Page 63 of Leather & Lies

“Just dinner.” For now. “I’ll text you the details.”

I force myself to walk away before I can reach for her. Before I can pull her into my arms and remind her body how perfectly it fits against mine. But I feel her gaze following me, heavy as a touch.

Just dinner. Just conversation.Just the first step in showing her that everything I’ve done, as twisted as it became, started with the need to keep her safe. To possess her completely.

I have papers to prepare. Evidence to gather. A deed to sign over.

But first, I have a woman to reclaim.

The Bella Lunalooks different at night, the warm lighting and exposed brick turning the converted mercantile into something almost magical. I arrive early, claiming a corner table that lets me watch the door while staying half-hidden in shadows. Old habits die hard. Couples already fill the small dance floor, swaying to the pianist’s slow jazz.

Shiloh strides in right on time, spine straight as steel. The simple black wrap dress emphasizes curves she once tried to hide, but there’s nothing yielding in her posture. She moves like someone walking into battle.

“You came.” I start to stand, but her sharp look freezes me in place.

“You said just dinner.” She slides into the seat across from me, keeping the table between us like a shield. Her eyes track past me to the dance floor, where the pianist has switched to something sultry and slow.

I gesture to the expensive red wine already breathing on the table—one I know she loves but would never order for herself. “I ordered the Brunello.”

“Of course you did.” But there’s less bite in her voice than there could be. She watches me pour, and this time when I hand her the glass, her fingers brush mine. “How’s the Friesian doing?”

Safe ground. Neutral territory. I let her steer us there. “Better. Though not as well as Lucas’ seems to be with you.”

Color touches her cheeks. “He just needs patience.” She takes a sip of wine, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. “Though that cut on his flank needs watching. Your vet’s good, but?—”

“But not as good as you.” I keep my voice neutral.

She straightens, that sharp mind engaging despite herself. “The scar tissue’s deeper than they thought. If you work him in the round pen?—”

I let her talk horses—no, I don’tlether do anything. I lost the right to that. Instead, I encourage her, watching how animation transforms her face. She’s magnificent like this—the confidence I’ve always admired shining through. When the waiter approaches, she barely pauses in explaining a new training technique.

“I’ve been using it with that paint mare of yours,” she says after ordering, then catches herself. Remembering why she shouldn’t be giving me training advice. Why she shouldn’t be here at all.

“Tell me more.” I keep my voice gentle, interested but not demanding. “About the mare. I noticed she’s moving better.”

For a moment, she hesitates. But horses are her passion, her expertise, and eventually it wins out over her wariness. “Her anxiety was making the lameness worse. Once I earned her trust,” she trails off, realizing what she’s revealed.

“Like you earned that stallion’s today?” I take a slow sip of wine. “I watched you work with him. You’re extraordinary with dangerous animals.”

“Yes, well.” Her lips curve slightly. “I’ve had practice with dangerous things.”

The loaded silence stretches between us as our food arrives. On the dance floor, couples move together, the pianist playing something sweet and aching. She watches them over my shoulder, something wistful crossing her face.

“The mare’s impressive.” I guide us back to safer ground. “I’ve been considering breeding her, if the lameness improves.”

“To that new bay stallion?” She leans forward, professional interest overwhelming her reserve. “His lines wouldcomplement hers beautifully. Though you’d need to watch that shoulder configuration.”

We talk horses through dinner, the wine and shared passion gradually easing her tension. She’s fucking smart when she forgets to guard herself, all sharp insights and intuitive understanding. I lean closer, drawn in by her intelligence as much as her beauty.

The pianist shifts to something slow and familiar—the kind of song that makes couples gravitate to the dance floor. Shiloh’s eyes follow them, that whisper of longing crossing her face again.

“Dance with me.” The words surprise us both.

Her eyes snap back to mine. “Jackson?—”

“One dance.” I stand, holding out my hand. “A reminder that not everything between us was bad.”

She stares at my outstretched hand like it might bite. Around us, other couples sway together, the music wrapping around them like silk.

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