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EVIE'S HEART WAS ON FIRE when the redhead boy gives her one of the softest smiles she's ever seen from a boy, and brushes his hand over the orange ribbon tied to the basket of cookies.
So close, so close.
So soft, so soft.
So tentative, so tentative.
Evie's head spins. She sees a mix of blazing orange, and it's not the bow on the basket. It's the boy in front of her. Widely, he looks like Icarus, flying too close to the sun, and if she could, she'd stop him from making the biggest mistake of his life.
Getting close to her.
Getting close means he'll burn. Getting close means she'll burn, like his candle wax wings, and feathery light touch on the orange ribbon. Getting too close, means, he'll fall out of the sky from her burning heart, not full of summer after glows, but whiling with grief that allows her heart to burn with a thousand candles burning into night.
Too get too close.
You will fall out of the sky, and my grief for my brother will destroy your beautiful wings.
But he didn't have wings. He had lovely hands. Pale, with freckles, and they were strong, manly, and so warm, like he was burning up. He clears his throat, and smiles again, at Evie, who's indecisive. She wants more than anything in this world to open her heart to someone— someone as beautiful as Jacob Faith, but she cannot allow herself the luxury.
Opening up means letting someone in. Opening up means letting him see her true feelings. And she didn't think she'd be ready. How could she? She was a girl hiding her grief by baking cookies, and through the art of paints, music, and quiet conversations with herself at midnight.
Then she realises what the redhead boy said. And starts to laugh.
It was as soft as hay his horse grazed on, and up this close, he could see her brown eyes start to have light into them.
Oh.
Jacob gulps.
Damn, have I messed this up already?
"Yes, I am British, but no, I am not related to the Queen. That's like me asking you if you are related to Ronald Weasley because you have red hair."
The boy blushed. Why was he freaking blushing? His face feels beetroot red. And Evie set down the basket of cookies to take a seat on one of the sofas in Cora's living room.
"You didn't come all the way for cookies, did you?" she asks after a moment of silence. "Cora, invited you here on purpose didn't she?"
This girl is sharp-witted. And his mouth dried up. He needs liquid. Water—coffee Cora was taking too long to make, or a glass of dutch courage. He did not want to mess this up.
