Page 17 of One Small Spark (Love in Sunshine #4)

She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling. “Have you been doing photography a long time?”

“A while now. It’s become an extension of my time in nature.”

She shifts her attention to her food.

“What’s that face for?” I can’t miss the way her nose wrinkles. The chicken’s too sweet for her sour response.

“Nothing. Just…the whole outdoorsy scene is not for me.”

“That's right. You’re looking for an indoor cat.” I sort of thought that was a jab aimed at me, not an actual aversion. “What don’t you like about it?”

“Bugs, for one. And there’s a lot of sweating, which isn’t my favorite way to spend a day. My friends have dragged me on a couple of hikes with their boyfriends, and it mostly seems like an excuse to make out in fresh air.”

“And you’re opposed to making out in fresh air? ”

Her gaze locks on mine, her thoughts performing a vivid dance behind her eyes. “No…not opposed , I guess. It’s never been an option.”

“And if it was an option?” Do I sound eager? Hell, yes, I do.

“I mentioned the bug issue.”

“We can slather you with eucalyptus oil.”

She goes on staring at me until her gaze drops to my mouth. She quickly refocuses on her plate. “I’m giving it a solid maybe.”

I can handle a maybe when it comes with that tiny smirk attached.

My thoughts stray to a hike with Wren that’s mostly making out. I have to pull off my hoodie and cool down. I drape the sweatshirt over one of the empty chairs and take my seat again. Her attention snaps to my tattoos, her gaze moving up one arm and then the other.

“You can ask whatever you want,” I tell her. This is true about everything.

Her gaze eats up the images inked on my skin. “Does it hurt to get them?”

“Yes.” I rub the elbow closest to her. “Going over the bone is probably the worst. The inner biceps come in second.”

She cringes but doesn’t look away. “How long did these take?”

“I started five years ago. My artist and I had a vision for the entire piece, and I added to it whenever I had time and money.” It was slow going at first, when extra money was scarce.

Now that Get in Gear is doing well, time is the harder factor to come by, since it requires a trip up to Portland and back.

“Do they have meaning, or do they just look cool?”

I can’t help my smirk. “You think they look cool?”

She doesn’t meet my eyes. She’s too busy cataloguing my tattoos. “Shut up. You know they do. ”

“They all have meaning. Some more than others. But they’re not random.”

Just like she was drawn to my rolling ladder and the books, she slowly reaches out a hand as if she’s under a spell.

Her fingertips lightly trace over the pine trees on my forearm, moving up over the mountain peaks that stretch along my biceps.

I breathe slowly, her gentle touches as difficult to sit through as the original tattoos.

“What do they mean?” she asks softly. “Or is that private?”

“It’s not private.” Not from her. “The trees are for the time I spend outdoors. Bugs and all. The mountains are for my grandfather Callahan, who was my rock.”

I turn my hand over to reveal my inner arm.

“Lupines?” she asks.

It squeezes something in my chest that she recognizes them. “For my grandma.”

I stretch out my other arm. “Another forest scene over here. The river running along my inner arm is for my parents. The little cabin in the woods there is for Charlie.”

Wren meets my eyes. “Because of the lodge?”

“We spent a lot of our childhood playing out here. And she loves it so much, it seemed to fit.”

“These are beautiful. I’ve never really looked at them before.”

She’s certainly never touched them before.

She slides her palms over my skin, admiring the tattoo artist’s work as if it’s somehow separate from my body.

As if she’s not lighting up my nerve endings one by one.

Her fingertips graze beneath my short shirt sleeve like she wants to sweep it out of the way to see the uppermost reaches of my shoulder.

“You have bugs in here.” She taps a finger on my outer biceps. “A beetle?”

“My other grandma. She never killed insects if she could avoid it. Always trapped them in a glass and set them free.” She would have loved the shiny beetle on my arm in her honor.

“You’re such a secret softie.” Wren’s both teasing and approving at once. I’m immediately hooked on the affection in her voice.

“I didn’t know it was a secret.”

“It’s sure not common knowledge.” She moves her attention to my left arm, drawing it closer to her across my body.

She traces the river from my inner elbow down to where it foams on rocks above my wrist. “You’re kind of a brooder.

