''I'm going to kiss you,'' he whispers, and he takes my bottom lip between his. His hand grazes my throat, gentle and light.
I fist his shirt, pulling him closer so his head tilts, his tongue touching the roof of my mouth.
My hands slip under his s...
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chapter five
"Good morning!" Pat says, opening my door holding a large tin tray. When he walked to my bed, he sets it between us and sits. On it rests two glasses of orange juice, two pieces of toast with cinnamon sugar, and a grilled cheese sandwich cut in half diagonally.
"Breakfast of champions," I say. "You didn't have to do all this. And aren't I too pudgy?"
He points to the fresh glasses. "Orange juice is made from fruit."
I can't help my groggy smile. "Well okay. Did you just get home?" I ask, noting his blue work shirt.
"Cleaned the hospital bathrooms all night. Veena kept me supplied with coffee and bran muffins, so it was one of my better shifts," says Pat. I fake gag and he croaks a laugh, patting my crossed knee.
"Any word from Detective Hope?" I venture, just like I have every day these past three weeks.
Pat shakes his head. "You know I'd tell you if I heard anything."
"When you hear something," I say.
"Of course, Ember. When I hear something," he says, "I'll tell you."
I nod and poke around the food on the flat tin platter on my unmade bed.
"You alright today, sweetheart?" Pat asks.
"Yeah," I yawn. "Just pretty tired."
"Eat something so you feel better," he says, grabbing cinnamon toast for himself and taking a large bite.
I concede and take one-half of the grilled cheese and a glass of orange juice. "Thanks for all this."
We sit, eating, drinking, and half-heartedly joking about how unhealthy our food is until I finally feel awake. My uncle, on the other hand, is having a hard time keeping his eyes open.
"I'm going to settle in for some sleep, alright?" he says, gathering our dishes. The glasses and plates clink against the tin platter. "You study hard today. Promise?"
"Promise," I say, crossing my heart. Pat leans down to place a rough kiss on my hair. When he straightens, his bushy grey brows are sewn together.
He tries to smile, but it slips sideways from his cracked lips under that wiry grey moustache.
As Pat's almost out the door with the platter of dishes, I straighten up, pulling my covers onto my shoulders and over my baggy red tee shirt.
"Wait," I call after him so that he turns around. "I was wondering if it would be okay to play some guitar songs. You know, just for fun. I know I'm not good at it, but..." I swallow the lump in my throat. "You know, because it's Henry's guitar and I wanted to make sure—"
