Earth Colors Read Online Free

label DO NOT TOUCH.
    I greeted her kicks with a jagged sense of frustration, still tense from my meeting with Frank, and—not for the first time—wondering how a child I so deeply loved could snap me over the brink from frustration into seething annoyance with such terrifying speed. I stuck a finger back over my shoulder for her to grab, but she rejected my feeble maneuvers and instead leaned in the opposite direction, attempting to launch herself over the top of the frame. I tried the old bouncing up and down gambit, but she continued to fight against her shoulder harness, and in the process managed to grab herself a good handful of my hair and give it a yank.
    “Sloane, honeycup,” I gasped, “that’s not how to put Auntie Emmy in a nice mood, now, is it?” I reached back with both hands and tried to loose my hair from her grip, but she managed to work her hands free of the little mittens that were clipped to the cuffs of her snowsuit and had twined her sticky little fingers tight against my scalp.
    “Sloane . .”
    The baby answered with something that sounded like a miniature motorboat trying to find its way through mud as she twisted her handful, this time putting particular stress on a few hairs, which hurt much worse than an even strain across a fistful.
    “Sloane!” I screeched, my voice rising in pitch despite all attempts to keep in mind that the source of my agony was an infant who had—through innocence and curiosity—got her neurologically immature fingers stuck in my hair and not a demon from some parallel dimension who was systematically probing for the one stimulus I found most irritating.
    “Let me help,” came a man’s voice from behind me. “Tickle, tickle, tickle,” he added, before I could turn to see who was speaking.
    Sloane giggled and let go of my hair with little more than a parting tug.
    I glanced over my shoulder so that I could see my saviour. And jerked with surprise, because the man was standing only inches from me, staring at me through pale gray eyes that flashed like ice.
    Overwhelmed to find anyone that close, especially someone with such
a disconcerting gaze, I turned around and stepped back, moving away from him.
    He stepped forward, continuing to play with the baby.
    I did not like this. Strangers fiddling with one’s baby, or one’s buddy’s baby was not all right—a phrase that, as a newly minted childcare-giver, I had recently added to my repertoire. I gave Gray Eyes a look that said Back off .
    Instead of backing off, he shifted his gaze to me, and studied my face just as candidly as he would have done if I were a piece of sculpture on exhibit, his lips relaxing into a dreamy smile.
    Okay, if you won’t back off, I will , I decided, and eased my weight onto the leg that was farther from him. I clicked down a mental list, assessing him: White. Male. Moderate height and build. American. Northeastern, judging by his accent. Upper-class preppie, judging by his clothing and mannerisms. And not quite on the planet, judging by his presumption in staring at me like this!
    He continued to stare at me, so I stared back. I had met a great variety of strange people in my day, but a presentable, well-to-do white male who stares fixedly at women and children in art museums was new to me. He appeared to be in his early forties (about five years older than me), and had the first smattering of gray hairs amd lines around his eyes and mouth to prove it. His grooming was impeccable, right down to the perfect haircut and subtle scent of expensive toiletries. He was dressed in a comfortable-looking tweed jacket, a nice flannel shirt and blue jeans. He was not local: cowboys do not wear that kind of jacket, their jeans fit a darn sight tighter, and they do not wear flannel shirts—even expensive Abercrombie & Fitch jobs like this one—to visit museums. No, I decided that rig suggests that he formed his sense of style within striking distance of the East Coast boarding school from