Page 43 of Lost in the Moonlight

My gaze widened. “Gallery?”

He chuckled and pointed past Remi’s and The Prince Darian to what used to be a custom bath shop. The owner had retired to Florida to be with her grandkids last year, and it had been empty ever since.

“I’m surprised it wasn’t in the papers,” I said, shaking my head.

“I bought it incognito. It’ll come out eventually, and it’ll draw people into the showroom when it does, but I’m hoping my peace will last a little longer.”

We walked in silence, and some of the strain left my shoulders as we reached the quiet of our street. Not a single soul was there, and it allowed me to forget everything else and just be in this moment with Lincoln. To savor it while it lasted.

The birds were twittering above us, and a colorful butterfly fluttered past, darting into the roses in a neighbor’s yard. Music drifted out an open window, a bright and uplifting pop tune.

Before I could register what was happening, Lincoln had whirled me into his arms and was dancing with me right there in the middle of the street. Our bodies were pressed up against each other, one of his hands was at the small of my back, and the other was cupping my neck. With an incredible amount of skill, he slid us together, grinding our hips, and causing every last bit of oxygen to leave my lungs.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I gasped.

“Dancing,” he said beaming down at me. “God, I’ve missed it.”

He spun me out and around, and when my feet didn’t quite catch up, when I might have fallen, he caught me and drew me impossibly closer.

I wasn’t much of a dancer. I hadn’t ever gone out clubbing or danced in public, but I wasn’t really sure this was dancing either.

These moves felt completely sensual. Each shift its own act of foreplay.

I’d never experienced anything like it.

I ignored the screaming at the back of my head telling me we were making a spectacle of ourselves. I didn’t care that we were out in public where anyone could see us. I didn’t care about anything but the way my body molded to his. How it fit. How it burst into heat and flame and want and need.

The song ended, quiet descended, and I might have made a deal with the devil to have it turn back on. To once again move to that erotic beat with him.

The pure pleasure on his face as he looked into my eyes sent another spike of lust to my already overheated body.

But his words broke the spell. “We should go dancing. Is there a club close by?”

I couldn’t go anywhere with Lincoln—certainly not to a club where dozens of people would see us, take pictures of him, and capture me at his side. Disappointment slid through me. A bitter taste of pure chocolate before it was combined with sugar to cut the edge.

I pulled away without answering him, and his smile disappeared. I hated I’d been the reason for it. Hated that I’d taken his joy and popped it like a water balloon, making it leak out on the street where it evaporated in the sunshine.

At my gate, I turned back, battling the need to do something—anything—to bring the smile back, warring with the desire to ask him inside. I wanted to offer him a cup of tea and ask a thousand questions about his gallery. I wanted to feel the warmth of his hands on me again, to feel the flare of attraction and lust and want, but I couldn’t.

So I’d simply tuck away this beautiful moment where I’d danced with a stunning man in the sunshine and hope it would be enough to last me until the pain of knowing him and being unable to keep him left.

“You’re staying in now? Making more of those desserts I’ve yet to sample?” he asked. And the way he looked at me, the way his eyes lingered on my mouth before journeying back up, sent all the fire and flames licking through me once more.

For a moment, I couldn’t find my voice, and when I did, it was breathless. “Yep. Staying in. I’ll make sure to save you some tom—”

“Do you know that car?” Lincoln demanded. Any ease he’d had left from our dance vanished as he shoved his chin in the direction of a gray sedan parked near the cemetery.

A cold disquiet crept over my spine at his tone and the question. I wasn’t exactly sure of the model, but it wasn’t any of our neighbors’ regular cars. I knew those like the back of my hand. But sometimes people dropped by the graveyard to pay their respects or wander the tombstones, many of which were as old as Cherry Bay itself.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to make out who was in the vehicle. It was impossible to tell if the person was a man or woman from this distance. It wasn’t Poco. Poco had a big beefy truck raised too high to be useful, and once in a while, I’d seen him drive up to the café on a motorcycle. He wouldn’t be caught dead in this banged-up car with its rusted hubcaps.

“I don’t know it,” I finally replied, trying to keep tension from my voice.

“That’s it. I’ve had enough,” Lincoln growled and started toward the car.

He’d only taken a couple of steps before the engine revved, and the car sped down the street with the driver turning their face away from us as they went by. My palms turned sweaty, and my vision swam.

It wasn’t Poco. And it wasn’t the Viceroys.

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