Part 23 (2/2)
What was she, psychic? He stood, walked to the wall and slapped the switch. Harsh, white light splashed across the wreckage of his living room onto the single photo he'd kept from the stack he'd sent Lauren. Onto Drew's Superman picture stuffed into his laptop bag. Onto the cross-st.i.tched sampler poking out from under a jumble of paperwork. G.o.d, what a reality check. ”I don't mope.”
”Cousin, you're a moron. Now answer my first question-do you love Lauren?”
Nate slumped against the wall, cradling the phone to his ear. ”Yeah.”
”And she loves you?”
He closed his eyes. Saw her curled in his arms, smiling up at him, heart in her eyes. The look on her face before he walked away that last time. ”I think so.”
”Do you want to spend the rest of your life with her and her little boy?”
Warmth p.r.i.c.kled up his spine, curled around his heart. ”Yes. But what is this, twenty questions?”
”I've just one more.” Her voice turned snippy. ”Have you told her this?”
”No.”
”Why not?”
”Because I'm a moron.” He shoved his hand into his hair and grimaced; he hadn't combed it in days. ”But I'm a moron with a five hour drive ahead of him in the morning, so I'd better go to bed.”
Savannah's smoky laugh rolled down the line. ”With any luck, you won't be sleeping alone tomorrow night.”
Nate disconnected the call with his cousin and walked to his coffee table. He picked up the photograph he'd taken of Lauren and her chainsaw. He'd often thought of Lauren's home as a self-imposed prison that kept her safe and separate from everyone. Ironic that the whole time, he was the one locked up and isolated, because he hadn't understood home wasn't a place, it was a person. Moron was too kind a description.
”I never want to sleep alone again,” he said and tossed the photograph back onto the coffee table.
Home is where the heart is.
And his heart had found its home with Lauren.
Lauren gunned the Cadillac as it hit the open road, and Lizzie, sitting beside her, threw back her head with a whoop.
”Your best idea, ever,” Lizzie yelled, hair whipping around her face.
Lauren grinned as they roared back to Drew's preschool, where her next paying customer would contribute ten dollars to the carnival for a ride in her dad's convertible.
”We're like Thelma and Louise!” Lizzie threw her hands up into the slipstream, slanting over a glance. ”Except prettier and in your case, blonder.”
”Angelique did a good job.” Lauren tossed her newly dyed-back-to-original blonde hair over her shoulder, slowed and signaled to turn through the wide gates onto the field where the carnival was held. ”It's the new me.”
Lizzie reached across and squeezed Lauren's knee. ”I told you you'd be Bounty Bay's five-minute wonder, and then life would get back to normal.”
”Guess I was worried about nothing.” She peeled her lips up into another smile, as painted on as a clown's. Would life ever feel ”normal” again? She'd changed-blossomed, even, though the word made her cringe-since she'd met Nate. How could life without him be normal?
A small crowd gathered by a row of safety cones. Stretched between two garden stakes was a hand-painted sign: $10 for 10-minute ride. Keeping an eye out for any sugar-drunk kids who might decide to charge across the gra.s.s, Lauren slowed the Caddy to a crawl and parked at the head of the line.
”n.o.body seems at all interested in the new me.”
”Oh, I wouldn't say that.”
Lizzie's tone p.r.i.c.kled Lauren's nape and she glanced up at the other woman's dimple-creased grin. ”Huh?”
”There's someone who's very interested in you.”
Lizzie pushed herself back, flush against the caddy's seat, so Lauren had a direct view of the man at the front of the line.
A man with piercing green eyes, his gaze trained on her face like a laser.
She could only stare, her throat locked tight, her heart slamming an erratic tattoo against her ribs.
Nate was here. Nate was in Bounty Bay.
Lizzie cranked open the door and hopped out.
Nate leaned down to rest a forearm on the corner of the car's winds.h.i.+eld. ”That's some car you've got, Ms. Taylor.”
”Nothing beats a '67 Cadillac DeVille in Flamenco Red.” She slid her arm along the back of the bench seat and hoped the V8 engine's grumble would cover the tremor in her voice. ”They knew how to make cars in the sixties.”
”So they did. And it's good to see it's no longer shrink-wrapped in protective plastic and hidden away.”
She swallowed, desperate to wet her dust-dry throat. ”A life is for living and a car is for driving.”
He reached one long-fingered hand into the pocket of his jeans and drew out a crumpled bank note. ”Take me for a drive?”
Her eyes flew open-the note was red. ”For a hundred dollars?”
”A long, long drive.”
His voice rolled over her skin like sun-warmed silk, sending delicious s.h.i.+vers skittering up and down her body.
”I don't know if I can. I'm shaking too much.” Shaking in a good way, because surely, surely him being here meant something?
With a chuckle, Nate slid into the pa.s.senger seat and shut the door. ”Didn't you once say you could outdrive me on any road?”
She withdrew her arm from the back of the seat and slotted the Caddy's column s.h.i.+ft into drive. ”I did say that, didn't I?”
They rolled slowly across the field and out of the gate. ”Anywhere in particular you want to go?”
”Where do teenagers go around here to make out?”
His voice was cool, but she caught a quick flash of humor as his gaze skimmed over her.
”You want to make out?” Her heartbeat skipped, and she pressed her thighs together.
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