Page 9 of Hemlock

I pull in a deep breath and make my way to the far side of the long table of rushing water. Why do people always think that their insecurities are caused by people outside of their situation when, more often than not, their problems are the ones under the same roof as them? I guess it's easier to project and blame people you don't know rather than have the courage to speak up when things aren't right. I know it was easier for me.

I plan to sift through my bucket in sections, but the entire contents of the small pail fall out in a large clump the second I tip it over the framed sifting box. I frown down at it, the water under the box already revealing the tiny treasures.

I wince at the cold the second my fingers touch the water as I try to urge the clumps of sand to fully release.

I lift my gaze, watching others as they lift their boxes and swish it back and forth, and I mimic their actions. The sand washes away, disappearing into a hole at the very end of the table where I have no doubt it's collected and used to refill the pails.

Disappointment fills my chest as I look around and see others lifting massive rocks and stones into the air in celebration. That's why you get the bigger pails. This is a classic you get what you pay for situation, and although I know I have no right to be upset, I realize that maybe I, like the little boy who was in line behind me, too, wanted diamonds.

The growl of a motorcycle pulls my attention as I gather my paltry treasures into the bag provided, but the sound disappears before I can spot the bike.

It's the third time today I've heard the sound. It drew my attention, knowing that the stranger who sat and stared at me for hours last night was the one who parked in The Lost Kitten's parking lot. Motorcycles never even registered to me before then, and knowing my track record, I should probably ignore them now.

My hands feel frostbitten as I complete my collection and head toward the store the clerk told me about, but I doubt I have anything worth turning into jewelry. The idea of watching them make a ring or necklace out of something I dug out of sand sounds pretty neat.

Once I step inside the store, I lift my hands to my mouth, blowing warm air onto them in an effort to get them to warm up. The tip of my shoe catches on the threshold, forcing me to make an embarrassing grand entrance into the building, all because standing not fifteen feet away is the scowling stranger from the bar.

He looks up at me, but instead of being surprised to see me like I am him, he looks a little frustrated.

I fully expect him to turn and walk away, but he surprises me further by waving me to him, like he's been waiting for me.

"Can you help me?"

His voice is gruff, almost as if he doesn't use it very often. I know my body is deprived when the sound of it makes my thoughts head a little further south than they have any business going.

I look down at his hands, seeing the tiny little soapstone figures resting in his massive hand.

"I don't even know your name," I tell him stupidly, feeling a wash of guilt for the images those thick fingers bring to mind.

"I don't know your name either."

I roll my lips between my teeth to keep the smile off my face. It has only seemed to annoy him when he sees it in the bar.

"I'm Zara," I offer, but he just blinks at me as if he's surprised I offered him the information. "Zara Hailey."

"Owen Clark," he says after a long beat of thick silence.

I don't offer my hand for him to shake like I normally would because, at this point and with the insanity in my head where he's concerned right now, I don't think it's a good idea to make any sort of contact with his skin.

The name Owen seems a little too simple for a man like him, but then again, Zara is rather exotic, all things considered. Since this is the first time I've really been in public in the last couple of months, I guess my name doesn't fit me either. It's better served by someone who lives daily adventures, not one who turned down the use of a coupon fifteen minutes ago because she decided rocks were a good idea to cut her teeth on as a newly single woman in a new town. Call the cops. She's getting crazy, folks!

Instead of speaking again, he simply stares at me like he did for hours last night, only now, in the light of day, with normal people swirling around the two of us, it feels different.

I turn to walk away, not one to stick around when I know I'm not wanted, but he touches my arm, freezing me in place.

I can feel the warmth of his skin through my jacket, the heat of it radiating through my forearm.

My first instinct is to grab both of his hands and force him to sandwich mine in between because I can hardly feel my fingertips, but I imagine that wouldn't be received very well.

I look over at him, noticing now that I'm so close to him by just how far I have to look up to see his face. I feel like prey with the way he's looking down at me and make a mental note to evaluate the fact that the idea of that sends a thrill of adventure up my spine at a later time.

"I need your help," he says, sounding annoyed by the confession.

He pulls his hand away, muttering an apology. I want to ask him what he's sorry about. Does he regret touching me? Does he feel like he should ask permission?

I frown at the thought of the second one. I don't want to be manhandled but, at the same time, what woman wants to always be asked permission before being touched?

I pull in a ragged breath as I turn to face him fully once again, but I also take a step back to put a little distance between the two of us. Of course, he apologized for touching me. There's not even a friendship between the two of us. He never should've reached out and touched me. Speaking my name would've been enough to stop me in my tracks and garner all my attention.

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