“Yes?”
“You’re standing close.”
“I noticed.”
He swallowed.
“You do realize people in town talk.”
“They already do.”
“About Daniel Marsh.”
“I know.”
Thomas looked away.
Daniel Marsh.
Twenty-eight.
Prosperous.
Educated.
Good family.
All the things Thomas would have chosen for Margaret if anybody had asked him what kind of man she deserved.
Margaret lightly caught the edge of Thomas’s leather vest.
He looked back.
Her voice softened.
“Is that what this is?”
“What?”
“You think Daniel makes more sense.”
Thomas laughed once.
“Anybody with arithmetic thinks Daniel makes more sense.”
Margaret’s gaze did not move.
“And what do you think?”
Thomas opened his mouth.
Nothing useful arrived.
Margaret smiled faintly.
“That’s what I thought.”
She picked up the pie from his hand and set it on the porch railing.
Thomas watched her.
“Why’d you do that?”
“The pie was between us.”
His eyebrows rose.
Margaret stepped closer.
Now there was barely enough space for cold air.
Thomas’s hand, almost without permission, settled against the fitted curve of her waist.
He felt her inhale.
He immediately started to remove it.
Margaret caught his wrist.
Thomas froze.
She guided his hand back.
That was more dangerous than anything she could have said.
“Margaret.”
“Yes?”
His voice lowered.
“You know what happens if I stop pretending you’re just my neighbor?”
She looked up into his eyes.
“I have been hoping you would figure that out for approximately three years.”
Thomas stared.
The porch became very quiet.
Wind moved through the grass.
A horse shook its mane near the far fence.
Somewhere behind the barn, a loose piece of tin clicked softly.
Thomas’s thumb moved once along Margaret’s waist.
She leaned slightly closer.
Their mouths were only inches apart.
Then Thomas stepped back.
Margaret blinked.
Hurt crossed her face quickly enough that Thomas hated himself for causing it.
He set both hands on the porch railing.
“I can’t.”
Margaret’s expression cooled.
“Can’t?”
Thomas looked at her.
“You’re twenty-five.”
“I’m aware.”
“I’m fifty-five.”
“I’m aware of that too.”
“Margaret.”
“What?”
“Thirty years.”
“Yes.”
Thomas shook his head.
“You say it like thirty years is the same as thirty feet.”
“No.”
She folded her arms.
“I say it like I already know how numbers work.”
Thomas looked toward the field.
“You deserve more time than I can promise.”
Margaret’s anger softened slightly.
“So that’s it.”
“What?”
“You’re afraid.”
Thomas turned back.
“I’m being realistic.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
He stared.
Margaret continued.
“You think because something may hurt later, it should never exist now.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No?”