Page 66 of When Sparks Fly

His face betrays no emotion. Does he want me to come or is he being polite because he feels some need to protect me and I’m already here? I was beginning to think I’d gotten good at seeing through his composed facade to what simmers underneath, but I can’t tell what he wants.

It dawns on me. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s trying his hardest to let this be one hundred percent my decision.

“Family dinner.” A pang of envy filled me when he mentioned it before. Now I’m filled with apprehension instead. What would it mean to join family dinner?

“Yes.”

I look out my window to the front door of the house. “It won’t be awkward if we don’t go in until tomorrow?”

“They won’t even know you’re here. They don’t even knowI’mhere, minus my truck.”

“I think your mom will worry too much if she sees me now.”

He dips his chin down in agreement. “That, or question you to death. You know her well, already. Let’s get you settled then.” Still, I have no idea what he’s feeling. His expression softens and he squeezes my thigh again.

Sutton’s portion of ‘The Big House’ has two rooms, a bathroom, and a small hallway. The entrance leads into a tiny foyer. I suspect at one time it was an additional closet that was opened up during the remodel. A hat rack houses hats in various colors, fabrics, and styles, not a ball cap among them.

Who needsthat many hats?

I refrain from questioning the hats, and will continue to do so as long as he doesn’t see fit to question me about my shoe collection.

The space has the feel of a cabin, with rich wood walls, leather and wood furniture throughout, and low lighting. Simple sconces line the hallway providing a soft amber glow.

His bed frame is made of cedar logs, sealed, and fit together with wood nails. It’s captivating and I take my time looking over it. The footboard and headboard are tangled limbs, all beautifully intertwined.

“This is gorgeous.” My fingers dance along the top of the footboard.

He doesn’t respond from his place just inside the bedroom door. I turn to look at him and find him studying me again, my bag in his hand. I’m sure he heard me, but I want him to know I’m serious. “It’s really lovely.”

His face is soft and hints at wonder as he studies me. “I made it.”

I gape. “You made this?” For the first time, his suntanned cheeks pinken. It’s hardly noticeable, but my heart beats a little faster anyway.

He sets my bag down inside the closet, removes his hat and boots, and sets both in the hall.

“I-I don’t know what to say. It’s amazing.”

He settles himself on the bed leaning back against the headboard. My mouth waters and my chest tightens. He’s never looked more like a masterpiece. I itch to take his picture.

He pats the bed next to him in invitation. I mimic the process of removing my boots then lay my puffy vest over the arm of the arm chair inthe corner, removing my Smith & Wesson and setting it atop his dresser. The heat from his gaze is tangible.

When I climb onto the bed, I briefly see through the open bathroom door to the other room. I’m surprised to find a clawfoot tub in the bathroom beneath a suspended shower head and an enormous, hand-drawn map of Texas on his office wall.

I perch next to him facing the footboard. He wraps an arm around my waist and guides me closer to him. Instinctively, I rest my head against his chest and for a few moments we’re silent, his arms wrapped around my midsection, mine laying overtop.

Eventually, his quiet voice fills my ears. “Are you ready to tell me why you’ve been carrying a gun around?”

I swallow. “We live in Texas. It’s perfectly normal for people to carry guns here.”

He hums. “That’s not what I asked.” When I don’t respond, he tightens his hold around my waist in an affectionate way and continues. “I’ve met a lot of women who shoot and plenty who carry. That doesn’t tell me why you are.”

Ignoring the part of me that wants to know how well he knows said gun-toting women, I shift in his arms, attempting to create space, but his hold remains firm. When I stop shuffling, he moves a hand up to my face and turns my chin toward him gently. “I’m not going to push you. But I hope you know you’re safe.”

“I don’t carry it because of you.” He releases my chin, but our eyes stay locked. He’s studying me again. I drop my eyes. “In fact, I don’t carry it much when I’m with you.”

One of his hands moves to toy with the end of my ponytail. I’m beginning to think he has a thing for it.

“I got it as soon as I turned twenty-one. I had Mace before—when I was too young for the license to carry.” I fiddle with the buttons of his shirt, tracing the thread and then the outline of each button before moving to the next. Once again, he remains silent, allowing me to continue only when I’m ready.

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