Love and Kerosene by Winter Renshaw

Author:Winter Renshaw [Renshaw, Winter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Montlake
Published: 2022-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

LACHLAN

appetence (n.) an eager desire, an instinctive inclination; an attraction

“So . . . teeny, tiny issue,” Anneliese says Tuesday morning as she leans in the doorway of the kitchen. She’s dressed in tight jeans and a lacy white blouse, her hair pulled back by an oversize black headband. A thin gold pendant hangs from her neck, stopping between the dip of her collarbone and the top of her cleavage. I train my gaze back to where it belongs—on her big blue eyes. “My parents are coming this Friday and staying for a few days.”

I set my screwdriver aside. “And what’s the issue?”

“They usually stay here . . . normally I’d give them my bed and take yours. Is there any way we can fix up one of the other rooms?” She winces, crossing her fingers.

“By Friday?” I scratch my temple. “I mean, we could clean it up. I wouldn’t sand or stain it because you don’t want to be breathing those fumes every night. Do you even have an extra bed to put in there?”

“No,” she says. “I was going to get an air mattress. I just need your help moving things around so we can actually fit one up there somewhere.”

“Put it in my room,” I say as Anneliese twists at her necklace. Her fingertips graze the exposed bit of skin above her shirt, and for a brief moment, I find myself imagining my lips there instead. “You can have my bed, and I’ll take the mattress.”

She begins to speak but stops as if she’s digesting a thought that never occurred to her before now. I’ve slept in every kind of bed imaginable over the last ten years . . . bunk beds, barracks, couches, futons, waterbeds, sleeping bags. A few days on an air mattress is no big deal.

“Um,” she says, twisting her rosebud lips into a sly smile. “Yeah, that could work—as long as you don’t mind bunking with me? Fair warning, I laugh in my sleep sometimes. It can be creepy if you’re not prepared for it.”

I wink. “Think I can handle it.”

“This could be fun, actually . . . like a little sleepover,” she says with a teasing smirk. “I’ll bring the flashlight; you can tell the ghost stories.”

“Deal.”

Glad she’s in better spirits than the other night.

She leaves, and I steal a glimpse of her perfect ass in those tight jeans before she takes off for the bookshop. Then I pop my earbuds in and put on a classic-rock playlist.

I dreaded every mile of ocean I flew over coming back to the States, hated every stretch of highway, every road sign that pointed me closer to home.

But I have to say, being back isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.

In fact, I might even be enjoying it.

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