Page 67 of Preying Heart
I don’t want to tell her that he was captured by terrorists and had his vocal cords cut. “He’s too cool to bark.”
“Incredible self-control—like you?”
“I’m not that bad, am I?” I enjoy holding her hand and touching her here and there. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, putting my arm around her shoulders, taking her hand, and brushing against her while taking selfies that will never be uploaded online.
The ghost town nearby is basically a gas station combined with a diner and a fishing tackle and ammo shop. The old-timers who run the establishments are known for being closemouthed and private. They’re friendly and the best part is they’re not connected to the internet. There are no video cameras, and security in these parts are shotguns.
Remi and I browse the antique shop adjacent to the ammo shop.
“Can I borrow money from you to buy something?” she asks.
“Even better, here’s an advance from your NFT sales.” I count out five hundred dollars in small bills. “Go to town.”
“Thanks.” She has an artistic eye and she’s not buying junk. She picks out a silver pitcher, an antique mantel clock, and a pair of scales used to weigh gold nuggets.
We dine at the diner and visit the ammo, bait, and tackle shop. I chat with the shopkeeper about the herds of elk. He tells me where they’ve been grazing and brags about the one his son shot over the weekend.
“You might have quite a hike to get to them,” he says. “They’re down in that valley yonder, but you might get a shot at them when they come by the lake.”
“I’ll check it out, but I’m not going to shoot one.” I glance at Remi who’s flipping through hunting magazines.
“You took her shopping; she ought to let you track down an elk.” He chuckles.
“Only to take pictures of them.” I wander over to Remi and put my arm around her. She looks so western in the slim jeans she’s wearing and crisp poplin shirt and the shearling jacket. I have to remind myself she’s a city girl and would likely freak out if I really shot an elk in front of her. Their dying squeals would haunt her, and that’s not an experience I want for my first date.
We drive to an overlook to look at the stars. The chill of the evening has her huddled in my arms as we sit on the bench over the quiet lake below.
“I think I see a shooting star.” She points up over her head.
“We might be in for a meteor shower.”
“Look, there’s another one.”
I kiss her on the temple. “Did you make a wish?”
“Yes, how about you?”
“Definitely. Are we sharing?” I’m dying to know what she wishes for. What does a woman who lived in a luxury penthouse wish for? I saw her buy the antiques. She obviously has an eye for interior design and fashion. I’m sure she has jewelry she left behind.
“I’ll share if you go first,” she says so quietly I almost miss it.
“Always me first?” I stroke the flyaway hair that frames her face. It’s so smooth and straight, like silk through my fingers. “Okay, then, I wish for you to find what you’re looking for.”
“That’s so generic and vague,” she says. “You should be specific.”
“Then don’t run away screaming if I tell you.”
“Have I run away from you yet?”
“You’ve seen me naked and you haven’t run. There’s hope.” I nip the shell of her ear. “I already told you. I want to take you in that soft, warm feather bed and kiss you all over. I want to feel you open up to me, trust me, and lie in your arms. I want to touch you, really deep, know you, and see you. I want to be skin to skin with you, no separation, our hearts beating together. I want to watch your face, your eyes closed, your head thrown back, and your mouth open, moaning and writhing in sweet passion. And I want to love you all night and into the morning, waking up with you tangled around me. Your turn.”
She places her hand over my heart, and her eyes glisten as she stares into mine. “I want to know what’s in your heart. Before I give myself to you, I want you to be an open book for my eyes only. You have to talk to me about the woman you married. Where is she?”
My throat closes, and my jaw stiffens. “Who told you? Lucy?”
“Leave Lucy out of it. I figured it out. These clothes I’m wearing are not Lucy’s. She might be roughly my height, but she’s long-waisted, whereas I’m long-legged like these jeans. Who is she, and are you still in love with her?”
The cold breeze strengthens, and I shudder underneath her questioning gaze. Of course, she has a right to know. If I’m asking for her heart, she has to know whether mine is free to give.
