outward, softening the edges of my wariness.
I took a sip of my coffee, and the warmth of it slid down my throat. The morning light through the window was brighter now, falling across the table in a pale yellow rectangle. It caught the side of his face, highlighting the line of his jaw, the column of his throat when he tipped his head back to finish his mug.
"I should let you get settled," he said, setting the mug down. But he didn't move. He just sat there, looking at me.
"You don't have to rush off," I heard myself say. The words surprised me. I hadn't meant to say them, hadn't even been thinking them, but they were out in the air now, soft and inviting, and I couldn't take them back.
He tilted his head, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You sure? I don't want to be a bother."
"You're not a bother. I've been here a day and I've already talked to more people than I did my whole last month in Buffalo." It was true, in a way. The fabricated backstory had given me a reason for the loneliness, a cover for the isolation of being freshly unmade and remade. "Besides, I haven't had a chance to ask about the town. You know, the good spots. Where to get groceries, where to avoid."
He laughed at that, a low, easy sound that I felt in my chest in a way I absolutely did not understand. "Well, the grocery store is on Main Street, run by the Henshaw brothers. They'll know your name by the second visit. The diner makes a decent pie if you're into that. And the library's got a nice quiet reading room, though I'm told the librarian has strong opinions about late fees."
I laughed, and the sound came out light and musical, a woman's laugh, bright and unguarded. It startled me. But it also felt good. It felt natural.
We talked for a while longer. He told me about the town, about the annual fall festival, about the lake a few miles out where people went swimming in the summer. He asked about the farmhouse, whether it needed anything, whether I'd met the neighbors on the road. Each time I answered, his eyes stayed on my face, warm and attentive, and I found myself losing track of my own thoughts, caught up in the pleasant hum of being seen.
And all the while, my body was betraying me.
It started with my skin. A low, constant warmth that prickled across my arms, my shoulders, the bare strip of my thighs where the shorts rode up. The tank top was suddenly too thin, too light, and I was acutely aware of every breath I took making the fabric shift against my chest. When I crossed my legs under the table, the press of my thighs against each other was a sensation I couldn't ignore, smooth skin sliding against smooth skin, and I had to uncross them because the touch was too much.
He didn't seem to notice. He just kept talking, his voice low and steady, and every time he said my name, something inside me twisted in a way I had no frame of reference for.
I ran my hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face, and the motion felt intimate, private. My own fingers against my own scalp, dragging through the thick waves, and the sensation sent a shiver down my spine. I dropped my hand to the table, my palm flat on the warm wood.
"Are you alright?" he asked. "You look a little flushed."
I felt the heat spike in my cheeks. "I'm fine. The coffee's just got to me."
He nodded, but his eyes lingered on me a moment longer, and I could feel his gaze traveling over my face, my bare shoulders, the hollow of my throat. The silver locket sat at the base of my neck, cool against my heated skin, and I reached up to touch it, a nervous habit I'd apparently already developed.
"That's pretty," he said, nodding at it.
I looked down. The locket was small and simple, a smooth oval of silver on a delicate chain. I hadn't taken it off since I'd first noticed it in the exam room. I hadn't thought to.
"Thank you. It was my mother's." The lie came out smooth as water, and I didn't even have to think about it. The locket was part of Sabrina's story now, an heirloom from a woman who had died in a fire I'd never witnessed.
The thought should have made me cold. Instead, it just made me more aware of the weight of it against my skin.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the chain where it lay against my chest, just barely, just for a second. His touch was light, but I felt it everywhere, a shock of warmth that ran from my throat to my belly and lower, settling somewhere deep and heavy.
"Your mom had good taste," he said, and his voice was softer now, quieter.
I couldn't breathe for a moment. My nipples tightened against the cotton, painfully hard now, and I pressed my thighs together under the table, trying to still the warmth that was spreading through me. It was dizzying, overwhelming, this body's sensitivity flooding me with sensation I had no name for, no experience with.
He pulled his hand back, settling it around his mug, and the loss of contact was almost physical.
"Miss Parker," he said, and his voice was easy again, warm and professional. "I should let you get on with your morning."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. My hands were trembling, just slightly, and I pressed them flat against the table to still them.
He stood up, and I stood with him, my bare feet finding the floorboards. He was taller than me, so much taller, and I had to look up to meet his eyes. The angle made me feel small, delicate, and the feeling settled into my bones in a way that was strange and not entirely unpleasant.
"Thanks for the coffee," he said.
"Thanks for coming by."
He smiled, and I felt my stomach do a little flip. Then he turned and walked through the kitchen, past the living room, to the front door. I followed, my heart hammering, and when I opened the door for him, the morning air hit my bare arms and made me shiver.
He stepped out onto the porch, then paused, turning back to look at me. His eyes swept over me once more, that quick, appraising gaze, touching my bare shoulders, my chest, the length of my legs, before settling on my face.
"If you need anything," he said. "Anything at all. You can find me at the sheriff's office, or just call the station."
"I will. Thank you, Deputy Cole."
"Allan," he said. "Call me Allan."
I nodded, and he smiled again, then turned and walked down the porch steps, across the gravel drive, to the patrol car parked at the end of it. I watched him go, feeling the morning cold against my skin, feeling the residual warmth of his touch still lingering on my throat, and I didn't realize I was holding my breath until he'd climbed into the car and closed the door.
I closed the front door slowly and leaned against it, pressing my palms flat against the wood. My heart was still hammering. My skin was still warm. And between my legs, that low, insistent ache refused to fade.