Page 90 of Back in the Saddle

“Arthur?”

“He’s our Charlie.”

“Charlie?”

I was losing it, so my voice pitched high when I explained, “As in…Angels.”

“Right,” he murmured.

“I’ve gotta go.”

“Hang tight, I’m driving you.”

“Eric—”

He moved to me, caught me behind my neck, pulled me to his bare chest (oh my God, why did this happen when I didn’t have either the time or headspace to enjoy it?), and said, “You’re in a state. You’re not driving in this state. I’ll be five minutes, tops. Swear. Go get your shoes on.”

I nodded.

He touched his mouth to mine, swiped off the lather he left there, then let me go and went back to the sink.

I hustled down his long-ass hall to my shoes, and I was standing in them with my bag across my body when I discovered Eric didn’t lie.

In less than five minutes, he was walking down the hall toward me.

His hair was wet, but curling. His face was shaved. And he had on a faded Foo Fighter tee, equally faded jeans and running shoes, and he didn’t waste any time grabbing my hand and tugging me to the door to the garage.

He led me to the passenger side of his humongous, spiffy blue Tahoe and spotted me getting up.

He slammed my door, crossed the hood, angled in and hit the garage door opener.

It took some maneuvering, but he skirted my Mini as he backed out.

And we were on our way.

TEN

ONE OF THEM

To say the ride to the Oasis was tense was an understatement.

And all the tension was coming from me.

There was so much of it, Eric couldn’t miss it.

And he didn’t.

I knew this when he grabbed my hand, squeezed it tight and held it to his thigh.

I wasn’t a virgin (far from it), and I wasn’t inexperienced with relationships.

I’d even had two long-term ones.

One lasted a year, then the guy moved to Michigan for a job. He’d asked me to come. But as a native Phoenician, no way in hell I was headed to cold and snow six months of the year, humidity the other six.

So that told us both how I felt about him down deep.

The other one was the biggie.

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