Page 79 of Double Bucked

He touches the cover. He has large hands, with fingers that touch both corners of the book, adjusting it to line up with the table. “It doesn’t. It’s mine.”

I blink at him. He has black, curly hair. A clean shave. A nice, crisp suit. He looks like he stepped off the cover of a Fortune magazine…not the type of man to be caught dead reading middle grade animal fantasy.

I tell him, “No one writes about?—”

“Heroes anymore,” he finishes my thought. “I know.”

Those blue eyes meet mine. I’m burning again, but this heat rides lower.

He pushes the book back toward me.

“Hold on to it. It should be in the hands of someone who loves it.”

“But you’re reading it.”

“I’ve read it already.”

“Still. I have a copy at?—”

I almost say it.

Home.

But the Preacher Ranch hasn’t been my home for three years. And it won’t ever be again. My tongue stumbles over my words.

So why do I still find myself reaching for it like an amputee trying to scratch a phantom limb?

My handsome stranger cocks his head. “Can I get you a tea?”

“I have a cup.”

“Then what would be an acceptable way to convince you to spend more time with me?”

I can’t help the smile that lifts my lips. My skin, no longer used to the sensation, feels tight at the edges of my mouth. “You can sit.”

He does. I extend a hand. “Claire Preacher.”

“Claire.” He says my name like a prayer. He takes my hand. “James Calloway.”

26

CLAIRE

Now.

Through the throbbing pressure of my headache, the muddled sound of arguing comes into focus.

I’m lying across the hard leather of my father’s couch.

There are voices. Two voices, arguing back and forth.

“—can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous.”

“The way I see it, seems like danger follows you around like a goddamn stray cat on a fisherman.”

“Quiet,” I say, and they shut up.

Ransom crouches down in front of me. “You okay? Are you hurt?”

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