Page 62 of Monster in the Moonlight

Taking out two honey straws, I note how I’ve regained some function in my left hand, which makes it possible to bend the tip of the plastic until the seal breaks. After giving it to Ellister, I do the same to my own.

We both finish quickly, and Ellister inspects his empty tube. Then his gaze goes to me. Suddenly, he reaches out and swipes his thumb over my bottom lip. He looks at the excess drop of honey he collected from me before bringing it to his own mouth.

He just took honey. From my lip. And licked it.

Casually.

At my startled expression, he states, “This place makes me ravenous.”

His voice is husky, all sexy and shit, and another one of those charged moments ensues between us. The sexual tension rises, making the hairs on my arms stand like there’s an electrical current swirling around us.

I’m light-headed, in an exhilarating way. That sensation you get at the top of a rollercoaster right before you’re about to fall—that’s what’s happening to me now.

My heart pounds, and butterflies erupt in my stomach.

The breeze dies down, and I swear the bees stop buzzing. It’s a crazy thought to have, but maybe they sense it, too, this palpable attraction.

Over the past few weeks, there’ve been times when I’ve wished time would stand still. When I wanted everything to pause.

Being with Ellister makes me feel like that’s possible.

It’s probably just a coincidence, but my pocket watch chooses this very moment to run out of juice. The ticking against my chest ceases, and then there’s just the soft rumble of the idling golf cart motor.

Ellister’s pupils are enlarged again, and those black circles burn holes of desire into me as he roams my lips, my chin, my neck.

Lower.

Totally unabashed, his eyes follow the column of my throat before landing on my breasts.

I’m hyperaware of his attention, and his gaze leaves goose bumps in its path as if he’s touching my skin.

Since we’re not speaking, it should be an awkward moment. I should be freaked out how a guy I barely know is openly ogling me, but I’m looking at him with the same amount of intensity.

Without shame, I admire the way his shoulders fill out the shirt. I study his jaw and imagine rubbing the dark stubble on his face. All that inky hair sticking out of his stocking cap tempts me to reach up and sift through the silky strands.

I finally land on his mouth and stay there. Ellister’s pout is slightly parted as he breathes a little faster than normal, and a subtle vibration starts up on my lips. It’s a call to action. My body’s demand for gratification.

It’s difficult, but I resist. Gripping the bottom of my shirt, I occupy my hands so I don’t grab Ellister’s face instead.

As much as I want to, I won’t initiate a kiss again. I mean, if he went for it, I wouldn’t turn him down, but I learned my lesson last night. I’m still a little raw from his rejection and his one-eighty to Faith-land.

With impeccable timing, a bee flies right between our faces, ruining the moment when Ellister startles at its sudden appearance.

Turning my thoughts to the next phase of the tour, I look to the trees in the distance.

We always end the tour at the shop with donuts and apple cider.

Good thing, too, because my appetite, which has been hit or miss since I got sick, is back with a vengeance.

Usually, I experience bouts of nausea between meals. It’s the kind of gnawing sensation in my stomach where I can’t tell if I need to eat or throw up, but there’s no mistaking the rumbling coming from my abdomen. It’s so loud, Ellister hears it over the engine as we head in the direction of the shop.

He glances down at his lap. “Are the kittens growling at me again?”

“Purring,” I correct. “And no, that was my stomach.”

“You need to eat, Hannah,” he scolds gently. “It’s important to keep your strength up.”

And he needs to stop sounding like he cares so much.

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