Sighs Matter by Marianne Stillings

argument end until you’ve won, do you?”
    He leaned toward her. With a grin Claire would have considered charming on any other man, he said, “Were we arguing just now? And more importantly, did I win?”
    Claire eased herself back in her chair. “You try to be a bully, but I know for a fact you have a sensitive side.”
    He sent her a wary look, as though he was trying to figure out where she was going with this. Finally, he said slowly, “I cry at sad movies, if that’s what you mean. You know at the end of Homeward Bound , when that old dog comes limping over the hill, and the kid runs—”
    “That’s not what I mean, but thank you for sharing.” She pursed her lips. “I’m talking about the paintings.”
    He blinked. “What paintings?”
    “The two oils in the guest room, the paintings along the second floor hall and down the stairs, and that magnificent Remington-esque over the fireplace.”
    His eyes downcast, he fiddled with his spoon. “You . . . think it’s magnificent?”
    She nodded enthusiastically and sat forward in her chair. “Really, Taylor, I do. All the paintings are beautiful, stunning.”
    He took in a deep breath. Was it her imagination, or was he blushing?
    “You have an amazing talent,” she went on. “You must have had art teachers who told you so. Why didn’t you pursue it? Why didn’t you become an artist instead of a police officer?”
    Taylor still didn’t look at her. With a casual shrug, he said, “It’s just a hobby. Helps me unwind.” He raised his eyes to hers. “How’d you know I painted them? They’re not signed.”
    “Yes they are.”
    He lifted his chin. “Yeah?”
    “In the bottom right-hand corner,” she said, “there’s a tiny TSMc scribbled into the oil. A person could miss it if they didn’t know what to look for.”
    “And you know.”
    Picking up her empty bowl, she walked to the sink. “There is no way you would ever paint anything so awesome and not want to take credit for it. Soldier said something once about you being a good artist, but I thought he was just being kind.”
    Tossing his spoon onto the table, Taylor leaned back in his chair. “If you think that shows you know me, Dr. Hunter, think again.”
    Claire rolled her eyes. “Well, excuse me, Mr. Macho Arrogant Keep Away From Me Hotshot Typical Stupid Male. Complimenting your talent was not a come-on.”
    Fuming, she turned, scrubbed the bowl and spoon she’d used, dried them, and put them in the cupboard. “There. Now you only have four hundred and ninety-nine things to wa— What are you doing?”
    He rose from the table and began stalking toward her.
    “Okay, fine,” she stated flatly, lifting her hands as a barrier against him. “Your paintings suck, you no-talent dilettante. Happy now?”
    He stopped two feet in front of her, grasped her by the wrists, and held her in place. The heat of his body kept coming, though, wrapping her in warmth like an invisible embrace.
    “I like that you like my paintings,” he whispered.
    Though she wanted to speak, words wouldn’t come. The strength of his fingers gripping her wrists, the aroma of his soap coupled with the muskier scent of his clean body, the fiery blue of his eyes, combined to render her mute.
    He released her, stepping away, and she felt suddenly cold, as if the sun had left the sky.
    She realized she wanted to touch him, call him back, but he moved beyond the reach of her outstretched hand. She thought to call his name, but before she could speak, he said, “Finish up and get your stuff. I have a few hours’ work to do, then I’ll take you back to Port Henry. On the way, I want to check out your accident scene. And we can talk some more about what happened.”
    She furrowed her brow and nodded agreement.
    We can talk some more about what happened . Which what happened? she wondered. What happened between them eight months ago? What happened yesterday when she was forced off the road? Or what was undeniably happening