Page 18 of Hotshot Mogul

I needed to keep a physical connection with her, so I ran my fingers through her hair to untangle it. She allowed it and poured the soft sugar sand back and forth between her hands. “There are beings, good and bad, living things hu…people do not consider, or of which they are ignorant,” she said. “But they are there. Some mean mischief, and some wish to end human life. Others strive to preserve and nurture it.”

I thought of Maria Rosa, my parents’ friend from Brazil. They loved her dearly. She claimed to see into the future. She believed in the things Anneliese was talking about. Not me. I refused to let Maria Rosa “read” me. We made our own destiny.

As for the existence of living things that we couldn’t see or hear–no, just no. It made no logical sense. As for the crazy bitch that tried to drown me, then vanished into thin air? There was a logical explanation: I was deprived of oxygen, reality got distorted.

Anneliese’s hair was free of tangles. But I didn’t pull away. “The island where you live. You never told me the name.”

She scrambled away, picked up a towel, and rubbed the moisture off her skin. “It’s hard to say in English.”

I gave her my cell. “Type in the name.”

She did. lluybjia. I looked it up. It was beautiful. It was listed as an outlying island in an archipelago I’d never heard of. They were self-governing. I could have asked Dad if he had heard of it…if I was still speaking to him.

“Could I look at your files? The visa stuff?”

The color drained from her face. She was in trouble. I knew it. But how and why was she in Oakdale, fighting like hell to save those damn trees?

“Your bosses, could I talk to them?”

“That’s not necessary.” She stood. “I need my bag, and to get back to Callie’s.”

Shit. I pushed her too far.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Anneliese

Bruce simmered with frustration. He wanted answers I wouldn’t give him. It didn’t matter. We were close to Callie’s house. It would be the last time I would be with him.

We didn’t speak over the loud music and the rush of the wind through the open windows. The words of the song made me sad. It was mostly about the sun. The words made me remember when cold settled into the earth and the sunlight shortened days. Bruce was like the sun, unending energy and determination. Like Nigan.

I saved his life. That must be enough. I had to be content with that and push aside the way I craved his body and his heart. He was not mine. He would go back to his one-and-done thing with other women. I would go back to my beloved tree.

My chest ached with human heartache. How fast all these human feelings happened. I had to let him go, like fallen leaves or dead branches. He would be dead to me, again.

I gasped as Bruce stopped in front of Callie’s house. He turned to me, fierce with determination, and framed my face with his hands. “Anneliese, you’re scared. You won’t tell me why. Just know I want to help you, keep you safe.”

He dropped his forehead to mine. “You saved my life.” His voice cracked.

My defenses melted like ice in springtime. “I’m not what you think.”

He reached across the part that separated us, undid my restraint, and pulled me into his lap. I pressed my face into his neck and inhaled his scent: sun, sand, and something else that was only him. “I’m not what you think, either.” He pressed his lips to a spot near my ear.

My bones felt like water. I moved my hand under his shirt and ran my fingers through the hairs on his chest. “Anneliese.” He lifted my chin and pressed his lips to mine. He slid his hand under my shirt, palmed each breast, then pinched my nipples. Our tongues mated the way I wanted him inside me.

A child wailed. We sprung apart. He was in the street. Callie sprinted toward him. He was on his bottom in the roadway. A two-wheeled bicycle was next to him. I scrambled away from Bruce and out of the Jeep.

The boy was bleeding from his knee and elbow. “Can you stand up, son?” Callie asked. He nodded. Callie and I helped him to his feet.

Bruce picked up the bike. “Where do you live, buddy?” he asked.

“Around the block.” He made a noise like a little gulp.

“What’s your mom or dad’s phone number? I’ll let them know you took a spill.”

He looked down at his shoes and didn’t answer.

A spill? I look around for what spilled. “It means tumble or fall,” Callie said, as an older man walked toward us. He had a bushy, white beard and a bald head. His shirt said Grateful Dead. I would work that out later.

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