“I don’t know. The only people I knew in my life before you guys were Mother and Stebbs.”
“There’s no real way to explain it,” Eli said. “Sometimes you meet a person, and even if you don’t know them at all you can’t stop thinking about them. And every time you talk to them you get nervous, and when you go home you think about every word you said to each other, replaying it in your mind.”
Lynn rested her head against Eli’s knee, relishing the feel of his hands against her neck. “I guess I do know,” she said.
His hands came to rest on her shoulders. “It wouldn’t take all that much for me to tune the guitar, if you want.”
“Really?”
“Give me a few minutes,” he said, propping her up gently and easing out from behind her shoulders.
She watched his hands moving expertly up and down the strings, as familiar with the instrument as she was with her gun. His head cocked to the side as each note, all new to her ear, was adjusted to his liking. When he was finished, he struck a simple chord, the sound echoing inside the stone walls.
“I feel bad Stebbs is missing it,” Eli said. “I know he said it’s been a while since he heard music. Not that I don’t like having you to myself.”
“I’ve never heard music,” Lynn said.
Eli’s hand stopped moving over the strings. “Never? Not once?”
She shrugged. “How would I? We had bigger worries.”
“No pressure on me then,” Eli joked. “It’s only the deciding moment on whether or not you reject music for the rest of your life.”
“I already like it.”
“All you heard was the C chord.”
“Then shut up and play something.”
Eli tossed a pillow at her but she caught it deftly, the teasing smile on her face dissipating as he began his song, a slow, lilting melody that filled the dark corners of the basement. His voice joined the tune, very different from his speaking voice, lower and throbbing with the depth of the emotions that existed under his jokes. She watched him as he played, studying the small muscles in his arms that jumped as he picked the strings, the slight squinting of his eyes as he concentrated. He came to a slow stop and smiled apologetically.
“That’s as far as a I got, back home in Entargo.”
“You wrote that?”
“Yup. It’s not like holding a deer heart in your hand or anything, but it passes the time.”
The sound of spitting ice hitting the window brought them both out of their pleasant reverie. “Shit.” Eli stood and tapped at the window, but the freezing glaze on the other side didn’t move. “Do you think Stebbs and Lucy made it home in time?”
Lynn rose from the floor and stretched, still lost in the spell of his song. “Definitely, it only takes a few minutes, and he’s smart enough to have hurried her along.”
“I imagine it’d be pretty unpleasant to be stuck outside.”
“If you’re looking for an invitation to stay, you don’t have to fish for it. I won’t send you out in this. Will Neva worry though?”
“Doubt it. She’s probably asleep already.”
“All right then.” Lynn closed the door to the stove, dropping the basement into blackness.
“Damn,” Eli said. “I can’t see a thing. Is this your plan for me to break a leg and keep me prisoner?”
Lynn found his hand with hers. “Follow me,” she said, and led him to Lucy’s cot by the fire. “You can sleep here.”
“Wait.” His hand squeezed hers. “Who said that’s the end of the backrub?”
Lynn snorted in the dark. “There’s not room for both of us in there.”
“We’ll make it work.” He tugged on her in the dark, and she hesitated. “I don’t want anything from you, but I’m not ready to let go yet.”
She wordlessly climbed into the cot. Eli slipped his shirt off and slid in beside her, snaking one arm around her rib cage. Lynn had expected to tense up again, with the feeling of his skin so close to hers, the entire length of their bodies. But instead she relaxed and leaned into him.
“You can think of it as heat conservation, if it makes you feel more practical,” Eli said in her ear and she giggled. She laid against him for a while in silence, enjoying the thud of his heart against her eardrum, the companionable tangle of their legs. The small differences in their bodies were fascinating to her; the rasping of his stubble against her cheek, the bony outcrops of his knuckles, so much more prominent than her own. She ran her thumbs over them, surprised at how strong his hands had become in the short time since she had met him. Her fingers strayed up his arms to the muscles that had developed there, tracing the lines of his veins.
Long nights spent alone in her bed had not prepared her for the intimacy of lying with him, no matter how comfortable. His hands were doing their own exploring and her breath caught in her throat.
Eli broke the silence. “So . . . I’m not used to asking for permission, but I don’t want to get shot either.”
“Permission for what?”