Page 21 of Blind Prophet

They take the hint and leave.

I scan the functional, drab room and look past her to the bare aspens and birches.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?”

She sounds determined. Strong.

“Yes, of course. I need some coffee. You?”

“It’s almost eleven.”

“Do you no longer drink coffee?”

She almost smiles.

“I still drink coffee. I was up early for my flight. Let’s get some.”

I reach for her suitcase, and my skin brushes hers.

Heat emanates from the point of contact.

She pulls away like I shocked her.

The heat works its way up the side of my hand and my arm.

“How long are you here for?”I hold an arm out for her to proceed. “There’s a cart parked right outside the door,” I tell her, as much to fill the quiet as to explain where I’m gesturing for her to go.

“Just for the night,” she answers.

“Where are you staying?”

“In Denver.”

“With whom?”

“A hotel. A Hyatt. Nothing fancy.”

She means the comment as a dig. She also skirted my question.

We exit the guardhouse, and I set her suitcase on the back of the golf cart.

Those pale blue eyes sear me. With so much time lapsed, you wouldn’t think that would happen. She shouldn’t still have a hold on me.

She shouldn’t be here. You should’ve mailed her the agreement years ago.

You’re the asshole.

I reach for the golf cart hood to steady myself. My damn inner voice needs to shut the hell up.

“Are you okay?”

She’s concerned.Always has been.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

She’s not here to talk about your health, Dorian.

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