You don’t really blend with a crowd. But here you are, walking around with your heart literally on your sleeve. ”

Not the way I would have described it, but I see her point.

She leans in closer. “What’s this?”

Her thumb grazes over a tattoo I got a year ago on my inner left biceps. I probably should have kept the hoodie on, but maybe I wanted this risk. I’ve played it safe with her for too long.

“What does it look like?” I ask softly.

She stares at the small bird nestled among the trees on my arm. “It looks like a?—”

Her pause drags out, inflating between us like a balloon pressing us apart. She meets my gaze, her question repeated in her eyes. But whatever she finds in mine must not be enough to reassure her. She sits back in her chair, dropping her hands from my arm.

“I don’t know,” she says with affected indifference. “I guess it’s a generic, chubby little bird.”

It’s true, chubby little birds are popular among botanical tattoo enthusiasts. I’ve seen a few around town. But surely Wren recognizes her namesake. She just doesn’t want to admit it. Or doesn’t want to risk being wrong .

Understandable. I’ve walked that line enough myself tonight as it is.

“Does that one mean something?” she asks carefully. “The…bird?”

I nod. “I’ll tell you when you tell me what type of bird it is.”

A risk for a risk.

A line forms between her eyebrows, and her mouth takes on an unimpressed slant. “I didn’t realize there would be a test at the end.”

There’s the Wren who calls to me.

“It’s all open book.”

We finish dinner, and she helps me clear the dishes away even though I tell her she doesn’t need to. She wipes down the table, too, despite my frowns. Pretty sure she cleans the countertop just to make sure I stay in my grumpy mood. Afterward, we face off in the kitchen.

“Thanks for dinner,” she says. “It was surprisingly nice.”

“I’m going to ignore the ‘surprisingly.’”

Her smile tugs at something deep in my chest. “I had a good time.”

“Me, too.”

This feels like an end-of-evening goodnight kiss moment. The kind of moment where we make up for our awkwardness over dinner by kissing until I’ve got her pressed up against the door.

She must sense it, too. Instead of moving closer, she takes a step backward. “I should probably go.”

I can’t be disappointed when we’ve made this much progress tonight. Still. I want that goodnight kiss.

“Be careful on your drive back to town. There’s a lot of deer out this time of night.

” Probably shouldn’t have put the idea of her swerving to avoid a deer into my head.

I’ve had a few close calls, but never an actual accident.

There’s a first time for everything, though, and her car is tiny. “Text me when you get home.”

“I’m sure I can get to my house just fine.”

“I’m sure you can, too, but I’d like the confirmation.”

“It’s not that far.” She turns to look out the window, but it’s already dark out. “The weather’s not even bad.”

Not going to think about her little car trying to navigate these roads in the winter. Not thinking about her sliding off the road and into a ditch. Nope. “Krause. Don’t argue. I’m asking for a simple text.”

Her wry smile appears, as if she’s discovered a treasure trove of leverage. “Are you a worrier , Callahan?”

She says the word like it’s a bright red label she’s slapped on my chest. She’s not wrong, but we’re not getting into this right now. I would love to verbally spar with her some more, but my anxiety’s cranking up and making it hard for me to think.

I level her with a hard look. “Just text me, please.”

She relaxes, but her smile widens like I just handed her a secret. I suppose I did. Of all the things I’ve revealed tonight, this is the one she wants to spend her energy on?

“Okay. Sheesh. I will text you when I get home.” She pulls open the front door. “If you wanted a goodnight text so badly, all you had to do was say so.”

With that, she walks out, snapping the door shut behind her. I watch out the window until her taillights disappear down the drive.

Refusing to pace, I sit on the couch, my phone on the cushion beside me. If I thought I was lost before, having her here in my space has sealed my fate. I hope the stormy petrichor of her perfume lingers for days.

Fifteen minutes of heroically keeping my stray thoughts in line later, my phone finally buzzes.

Wren: I made it!

Shepherd: Glad to hear it

Wren: That road is kind of spooky in the dark

Shepherd: Not helping

Wren: But I’m fine!

Wren: Even tucked myself safely into bed already

That’s not helping, either.

Wren: Thanks for inviting me tonight

Shepherd: Thanks for staying

Wren: Goodnight, Callahan

Shepherd: Goodnight, Krause