I stood in the hallway and trembled, feeling the tension rise in the unseen room. But Kisten’s voice was gentle now that he’d gotten her to admit her feelings. “You should tell her that,” he continued softly.

Ivy sniffed, half in sorrow, half in bitter amusement. “I just did. She’s in the hall.”

I sucked in my breath and jerked upright.

“Shit,” Kisten said, his voice panicked. “Rachel?”

Pulling up my shoulders, I raised my chin and went into the kitchen. Kisten scuffed to a halt in the hall, and tension slammed into me. His lanky build, wide shoulders, and my favorite red silk shirt took up the archway. He had on boots, and they looked good peeping from under his jeans. His bracelet felt heavy on me, and I twisted it, wondering if I should take it off.

“Rachel, I didn’t know you were there,” he said, his face creased. “I’m sorry. You aren’t a toy that I have to ask Ivy’s permission to play with.”

I kept my back to him, shoulders stiff while I opened the canvas sack and took things out. Leaving the cheese, mushrooms, and the pineapple where they were, I strode to the pantry, hanging my grocery bag up on the hook I’d nailed in yesterday. Images of Ivy’s comfortable room, of Kisten’s face, his body, the way he felt under my fingers, the way he made me feel, all flashed through me. Pace stilted, I went to the stove and took the lid off the sauce. Steam billowed up, the rising scent of tomato making the wisps of my hair drift. I stirred without seeing as he came up behind me. “Rachel?”

My breath came out, and I held the next one. I was so confused.

Softly—almost not there—Kisten put a hand on my shoulder. Tension slipped from me, and sensing it, he leaned until his body pressed against my back. His arms went around me, imprisoning me, and my motions to stir the pot stilled. “She knew the moment I came in,” I said.

“Probably,” he whispered into my ear.

I wondered where Ivy was—if she had stayed in the living room or fled the church entirely, shamed that she had needs and fears like the rest of us. Kisten took the spoon from me, setting it between the burners before turning me around. I pulled my eyes to his, not surprised to see them narrow with concern. The glow from the overhead light shimmered on his day-old stubble, and I touched it because I could. His arms were about my waist, and he gave a tug, settling me closer into him. “What she can’t say to your face, she’ll say when she knows you’re listening,” he said. “It’s a bad habit she picked up in therapy.”