Page 124 of Gilded Saint

Sloane frowns. “You were never a Scout.”

I half-chuckle. “I promise.”

Chapter40

One Week Later

Willow, aka Lily

Sam found us a rental tucked into the mountain with breathtaking views and a mere fifteen-minute drive to downtown Asheville and Sage and Knox’s home. It’s typically a weekly rental, but the owners recently renovated the kitchen and hadn’t yet put it back on the rental market, so Sam claimed it for the next three months to allow us to use it as a base as we decide what we want to do.

The rental is unlike any I’ve seen before. It’s round—or, well, really an octagon. Sam says in the seventies the roundhouse had its day, showing up in places all over the United States. He says that, but in our travels, we didn’t come across any. But this one, with windows overlooking the mountains, feels like we’re perched on a cloud. And given the wooden house is supported on stilts dug deep into the steep incline on the side of a mountain, we sort of are.

Taking in the mix of blues and grays on a misty morning, there’s no question how they derived the name Blue Ridge for these mountains. It’s both breathtaking and peaceful and a welcome respite.

I hear Sam before I see him. Twigs snap, and the orange splash of his baseball cap peeks through the tree canopy below.

He woke up early and headed out for a trail run. Later today, we’ll go for a hike together. For me, that will be my exercise. For Sam, it’ll count as a walk.

We don’t get a good signal here, but we’ll check our mobiles for messages when we drive into town around lunchtime to meet up with Sage and Knox. I messaged instructors from the Penland School of Craft about a glass-blowing immersion workshop. I had to tell them I had no formal training, as I had to follow the resume the CIA mapped for me, which listed me as an English major from the University of Zagreb, but I’m hopeful I can find a place within the Asheville art community and continue to grow as an artist, whether that’s with paint, glass, or jewelry making.

Sam loves this area for the abundant access to nature, his sister, and his best friend, but I love it for the way the town embraces art. My father thought my desire to learn and practice art was foolish, given he believed I should only want to be a mother, but I have yet to encounter anyone with a similar philosophy. I’m sure those people are here. For that matter, I know they are. The United States has clusters of mafia and organized crime families throughout, and many of those families are as traditional as ours, but I haven’t yet run into them. I hope I never do.

Sloane and Max live in Raleigh, but they plan on visiting frequently until Sage gives birth, and then for a while after, I’m sure. It’s one reason Sam insisted we not take Sage up on her offer to stay with them. He said they’d need the space for guests, and we need our space too.

My face heats, thinking about the ways we’ve used our space. The door swings open.

“You’re up,” he says, sounding inordinately pleased. He shoots me a wide smile, flashing straight, pearly white teeth. His smiles are bigger out here.

“Do you want coffee?” I ask.

He bends to remove his muddy trail shoes, a cross between trainers and hiking boots. Sweat drenches the center of the back of his t-shirt, and when he rises, he lifts it from the hem, up and over his head with one tug.

My gaze immediately locks on his bare, tanned chest and ripped abdomen. He smirks, fully aware of what I’m doing.

“I’m gonna shower. I’ll take that coffee after, though. Have you had breakfast?”

“No.” I slowly shake my head, making a show of admiring my husband’s form.

“I’ll make omelets when I’m done. Can you pop the biscuits in the oven?”

I open the oven door and bend, giving him a pointed eyeful of my backside. When I rise, he stares. I lift the coffee, smiling, servant-like, gesturing to ask if he’d like some.

“Set the coffee down.” His thick, syrupy voice weakens my knees.

“What?” I’m absolutely clear on why; ‘what’ is simply an automated response.

“Set it down.”

A familiar buzz lights my body, a low hum that has my lower belly clenching. I obediently extend my arm, placing the coffee back on the burner.

He stalks toward me. My hands twitch with the desire to run them over his chest. My thighs tighten as he nears.

And then he’s there, hoisting me up, walking me backward.

“You’re wet,” I screech, giggling.

“How about you shower with me?”

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