Page 10 of Double Bind (Cosmic Mates #6)
“Somebody’s happy,” Darmaine said.
“Why do you say that?” Squinting, Amity inspected her crocheting. Almost done. She’d been working on it for days—had had to unravel it once and start over—but it was coming together.
“You’ve been humming all day.”
She’d spent the morning on the loom, finishing off a blanket. During lunch, she’d resumed her work on her personal project.
“Have I?” She couldn’t prevent a grin. The sky seemed bluer, the wind less blustery, the temperature more temperate. Nothing like a night of good sex to put a person in a good mood. Except, it was more than that. The physical intimacy had shifted and solidified their relationship. She felt like they had reached an agreement to move forward together. I guess that’s what consummating a marriage is all about.
“The trip to Fair Shake went well?”
“Yes, it did.” The kiss had changed everything. “Thank you for finagling it.”
“Sometimes men need a little nudge.” She paused. “Women, too.”
“You’re a romantic. A matchmaker at heart.”
“I won’t deny it. I love to see love succeed.”
Were they in love? She didn’t think they were yet, but it looked like it could be a possibility. Marshall had reverted to the man she’d gone out with, less taciturn and stern, more considerate and affectionate. He still didn’t talk much, but she found his brevity amusing. And he talked when it counted—she would never forget how he’d opened up and shared what it was like to be a clone.
While she’d been disappointed by circumstances, his life in Dark Ops had been brutal. By comparison, she’d had it easy. But perhaps together, they could build a happy, harmonious life. They both deserved happiness, and she would do everything she could to ensure they got it. They’d gotten off to a rocky start, but from here on out, it ought to be smooth sailing.
She would finally have the relationship she’d longed for.
I didn’t need Cosmic Mates after all. Thank goodness because boy, did they get it wrong. She recalled the disastrous first date with the Nagarian. She supposed she couldn’t blame the organization entirely—the alien had lied about his origins. She couldn’t control her snake phobia any more than Marshall could help his discomfort with tight spaces.
Although…he did seem to be adapting to the bathroom. He still left the door open, and his showers were super quick, but he no longer looked green around the gills when he left the water closet. Water closet aptly described the space so tight she could barely turn around. No wonder it triggered his claustrophobia.
With a flourish, she finished the last stitch, knotted the yarn, and clipped off the tail. “Done!” She held up her project.
“Looks great!” Darmaine said. “Quite ambitious for a first effort. You did well.”
“Thank you for teaching me.”
“Nights are long. It’s a good way to pass the time,” Darmaine said.
For an old married lady maybe. Not a newlywed. She’d squeeze in crochet time on her lunch hour. Nights were reserved for sexier pursuits.
“When you come up for air, I mean.” Darmaine laughed.
* * * *
Whistling, Marshall hammered in the peg, attaching the leg to the table. He decided he rather enjoyed the scent of freshly sawn wood, working with his hands, constructing useful, practical things.
Another benefit to the woodshop assignment was that he got to work on personal projects. Refuge strove to discourage dependency and encourage initiative and self-reliance. If one didn’t personally benefit from one’s efforts, what would be the motivation to work?
He’d experienced the reverse. Dark Ops had provided for all his needs—food, shelter, medical care, clothes. But he’d paid for them with his freedom. Dark Ops had owned him.
Amity had told him she was weaving a blanket for them.
He wished to contribute, too. They needed everything, but especially furniture— a dresser, shelves, seating . They only had the two uncomfortable wooden dinner chairs and the bed to sit on. A couch would be nice. Maybe he could build a sofa frame?
Amity could weave the fabric for the cushions. What would they stuff them with? What was in their bed pillows? He jotted a mental note to take a look.
He got all four legs attached to the table and lifted it upright. Level. Didn’t wobble at all. He patted himself on the back. His carpentry skills were getting better and faster.
One down, fifty more to go. Yesterday’s delivery had been the tip of the iceberg as far as orders went. Job security. He chuckled.
“Somebody’s in a good mood,” Bragg said. “You’ve been smiling and whistling all morning.”
“You’d prefer I scowl and swear?”
“Not complaining, just observing.” Pause. “I guess you two patched things up.”
Made love. “We weren’t fighting.”
“You didn’t say two words through dinner last night.”
“Didn’t need to. You and Faith did enough talking for all of us. What would you stuff a sofa cushion with?”
“Synthetic foam?”
“How about a sofa on Refuge?” he asked drily. Few synthetics could be found on this planet.
“Egger feathers? Horniger fur?”
“That might work.” He nodded.
“You have a sofa in your cabin? We don’t have one.”
“I’m thinking of building one. For Amity.”
Bragg’s face split into one of his shit-eating grins. He’d been a thorn in Marshall’s side from the moment he’d stepped out of the amniotic cloning goo. But the man’s love for Faith had given his life purpose and direction, which had inspired Marshall. Because Bragg had sought more from life, he had begun to desire more. If not for Bragg, he might never have broken free of Dark Ops.
“You want to help me build a sofa?” he asked, deciding not to ask Amity for assistance. Instead, he’d surprise her with a finished product. He’d bet her boss would help him with the pillows if he let her know what it was for. After the way she’d arranged for them to have a day together, she’d probably be glad to assist.
“Sure! We’ll practice on yours—then we’ll do the good one for me and Faith.” Bragg grinned.
Fair enough. His lips twitched. “I’d better get back to work, then. I need to finish my quota, so I can get started on the sofa.” Whistling, Marshall started on another table.