Page 14 of Chasing Sunsets

I grin. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

She shakes her head, but I swear I see the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

I take a step back, adjusting the box in my arms. “Regret it? Never. Pick you up at seven?”

“Make it seven thirty.”

“Done.” I give her a nod and turn to head back toward my truck, feeling her gaze on me as I go.

Yeah, Freda and Sabel were definitely up to something.

And I’m not mad about it.

Tabby

Istare at my reflection in the small mirror mounted above the tiny sink in my RV, hands braced on the edge of the counter. My stomach twists in a way I don’t particularly like, and I scowl at myself.

This isn’t a big deal. People eat together all the time.

It feels like a big deal, and that’s the problem. After Indigo left, I swore off men, determined to sort out my life on my own. Leaving with him had been impulsive. Instead of sitting my parents down to explain what I wanted, I jumped at the chance to escape with a practical stranger. I’d mistaken my urge to get away for love. I’m smarter than that—or at least, I should be. So, now, I’m done searching for love for the moment. I’m done with people-pleasing. I’m committed to being true to myself.

But Anson is … something else. Although we’ve only met a handful of times, I just know he could be trouble. He’s the kind of man you look at once and then immediately look away from because you know if you don’t, you’re going to get caught up in something you might not be ready for. He’s tall and broad-shouldered with an easy, confident smile and those eyes that always seem to be full of some kind of mischief.

And he’s charming. Too charming.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be going to dinner with him.

And yet here I am, slipping into my best summer dress—light, airy, something that moves with me when I walk. It’s pale blue, the color of the sky right before dusk, and the thin straps leave my sun-kissed shoulders bare. I let my hair down from the messy bun I always keep it in, shaking out the long waves. The summer heat will probably get to it before the night is over, but for now, it looks good.

I scrub the remnants of paint from my arms and fingertips and keep my makeup minimal. A touch of mascara to darken my already-long lashes, a little lip balm, nothing more. My skin is golden from days spent outside, and a dusting of freckles still lingers across the bridge of my nose, no matter how much sunscreen I use.

I take a deep breath.

It’s just dinner.

A knock at my door makes me jump. I let out a slow exhale, pressing a hand to my stomach, as if that’ll settle the nervous flutter there.

No turning back now.

I step over to the door and pull it open.

And … damn.

Anson stands there, looking … well, beautiful. He’s got on a pair of tan linen pants that sit just right on his hips and a white tee that fits snug across his chest and shoulders. His hair looks like he just ran his fingers through it, and his sexy smile is framed by dark scruff. He looks effortless. Like he just threw something on and somehow managed to come out looking like a man who belongs in a summer catalog.

He removes his sunglasses, and his gaze flicks over me. “Well, now,” he says, tilting his head slightly, “ain’t you something?”

His eyes are a deep, smoldering shade of brown almost black—stormy and intense, unreadable yet undeniably captivating, like the lingering embers of a fire, just waiting to be stoked. They slowly and deliberately sweep down my body, as if he sees more than what’s on the surface. And when he smiles—just the faintest curve of his lips—those dark eyes gleam with the promise of trouble, the kind you might want to get into.

Heat creeps up my neck, and I roll my eyes, even as I fight the urge to smile. “You clean up nice yourself.”

He smirks. “I try.”

I step down from the RV, feeling the warmth of the gravel beneath my sandaled feet. He offers me his hand, and after only a brief moment of hesitation, I take it. His palm is rough and callous, like that of a man who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.

So different from Quenton’s hands.The thought enters my mind, unbidden.

He doesn’t let go right away, just holds my fingers lightly as he leads me toward his truck.

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