Mia leaned back against the trunk of the tree, the rough bark biting into her shoulder blades as she strained to hear every word filtering through the speakers of Andrew's phone. The conversation in Claire's family home had shifted after breakfast, moving from the dining room to what she assumed was a more private area of the house.
Through the binoculars, she could barely make out Claire's father, a stern man with a no-nonsense demeanor, leading Claire towards a room at the far end of the hallway. "Mia, your turn," Andrew whispered, nudging her gently as he passed the binoculars back to her.
She took them, brushing her fingers against his, a slight jolt of warmth running through her despite the cold morning air. They still hadn't talked about what they were to each other, or their history, in fact they did everything but talk. But every touch, every glance, seemed to carry a charge that neither of them was ready to address openly. Not yet.
