Page 22 of Sapphire Storm

It looked like Roman was kissing one of his bent knees. “I’mstarving,” he whispered into the denim.

“We should go then.”

Ethan raised the flashlight in one hand, put one foot slowlyto the earth and then the other. Following the beam’s fierce halo, he walked incircles around the bench, letting Roman see that there were no signs ofreptiles, letting him observe the flashlight’s power to cleanse fears fromshadows.

“Looks like we’re good,” Ethan finally said.

“It’s a long way back to your car, though,” Roman muttered.

“Okay, fine, then.” Ethan extended the flashlight to him. Hehesitated a minute before taking it. “You do the flashlight. I’ll do thewalking.”

With that, Ethan turned and backed up toward the bench. Hestopped when he felt his butt bump wood. When the silence grew awkward, hesaid, “Hop on.”

“A piggyback ride?” Roman asked. “Seriously?”

“Shall we call your boss and order a helicopter? Seems fraught,all things considered.”

Ethan stood his ground, hearing the rustling sounds of Romanmoving behind him. He waited for the kid to laugh, for the sound of his feethitting the dirt. Or maybe for a comment accusing him of being an old perv.Instead, one of Roman’s long muscular legs curled snakelike around his waist.It was followed by a powerful arm that slid across Ethan’s chest.

Well, then,Ethan thought.

As he embraced Ethan fully from behind him, Roman Walker’schin came to rest on his shoulder. “Muscle weighs more than fat,” he whispered,his hot breath sending gooseflesh down the side of Ethan’s neck.

“Something I tell myself every time I get on the scale.”

“You sure about this, old man?”

He was very much not sure about this. For more reasons thanone. But there was no turning back now. “Of course I’m sure,” he said.

Roman used his arms to hoist himself further up onto Ethan’sback.

When Ethan started forward, every muscle in his body seemedto tense at once.

But he was halfway down the trail when he realized theintoxicating bath of Roman’s expensive cologne, the forbidden nearness of him,and the firm and confident way Roman held to him from behind were all makingthe effort seem less strenuous than it was. Which meant his back would probablybe killing him in the morning.

For now, he felt stronger than he’d been in a while.

8

Veal piccata would be quick, easy, and delicious, andpacked with enough carbs to take at least some of the edge off Roman’s wildmoods. Even better, Ethan hadn’t put the cuts in the freezer when the grocerydelivery had arrived the day before, so there’d be nothing to thaw. He’d haveto cheat with the sides and use microwave spinach, always his last choice. ButRoman’s hunger and low blood sugar justified shortcuts and speed.

Whenever he cooked at home, he liked a little background music,usually light classical. Mozart or Bach. But tonight, he was hosting a guest,so as he checked cabinets and drawers to make sure he had everything he neededwithin reach, he asked Roman Walker for his preference.

“You an opera fan?” Roman said, poking at the latest mailstack on the kitchen counter with a little too much familiarity for Ethan’staste.

“Not a devoted one.” Ethan removed a butcher-wrapped pack ofveal scallopini from the fridge. “Is that what you’d like?”

“My mom was an opera fan,” the young man answered, whichwasn’t an answer. “Used to blast me out of the house with it. Her favorite was…Who’s that old dude from the old movies? The big guy, Mario something.”

Ethan rested a hand on Roman’s shoulder. “How about we sit?”

Roman seemed startled by Ethan’s tone, then looked down atthe mail he’d been rifling through. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to—”

“Restless Roman, I know. Just have a seat and I’ll get yousomething to drink.”

Roman waggled his eyebrows at the open Chardonnay bottle ashe walked past it. “Wine looks good.”

“On an empty stomach, I don’t think so. Park it, mister.”

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