He ducked his head. “There’s something about you. I can’t explain it.”
“I feel it too.” She reached for his broad and powerful chest and held him. When she opened her eyes and looked over his shoulder, she saw some small figurines on the fireplace mantel. “That’s weird,” she said.
He looked behind him. “What is it?”
“On your mantel.” There were figures of caribou and wolves on the shelf. In the middle was a small statue—a religious icon. Catholic, judging by the mitre and crozier. How did she know that? She pointed up at the statuette. “Where did you get this?” she asked.
Charles looked over. “My father left it for me. It’s been in the family for generations.”
It clicked. “He’s in my granny’s notebook.”
He stood up, grabbed the figurine and brought it down to show her. “It’s Saint Patrick.”
When her fingers touched his, something sparked, electricity jolting up her arm. She couldn’t pull her hand back—it was stuck. The statuette held them together, pulsing energy between the two of them, her sitting on the couch, him standing and reaching out to her. They were caught in an arc and couldn’t move. They both stood still, transfixed, their feet glued to the floor.
Her arms were tingling, but it didn’t hurt. As the energy pulsed between them, all barriers fell down. Chantelle was laid bare. No hiding, no secrets, no excuses. Just the two of them, facing each other and knowing they were connected. Physically, emotionally, psychically connected.
She couldn’t think. She couldn’t speak. But she wasn’t afraid. She dropped the figurine and reached for him.
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