Tess grinned again. Most people stoked her anger, if anything – one wrong word from a stranger, or Fabian, or even her sisters sometimes, could set her in a simmering rage for the rest of the day. But Declan, never: it was difficult to keep the anger rolling when he was there as a buffer, with his easy presence and his gentle eyes.
“Hang on,” she said, squinting as an artist might, indulging herself mostly to make him suffer; she reached up overhead to adjust the pages from their last print job hanging to dry on the lines above their heads, and then put a hand to his shoulder to twist his stance slightly, so that the sunlight from the window hit the papers from behind and lit up the white behind his head with an almost-glow. “Okay, I see it. It’s a little rectangular,” she joked, releasing his shoulder, “but it’s there.”
“Hang on,” she said, squinting as an artist might, indulging herself mostly to make him suffer; she reached up overhead to adjust the pages from their last print job hanging to dry on the lines above their heads, and then put a hand to his shoulder to twist his stance slightly, so that the sunlight from the window hit the papers from behind and lit up the white behind his head with an almost-glow. “Okay, I see it. It’s a little rectangular,” she joked, releasing his shoulder, “but it’s there.”
