Page 37 of The Gift
She exhaled slowly. “When?”
“Tomorrow night. I probably need a solid eight hours, so I don’t fall asleep in the dinner salad.”
Now he was charming as well. She should have pretended to hesitate. To mull it over. She didn’t. “I close the gallery at six. I can be ready at seven.”
He movedtoward her.“You can tell me all about the gallery.” He stopped in front of her. Close enough to feel. “Don’t have another vision before then.”
She arched a brow. “I’ll try to schedule around you.”
He almost smiled. Then he did something small. He brushed his thumb lightly over her cheek. It wasn’t possessive or rushed. She leaned into it, the way you lean toward warmth when you’re cold for much too long. She’d been freezing for what seemed like forever.
The texture of his skin. The unhurried contact. Simple things she hadn’t let herself think about. There was no noise, no images, nothing flooding in except what she should feel as a woman. She liked that. So much.
His thumb lingered a moment longer, like he was memorizing the feel of her. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Then, as though he hated to, he let his hand fall. “Lock the door behind me.”
“In this neighborhood? Always.”
One sandy brow lifted at her attempt at humor. Too soon, probably.
When he left, she took the coffee mugs to the kitchen. While she rinsed them, she looked out the window at the Esperanza and salvia she’d planted when she’d moved in. The red and yellow blooms were more vivid than she remembered.
Without him, the house felt too quiet. She headed out to swing.
As if summoned by the steady creak of the chains, within minutes, Whiskers came trotting up the walk and onto the porch. He sat at the top of the steps and blinked at her. Then he meowed.
Already, she recognized it as hungry.
“Sorry, buddy, but this was kind of sprung on me.” Courtesy of a man who complicated things, but in a good way.
She stood, scratched behind Whisker’s ears, then went inside. She grabbed her car keys and purse from the entryway table. Tuna topped her shopping list as she headed out the door.
Chapter 11
The Iron Spur Bar & Grill sat just off the highway on the outskirts of town. A row of pickups lined the gravel lot, motorcycles angled between them, engines still ticking from the ride in.
Erica hesitated at the door. She wasn’t dressed for country and western; nothing in her closet qualified. Her only pair of jeans was for cleaning the garage, so she’d chosen a sleeveless sage-green dress instead. Pretty and light, but maybe a little too floaty for a place with peanut shells on the floor. She had dusted off her boots, her one concession to living in Texas, where not owning a pair bordered on a misdemeanor.
But her clothes weren’t the problem. It was everything else that kept her on the wrong side of the door. A bad case of nerves from being out of practice, the embarrassing wanting of a man she barely knew, and the fragile hope that maybe this time would be different.
She’d texted him she was running late and would meet him here. Now, as she entered alone, she almost wished she hadn’t. She wasn’t boots-and-beer; she was wildflowers in her hair and music-festival energy.
She felt the glances, the curiosity, and the quick dismissal, but let her attention move through the room, anyway. The aroma of mesquite smoke, searing meat, and beer filled the air so thick, she could almost touch it. The worn plank dance floor groaned under boots doing the two-step. Bursts of laughterbroke over the low, steady pull of a Waylon song from the jukebox. Along the far wall, a pool table glowed amber beneath a vintage Miller Lite sign. That was where she found him.
A long-neck bottle hung from his hand as he leaned against the far end of the bar. He wore his hat brim low, casting his face into shadow. It concealed his Ranger awareness, along with the thorough inspection she was sure he’d already given the room. Every exit noted, every shadowy corner assessed, each face cataloged and filed away before she arrived.
Slowly, with one finger, he tipped his hat back. Across the low-lit space, a genuine smile curved his lips.
She inhaled, steadying the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach, as he straightened and came toward her. No hurry in it. Only that same deliberate way he had.
“You made it,” he said.
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m relieved.”
