Page 57 of Stolen Dreams

In a cream-colored bohemian dress, Kaya is a vision. The epitome of confident and casual. Beautiful. Breathtaking.

Tucker squeezes my hand, releases it, and runs off to greet her.

Not wanting to make a fool of myself, I put one foot in front of the other and make my way to her.

Hair in soft waves down her back, she tucks a lock behind her ear as Tucker reaches her. A hint of kohl lines her eyes and makes her coppery-brown irises pop more than usual. A thin layer of gloss on her lips makes them look plumper. Mouthwatering. Luscious.

Memories of kissing her flood in, and my breath catches, my tongue heavy as I swallow against the dryness in my throat. I lick my lips, and the reminder of her taste is a new spark to the wildfire dancing over my skin, an additional whoosh, whoosh, whoosh to my pulse. But it’s not until I recall her weight against me, her grip on my shirt as she pulled me closer, that a deep ache throbs in my groin.

Will the sight of her always make me react like this? Unequivocally, yes.

“Unusakut,” she greets as I sidle up to her.

“What’s that mean?” Tucker asks, his brows scrunched together.

“Tucker,” I chide.

Kaya chuckles as she rests a hand on my forearm. “It’s fine.” Her smile steals my breath for a moment before she turns to Tucker. “I said good afternoon.”

Eyes narrowed, lips puckered, Tucker nods then relaxes his pensive expression. “That’s dope, Miss Kaya.”

The sun glints her glossy lips, and I can’t take my eyes off her mouth.

“I think so, too. Learning the language where my family comes from is fun but hard. Some words are easier than others.”

Tucker’s brows shoot to his hairline as his jaw drops. “Your family speaks another language?”

Kaya stands a little taller, but her expression remains soft. “Some of us. And we only know bits and pieces. Remember the word I used for grandmother?”

Tucker fidgets in place. “Yeah.”

I jog through Kaya’s interactions with Tucker but don’t recall hearing it. Maybe it was during cooking class or when I was out of earshot.

“It was one of the first words I learned. And because my grandmother is dear to me, it’s the first I remembered.”

Tucker looks up at me, an inquisitive look on his face. “Can I learn another language?”

“Sure, bud.” I ruffle his hair. “Any one you want.”

His whole face scrunches to the middle, an earnest air about him as he nods. Then he blinks, and every ounce of solemnity vanishes, his hazel eyes more animated. “I’m hungry.”

Scratching my brow, I snicker. “Then let’s go eat.”

Tucker bolts into the diner and greets the hostess before Kaya or I take a step forward. He points back at us, says something, and the woman follows his outstretched arm with her gaze. I wave and she returns the gesture. Studying my face, I see the moment realization hits her. That I’m the son of the owner.

“Mr. Calhoun,” she squeaks out as we enter. She nervously brushes hair out of her face and tucks it behind her ear.

I open my mouth to tell her she doesn’t need to address me formally but don’t get the chance.

Menus in hand, she takes off for a table. “Right this way.” She seats us at a table in the back, on the side farthest from the kitchen entrance and pass-through window.

The tension in my shoulders eases a fraction. The likelihood of Dad seeing us is?—

“Papa RJ,” Tucker shouts as Kaya and I take our seats.

“T-Man,” Dad says as Tucker rushes him. “Oof.” He chuckles as his arms band around Tucker, hugging him just as fiercely. “Didn’t know you were coming to see me today.”

Tucker releases Dad and inches back to look up at him. “Yep.” He nods enthusiastically. “We’re getting lunch before putt-putt.”

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