Page 56 of The Golden Hour

“Deceptively lightweight. Strong as fuck. And if I remember correctly, you don’t weigh a whole lot.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

His smile curves, sending warmth to my belly. “I want to feed you. Plump you up.”

Just as swiftly as it appeared, my laughter evaporates. “You’re a chauvinistic dick.”

“Why? Because I’m not afraid to point out that you’ve lost weight you didn’t need to lose? Because I felt the curves you had in Solstice Bay and I want to feel them again?”

I splutter. He grins wickedly, eyes on the road as the car slows. We pull to a stop outside a chained-off dirt road with a faded No Trespassing sign.

We’re in the middle of nowhere—or as close as you can be while still inside Los Angeles County lines. Uncle Anthony liked being isolated. He even bought the adjacent properties to avoid having neighbors.

A heady pang of loss and nostalgia hits me.

I unbuckle my seat belt. “I’ll get the chain,” I say, then flee the car.

When the chain is down and dragged to one side, I reluctantly climb back into the car.

Finn leans over the steering wheel, squinting out the windshield. “I can’t see shit past the headlights. Where are the stables?”

“Just drive. There’s a fork about a quarter mile up. Stables are to the right.”

“Got it.”

He drives slowly down the pitted, unpaved driveway, focused on the road.

Back to business.

I’m relieved. I don’t like him flirting with me. Being charming and attentive. Reminding me about our status as almost-lovers. It’s confusing. It makes me forget the direness of my situation. The high stakes.

When he’s not being a complete asshole, he makes me want what I can’t have. A dream I gave up in high school after the death of my first boyfriend.

It makes me want him.

30

The last time horses saw the inside of this stable had to be when Reagan was president. The structure was clearly beautiful once. Constructed to last, most of the support beams and walls are in place. The roof, not so much.

But the skeleton is elegant. With the vaulted ceiling and torn-out stalls, there’s a bit of a feel of walking through a church in disrepair. I have photographer buddies who would die to shoot in here. They’d capture fractured windows and peeling paint. The shafts of moonlight sliding through holes in the roof. Decaying benches, dingy sheets over lumps of what could be furniture—or treasure…

I yank off a sheet and get a face-full of dust and the stench of mold.

“What are you doing?” demands Callisto.

“Trying to find whatever it is we’re looking for.”

“It’s not under there.”

I shine my phone’s flashlight at the pile of firewood. “Yeah, probably not.” I toss the sheet down, then sneeze. “Did your uncle even use this place?”

Callisto doesn’t answer, her gaze traveling around the interior. I don’t know what she sees, but from her pressed lips it doesn’t look like happy memories.

At length, she says, “This used to be his workshop. He loved woodworking. Carving, making small furniture. But everything is gone. There used to be tables, tools, workbenches, saws…”

The urge to touch her presses close, so I tuck my hands in my pockets. As much as I’d like to push her boundaries a little, this isn’t the time or place. Plus, she might punch me.

“Do you have any clue what we might be looking for? Something your uncle might have hidden here?”

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