“If you think I’m heading in there to open a vent, think again,” she muttered. It would be simple enough to temporarily ward off the chill by adjusting her own temperature. Simpler still, since it wasn’t likely to warm up any time soon, to put on a second sweater.
Rummaging through the pile of clothes on the floor, she realized she hadn’t done laundry since she’d arrived. Fully aware that, in time, she wouldn’t think twice about wearing an orange sweater over a purple turtleneck with navy sweats—as they aged, surviving Keepers grew less and less concerned with how the rest of the world perceived them—Claire tried not to think about how she looked as she shoved dirty clothes into a pillowcase.
“Running away to the circus?” Austin asked testily, emerging from under a carelessly thrown fold of blanket.
“Doing laundry,” she told him, jumping off the chair with three socks and a bra she’d found on top of the wardrobe.
He stretched out a foreleg and critically examined a spotless, white paw. “Well, you know, I hadn’t wanted to say anything…”
“Then don’t.”
Hearing Claire descend to the basement, Dean gratefully left off his attempt to fit old lengths of baseboard into the new dimensions of the dining room and followed. To his surprise, he found her stuffing clothes into the washing machine. Taking in the layered sweaters, he realized she had no intention of turning up the heat. He couldn’t say that he blamed her. “Did you, uh, need help with that, then?” he asked when she turned and flashed him an inquiring glance.
“I can manage, thank you.”
About to mention that she should sort her colors, Dean forced himself to hold his tongue. Maybe Keepers never ended up with gray underwear.
She looked different. For the first time since she’d arrived, he was seeing her without makeup. Without the artfully defined shadows, she seemed younger, softer, less ready to take on the world. A sudden image of her riding into battle in the traditional, Saturday-afternoon-Western warpaint made him smile.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing.”
“If it’s the clothes, I don’t usually dress like this.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Except he had. “You mean the sweaters.” He pulled at the waistband of his Hyperion Oil Fields sweatshirt “I could go out and buy some electric heaters.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed. Obviously Augustus Smythe had never used electric heaters, or there’d be some already in the building. “No. Thank you.” She closed the lid of the washing machine, started the cycle, and turned to face the furnace room door. “I’ll go in and adjust the vents.”
“I wasn’t criticizing.”
“I never said you were.”
“I understand why you don’t want to go in.”
Her chin lifted. “Who says I don’t want to go in?”
“The sweaters…”
“I was referring to the color combination.”
“The colors?”
“That’s right. But since you’re cold…”
“I never said I was cold.”
“Then why offer to buy heaters?”
“I thought you were cold.”
“I never said I was cold.”
“No, but the sweaters…”
“Oh, I see. Well, if I can’t put on a sweater without people thinking I can’t do my job, maybe we’d just better get a little heat in here. And no, I don’t need you to go with me,” she added, crossing to the turquoise steel door. The chains were heavier than they looked and made ominous rattling sounds as she dragged them free, indignation lending strength. About to drop them to one side, a large hand reached over her shoulder and effortlessly lifted them from her grip.
“I’ll hang these here, on the hooks, where they go.”
“Fine.” Claire pressed her right palm against the steel, a little surprised at how warm it was until she realized that her exposed skin had chilled to the point where an Eskimo Pie would’ve seemed toasty. In fact, she could feel the heat radiating off of Dean and he was standing…
She turned to face him, and her eyes widened.
…rather temptingly close. Her breathing quickened as her hindbrain made a detailed suggestion. “Hey! Get out of my head!”
WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU DIDN’T COME UP WITH THAT ON YOUR OWN?
“Most people’s joints don’t bend that way.”
THEY DON’T?
“Get out!”
“Instead of lurking around down here, go up to the dining room and let me know when there’s heat coming through the register.”
Dean hesitated. “You’ll be all right, then?”
“Augustus Smythe adjusted these vents for fifty years and he was…”
The realization of what Augustus Smythe was, or at least of what he’d become, filled the narrow space between them.
“…a Cousin,” Claire finished. “I am a Keeper.” She turned back toward the door and took a deep breath. Then another.
“They say that as long as it’s sealed, it’s perfectly safe.”
Tapping her nails against the heavy latch handle, she snorted. “Who says?”
“You did.”
Hard to argue with such an unquestionable source. “Just yell down the register,” she said, shoving open the furnace room door. “I’ll hear you.” She paused, one foot over the threshold. All things considered, it might be best to tie up loose ends before she went any farther. “Dean?”
“Yeah, Boss?”
“Thanks.”
Anyone else would’ve asked her what for, and then she’d have had to face Hell with a caustic comment still warming her lips. Anyone else.
He smiled. “You’re welcome.”
By mid-morning the hotel had warmed about ten degrees, Dean had discovered how the pieces of baseboard fit together, Austin had eaten breakfast, made his morning visit to Baby, and gone back to bed, and Claire had been forced to spend half an hour leaning over the dryer.
“I don’t understand,” Dean had said earnestly, checking out the machine after the third time it had shut off. “It’s never done this before.” After a moment’s rummaging behind the switch with a variety of screwdrivers, he’d replaced the cover and added, “There’s nothing wrong. Try again.”
The dryer had worked perfectly while they were there, but the moment Claire had stepped off the basement stairs and out into the first floor hall, it had stopped. “Never mind,” she’d grumbled as Dean moved back
