Page 25 of Roaring Heat
Beau stirs behind me, the bedsprings creaking. "You’re up early."
I turn to look at him, hair tousled, eyes heavy-lidded and warm. "Science waits for no orgasm."
He grins, sitting up and stretching, muscles rippling in a way that's hard to ignore. "That a confession or a complaint?"
"A little of both. Come look at this."
He tugs on his jeans and walks barefoot across the floor, the quiet thud of each step matching the tension rising in my chest. He leans over my shoulder to study the screen. As his eyes lock onto the jagged spike on the graph, the easy curve of his smile falters, replaced by a gravity that pulls the air from the room.
"That’s not normal, is it?"
"Not unless you consider reality getting bent sideways normal." I tap the screen. "This happened the moment we were... together. You were right. The ley lines responded to that. I know you said that, but I don’t even know what to do with that data."
He leans in, resting his hand lightly on my lower back. The heat from his palm seeps through the thin fabric of my robe, slow and deliberate, like a sunbeam brushing over bare skin. It lingers there, radiating warmth that curls low in my belly,and I feel it pulse outward, spiraling into every nerve ending. My breath stutters as the sensation roots itself deep, leaving my skin tingling and my awareness entirely focused on that single, anchoring touch. A touch that sends a pulse of awareness spiraling down my spine.
My breath catches in my throat, and for a beat, my thoughts scatter, undone by the slow curl of his fingers as they mold to the shape of my waist. It feels intimate, possessive, as though he’s mapping me by touch alone, pressing each contour of my body into memory.
"Maybe stop thinking like a scientist for five minutes and think like someone who belongs here."
I arch an eyebrow. "Was that a compliment or a warning?"
"Both. Get dressed. I want to take you into town."
I blink. "Town? As in people?"
He chuckles. "I need coffee, and you need food and to see what it means to live here."
I toss my keys to my Jeep, grinning unapologetically. "You drive. You know the route better than I do."
We climb in, and he navigates the winding road toward town. The tires hum over the packed dirt and then the pavement. The trees part like a curtain as Redwood Rise comes into view. The town looks like something from a postcard, the mist curling around towering trees, crooked signs pointing to general stores and bait shops, and buildings tucked into the hillside like they grew there naturally.
The Rusty Fork Cafe rests on a sun-dappled corner, its wraparound porch lined with chipped red chairs that rock gently in the breeze. Flower boxes spill over with bright blooms, their color faded by the salt air and time. As we step through the worn wooden door, a tarnished bell above it jingles, announcing our arrival to a room that pauses mid-breath.
Heads swivel toward us, some subtle, others brazen. A hush ripples through the room, cutting through the clink of silverware and low conversation like a blade. Then come the murmurs, rising like the rustle of dry leaves before a storm.
A man in a denim jacket leans close to his tablemate, muttering too low to hear, but his narrowed eyes never leave me. His brow pulls tight, and his lips press into a hard line. "Out-of-towner."
A woman near the register frowns as if she's trying to place me in a memory she doesn't like. Her grip tightens around her coffee mug.
Another older man openly stares, fork frozen halfway to his mouth, eyes wide and wary. "He brought her here?"
"That’s her," someone says from behind the counter.
"Bad timing," another adds, voice clipped and tense.
A teenage busboy mutters something under his breath. A couple seated by the window share a long, weighted glance before turning their attention back to their plates, jaws tight.
The atmosphere crackles with restrained judgment, not loud enough to confront, but pointed enough to cut. Every expression in the room lands somewhere between suspicion and warning, tinged with the kind of fear that simmers beneath politeness.
Whispers curl through the air like smoke, coiling tighter with each glance cast our way. I feel them brushing against me, uninvited and unwelcome, little threads of doubt and unease looping around my shoulders. They don’t really know me, but that doesn't stop them from deciding what kind of threat I might be.
I feel their stares crawl over my skin like insects. Some are curious. Others are clearly wary. A few are downright hostile.
Beau presses a hand to the small of my back and leans in. "Ignore it."
"They think I’m trouble."
"You are." He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "But not the kind they should worry about."
