Page 24 of Blind Prophet

“I moved to Santa Barbara.”

His lips scrunch.

“What?”

I hate when he does that. He’s clearly thinking something but won’t say it.

Seconds pass, and tension wraps around my chest, forcing me to use effort to breathe. It might not be tension. It could be the altitude.

“I’m aware you moved,” he says.

The invisible pulse between us pulls me in his direction, and I cling to the rail on the side of the seat, holding me in place. His focus remains ahead, and I study his profile. He’s fit, but has he lost weight?

He turns slightly, catching me staring.

“Who told you I moved?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t keep up with you?”

How well did he keep up with me? Sophia’s caution comes to mind, but what am I thinking? This is Dorian.

The cart meanders slowly along the weaving path. In the thick of the trees, there’s no sign of civilization. It would be easy to get lost in these woods.

“Banking. Finance. I didn’t see that for you.” He lowers a hand from the wheel, and it falls to his thigh. His pant leg rises, revealing dress socks in a muted pattern above the rim of his low leather boot. “Don’t look so surprised. I only meant to look out for you.”

But how did you keep up with me? Which friend told you?

The cart’s wheels spin for a brief second, and there’s a bump as we hit pavers. Up ahead is a building that appears to be a timbered garage.

“This is new,” I say.

“Lots of things are new,” he says with a sigh.

He parks in front of a closed dark-green garage door. He remains still and silent, prompting me to ask, “How have you been?”

He angles his head, and my breaths slow in anticipation. It’s his turn to study me, and the effect is unnerving.

“Do you have meetings in Denver?”

A question instead of an answer.

I have no meetings, but I repeat the answer Sophia coached me to say. “I have meetings tomorrow.”

“Then you should stay here tonight.”

“Oh, I don’t want to put you out.” My cordial response is the expected one, but staying overnight is an ideal result.

He eyes my suitcase, and my gut churns. Does he think I came here hoping to stay the night?

“Stay. Let’s have dinner. Besides, I suspect you have paperwork for me to sign?”

He’s so casual, so breezy.

“What’s his name?”

“My lawyer?” I allowed Sophia’s lawyer to prepare a divorce agreement, so this time, I’m prepared with something that’s not a printout from the internet. But I still expect that his lawyers will mark it up to the point they should draft whatever it is he wants me to sign.

“I meant, who is the person you’re dating?”

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