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Chapter 4: Little Bird

The man catches me before I can fall. The heat of his body is even more of a shock than the frigid water swirling around my legs. Warmth rushes through me, flooding the places where our bodies touch. His fingers burn like fire where they grip my arm.

I straighten abruptly, pulling my arm out of his grasp. I think I notice a hint of amusement in his face as I do so, but I ignore it, running my cold fingers over my skin, trying to chase away the feeling of his touch. My arm tingles.

This is what happens when you refuse human contact for so long, I lecture myself. You meet one attractive stranger and within minutes you're ready to melt into a puddle at his feet.

We wade the rest of the way to shore without a word.

When I'm fully out of the water and the breeze hits me, I shiver. The water was cold, but the way the wind sweeps over my skin is even worse. Even in summer, there's often a nip in the air.

He notices.

"I'd offer you my jacket," he says, "but I don't have one."

"You're right - you'd make a bad Prince Charming. You weren't prepared for this encounter at all."

"No, I definitely wasn't." He laughs, and once more that deep, thunderous sound stirs something in my belly.

I try to smile, but now I'm nervous again. Something about those dark, wild eyes makes me feel very exposed. "It's okay. I've got a change of clothes in my car."

I hobble a few steps up the bank in my bare feet, trying to avoid any sharp stones or sticks. I've only made it a few paces before he comes up behind me.

"There's one way I can help," he says.

Before I can respond, he grabs me and sweeps me off my feet, lifting me in his arms. It catches me by surprise, and I go rigid as my heart careens madly against my ribs. Heat blooms in my body again, spreading through me from where my side is pressed against his chest.

He pauses, looking down at me. I can feel the hard muscles of his arms all around me, holding me as if I weigh nothing at all.

"Do you want me to put you down, little bird?" he asks.

I realize I must be staring up at him like a terrified rabbit. Part of me wants to nod yes, to ask him to put me down and put an end to the flurry of sensations in my chest. But the other part of me - the part that's lonely and starved for human contact - wins out. I shake my head.

He smiles, and it's a wolfish, mischievous smile that makes him look wicked and devastatingly handsome at the same time. He begins walking up the bank, and I find myself relaxing slightly. My fingers grab his shirt.

His body is so warm. It's probably just because I'm soaked from head to toe in icy river water, but the reason doesn't matter. I want to lean deeper into him, but I resist.

"I don't even know your name," I say abruptly. If I know his name, he won't be a complete stranger anymore, and somehow that makes this a little better.

He doesn't answer right away, and when I glance up, I find him staring down at me with a curious look on his face.

Funny. I didn't think it was that weird of a question. But maybe he wants to keep this anonymous. Maybe he really is a murderer and he doesn't want to tell me who he is, just in case I escape or something.

But before my mind can dive too deeply into serial killer anxieties, he says, "Most people call me Rafe."

"Rafe," I repeat. "That's an unusual name. Is it short for something?"

He gives me another look, but this one is more amused than anything else. "Yeah. Short for Raphael."

"Even more unusual." But people name their kids all sorts of weird things out in California. I shouldn't be that surprised.

"All right, little bird," he says. "What's your name, then? If you find mine so weird?"

It's only fair for him to ask me my name in return, but I still feel a little nervous answering.

"Edie," I tell him.

"Is that short for something?"

"Edith."

"And you don't think that is an unusual name?" He laughs, and the sound reverberates through me.

"I'm named after my great-grandmother," I say. "It's a little outdated, but I like it. It's one of the few things my mom gave me that I still have." I don't mean to bring up my mom to him, but the words just slipped out before I knew what I was saying.

It doesn't faze him. "Well, the name suits you, little bird."

I could listen to him speak all day. Especially if he keeps calling me little bird. The endearment rolls off his tongue like a rich, velvety purr. I want to lean my head against his chest, to feel that purr vibrate through my bones, but I don't. He still might be a murderer.

A beautiful, intriguing murderer.

His feet crunch over leaves and twigs as he carries me back up the bank. He shows no signs of exertion at all - I might as well be half my size. Or an apple pie.

"Can I ask you something?" he says. "Why were you singing a song about rain back there? Is that some sort of weird Montanan thing?"

"No," I say. "No, it was just a song I know."

"Interesting."

I frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. It was just an interesting song."

The word interesting seems to be hiding a lot of other things. I find myself needing to defend the song.

"It might be interesting to you, but it's special to me. My mom used to sing it to me. She made up songs about lots of things."

My voice must give something away, because he looks down at me. He doesn't say anything, though.

"You know what? I'll walk from here," I say. "You can put me down." The car is only fifteen feet away, and this all suddenly feels too intimate. I didn't mean to keep mentioning my mom to a complete stranger. Heck, I don't think I've ever mentioned my mom to anyone back in town.

The man - Rafe, I remind myself - sets me back down on my feet. But he follows me as I stumble delicately toward my car.

"Did something happen to her?" he asks. "Your mother?"

I hate him for asking that question. He's a stranger - it's none of his business.

But he's a stranger, the voice in my head tells me. Who cares if he knows? Unlike everyone in this town, he'll be out of my life again in a few minutes. There's no reason to keep any secrets.

And the part of me that has kept her hidden away for the last ten years really needs to tell someone. To make her real again, if only for a moment. I may not have known Rafe even an hour ago, but for some reason, looking into his eyes, I find myself trusting him.

"She died," I say. "Over a decade ago." I try, but I can't bring myself to say more than that.

Rafe considers this, and his gaze travels over me again.

"You must have been young," he says.

"Nineteen."

"I can't imagine."

"Today is the anniversary of her death." The words come out in a rush. "Most of the time I get on just fine, but today...I just miss her a lot."

I turn back toward my car, hiding my face from him. I'm torn between chastising myself for oversharing with a complete stranger and feeling relief at finally talking about this out loud to a real person.

My mom is gone. I'm on my own.

He's quiet, and he seems to be waiting for me to go on. I dip my fingers into my pocket, fumbling for my keys as I consider whether or not I want to say any more. But my pocket is empty.

"Crap," I say. I reach into my other pocket, but I know it will be empty, too. I always keep my keys in my right pocket. "I lost my keys."

And there's only one place that could have happened.

Grimacing, I turn back to face the river. Somewhere in that wide expanse of water is a small ring with half a dozen keys. Keys to my car, my house, the diner...everything in my life.

I stumble back over the uneven ground. Rafe follows me.

"You're going back in?" he says.

"I kinda have to. Unless I never want to use my car or enter my house again." I wade into the river, sucking in a breath at the sharp coldness of the water. When I get home, the first thing I'm going to do is take a long, hot bath.

I hear splashing behind me, and when I turn, Rafe has also waded into the river again.

"You don't have to do this," I say. "You probably need to be getting to work soon, anyway." The sun is getting higher every minute.

"This is much more entertaining than work," he says.

"Won't you get fired if you don't show up?"

He shrugs. "Let them fire me if they want, little bird." He pauses. "Unless you want me to go?"

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