“I know where the book is.”
The last of the drowsiness slid from his eyes. He pushed up on one elbow, the mattress creaking under his weight. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” Her pulse throbbed in her ears, and she took another breath trying to calm it.
His gaze flicked to the window above the bed. “Still dark. I’m not going into that house until the sun’s up.” Then he looked back at her. “It is in the house, right?”
“Absolutely it is.” But she wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep. He could, if he wanted, but she slid out of bed and padded out of the room. She’d seen a coffeemaker on the counter, and she was going to need it today.
Twenty-Four
She just wantedto see if she was right. She wasn’t going to abandon him out here, she told herself as she shoved her bare feet into her sneakers and stepped out onto the porch. Sam hated the idea of going back into the house after dark; she couldn’t fault him for that. But she wasn’t afraid enough to wait for daylight either.
A flash of light illuminated the bayou for an instant, sending the tall trees into silhouette. Erielle jumped back, swallowing her shriek. But no, not a ghost. A rumble of thunder followed on its heels.
Still, her pulse skittered. She hesitated on the porch, weighing the storm against her need to know. Another heartbeat and the first drops hit her shoulders. Curiosity won. She jogged down the steps, the boards slick under her soles, and by the time she wrenched open the truck door the sky opened wide.
Rain hammered the cab roof as she slid behind the wheel, breath fogging the glass. She fumbled with the unfamiliar controls until the wipers squealed across the windshield, clearing a wavering view of the drive. She’d never handled a truck this big, but the weight of it steadied her nerves. Big tires, high clearance—if the path turned to mud, she’d push through.
She eased the shifter, ready to roll, when something pale moved in the sweep of the headlights.
Not a ghost. A man.
She eased the truck back into park, took her foot off the brake as Sam strode through the storm to the driver’s side door and flung it open.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was rough, half-drowned by the downpour.
“I need to see if I’m right. I’ll come right back. I’m not stranding you.”
Rain poured over him, sluicing down his face, plastering his hair and his white t-shirt to him. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Get out of the truck, Erielle.”
She tensed to argue, but he was right. This could wait. She didn’t need to go now, alone. She didn’t need to risk herself or the truck, or worse, his trust, with her impulsiveness.
But when she didn’t act quickly enough, he reached past her and pulled the keys from the ignition. She breathed in the scent of him, the cedar scent that she’d become accustomed to in the bed now coated with the clean aroma of rain. Her new favorite smell. She wanted to lean in, just a little, taste his skin, but again, she didn’t act quickly enough, and he stood back, giving her just enough space to unbuckle and slide out.
Rain stung her skin, as she stood between him and the angle of the open door. His hand gripped beneath her elbow, steadying, not punishing.
“Next time,” he said, his voice low but firm, “we figure it out together. Not like this.”
Lightning webbed across the sky, lighting the hard line of his jaw, the worry creasing the corners of his eyes. She should have nodded and stepped away so they could go inside. Instead, she watched the water make paths from his hair down the planes of his face, drip from his lashes.
His thumb slid down the inside of her arm, sending a shiver that had nothing to do with them both being soaking wet. The world narrowed to the storm and the space between them.
A space she closed, leaning mere inches forward, resting her palm against his chest, until his breath was warm against her lips, coming faster, she thought, or was that her imagination?
She eased up on her toes, feeling the mud sink beneath them, and his grip on her arm tightened. She let her eyes drift shut and did something she’d wanted to do since she was fourteen years old.
She kissed Samson Guillory.
His lips were soft and cool, and parted just a bit as she slid her hand up his jaw, feeling the scrape of stubble against her palm, into his hair, twisting her fingers in it until drops of water dripped down her wrist.
His hesitation was a microsecond long before he released her elbow and wrapped that arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, thigh to thigh, belly to belly.
She angled her head to deepen the kiss when a clap of thunder made them both jump, and he lifted his head. He looked down at her, his expression stunned in the light of the truck’s interior.
Oh, Lord, they’d been standing here making out while the truck’s door was open in the rain. They must have both figured it out at the same time because he backed away, pulling her with him, his hand still on her waist, and he closed the truck door behind her with a thud. He tugged her toward the porch and they ran, splashing through puddles, mud streaking their shins.
