I stare at her, then look down at her feet, her little toes wiggling. “You’ll get cold,” I state, still holding out the socks. I don’t know why I care so much. If she doesn’t want to wear socks, that’s fine.
Except, it’s not. I have this unrelenting need to take care of her, protect her light, and vanquish anything or anyone that threatens her.
Before I even know what I’m doing, I kneel on the floor in front of her and carefully lift her right leg. She grasps onto my shoulders to keep her balance, but she lets me slip the wool sock on and pull it up her calf. I put the other sock on her left foot, grunting in satisfaction.
Looking up into the little siren’s ethereal eyes, I see an array of emotions, ranging from disbelief to gratitude. Her pouty pink lips twitch, and soon she’s grinning down at me. I try returning her smile, but it feels clunky and unnatural.
“You’re kind of bossy,” she says, though she’s still grinning.
“What’s your name?” I blurt out as I stand up.
We’re close, much closer than I anticipated. She rests her palms on my chest, steadying herself. I wrap my hands around her hips, anchoring her to me.
She nibbles her bottom lip, her gaze dropping from mine. Interesting. She doesn’t know if she can trust me with her name. This woman must be in more trouble than I originally thought.
Without thinking, I tip her chin up with my thumb, then cup the side of her cheek. I don’t know what I’m doing or what to say, but I want to convince her she can tell me anything. She has no reason to trust me, but she has to feel this connection. Right? Am I going crazy? Maybe I’ve been cooped up in this lighthouse all alone for too long.
“Delaney,” she whispers, finally gifting me with her gorgeous eyes. She looks so vulnerable, so fucking beautiful and pure, I can hardly take a breath.
“Delaney,” I repeat in a whisper, feeling each syllable on my tongue.
I drop my hand from her face and take a step back. I don’t want to crowd her or make her uncomfortable. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing or how this woman got under my skin without even exchanging more than a handful of words.
Delaney sways toward me, then catches herself, leaning back on the counter instead. Did she want me to keep holding her? No, that’s just wishful thinking.
“Have you ever thought about planting some daffodils out front? Or wild roses? Oh! And tulips!”
I’m taken aback by her abrupt change of subject, but I try to form some sort of answer. “No.”Good one. That’ll charm her.
“Hmm,” she responds, nodding thoughtfully. “They would add a nice pop of color.”
I nod, unsure of how to follow up. God, I suck at personal interaction. There’s a reason I’m out on this rock and not in regular society.
“I’ve always wondered,” Delaney mercifully continues, “if lighthouses have to be painted with the red and white swirly stripes? Or can you do them in any color you want? Have you considered blue and yellow? Or maybe green and purple. But like a lime green. You know, to stand out for the boats to see.”
My lips pull into an easy smile as I watch her chatter away. I think I’d like to have her here in my kitchen asking me about lighthouse color palettes every single morning for the rest of my life.
“Red and white are standard, but the rules are much more relaxed these days.”
“Gotcha. Well, just something to consider, then.”
She shifts her weight from foot to foot, her fingers playing with the hem of the large shirt she’s wearing. Dammit, I’m being awkward, but I don’t know how to fix it.
“What are you working on?” I finally ask, fixing my gaze on the bowl sitting on the counter.
“Pancakes!” Delaney answers cheerfully, seemingly happy with something else to talk about.
“I have stuff to make pancakes?”
She laughs, the sound flitting through the air and brightening the stuffy space. “It just takes the basics. Sugar, flour, salt. Usually, there are eggs involved, but I couldn’t find any. I saw you had some applesauce in the pantry, however, which makes a great substitute. Plus, they’ll have a slight cinnamon apple taste.”
I stare at her thoughtfully. She might as well be speaking a foreign language.
Delaney must sense my confusion. She smiles again, then turns around and scoops up some of the batter, pouring it onto a preheated skillet I didn’t notice before. “Just trust me. It’ll be good.”
“I do,” I answer automatically.
She pauses, looking at me over her shoulder.