Skin Heat by Ava Gray

like this.” Neva gazed around at the scarred cabinets as if what she saw appealed to her. “It has character. Lots of living.”
    He guessed that was true. And somehow, having her here balanced out the bad history. Instead of neglect and darkness, the room lit with welcoming light. It didn’t all come from the fixture overhead, either.
    Silently he set the grey and white Formica table for two. It had banded metal around the edges, stylish in the forties. For Zeke, it had always been enough that it was sturdy. Things didn’t need to be pretty; they just needed to work. So it was rare for him to find such fascination in a woman who offered both.
    “Got Coke, milk, or juice,” he said.
    “Juice, please. I left my bag in the hall so you didn’t end up making dinner by yourself, after everything else. If it’s all right, I’ll take it up now.”
    Why was she asking him? He stared at her in confusion until he realized she was being polite. He owned the house. She was unsure of her place. He fought down the urge to tell her she could do whatever she wanted—to his house and him. For an awful moment, he turned into that untried sixteen-year-old boy again, watching her glide across the emerald lawn he’d just trimmed while his heart went wild in his chest and his hands clenched on the silent mower.
    She had been wearing a yellow sundress, he remembered, in some fancy fabric with little holes that showed glimpses of her tan skin. The breeze blew the skirt against her thighs, and he’d had to look away. That summer, he’d thought she was the closest thing to heaven on earth. He’d gone home that night and lay in bed daydreaming about a day where she noticed him working and led him off into the flower garden. He’d spent himself more than once, imagining what she felt and tasted like, imagining the clasp of her legs and the hot welcome of her body.
    Neva wasn’t the same girl anymore, and he wasn’t that boy. But he still wanted her with the same awful, hopeless ache. And now she was standing in his kitchen, a little lost and forlorn. That look stirred all kinds of needs, tangled up so he couldn’t separate them.
    “No problem,” he got out.
    He reduced the heat on the beans. They’d come from a can so they wouldn’t take as long to cook down. It was about time to mash the potatoes; he did it by hand, adding milk and butter and garlic powder. By the time she got back, they were only waiting on the meatloaf, and it should be done soon. His stomach rumbled. It felt like forever since he’d eaten.
    “The quilt in my room looks like an antique,” Neva said from the doorway.
    Once again, her voice soothed him. Even if she’d created knots of unwelcome desire in him, she also made them go. Some of the raw edges smoothed away.
    “My grandma made it.”
    “It’s beautiful.”
    She meant it. Since coming home, he’d discovered sincerity had a scent. He could smell when people were lying to him. Like Skip Felton at the drugstore. Zeke had known he was going to crumple his application as soon as he walked out the door. We don’t want any crazy Nobles working here, his eyes said.
    But Neva didn’t do that. She was often sad or angry or exhausted, or some combination of the three. But she wore those feelings openly. It made her an honest island in a sea of liars.
    They ate in silence, listening to the radio. She looked absolutely worn out, so once they finished, he said, “Get some sleep.”
    “You’ll wake me when it’s my turn to look after them?”
    Zeke made some noncommittal noise, but when the time came, he didn’t. She needed somebody to take care of her for a little while. Maybe he’d never have what he wanted of her, but he could have this much. He’d make do.
     
    When Neva got up in the morning, she felt amazingly good. And then she realized she hadn’t lifted a finger all night. He’d said he would get her up but clearly that hadn’t happened. Oh, crap. If they’d both slept through the night,