Page 33 of Nomad

The hiking boots weren’t something she would have bought for herself, but they were surprisingly comfortable and made her feel confident and powerful in a completely inexplicable way.

When she opened the door, Cann looked her direction. His eyes scanned her quickly up and down.

“Bacon and eggs?” she asked.

“Nope,” he said without giving up any more information.

“Cat got your tongue?”

He smirked at her. “BLTs.”

“Sandwiches for breakfast?”

“That a problem?”

“No. It’s actually kind of cool. I like BLTs.”

“Maria brought lettuce and tomato. Oranges grown here in the valley. They’re good. Sweet. Not like the ones that ripen in trucks and trains on the way to grocery stores.”

“Got mayo?”

“How do you make a BLT without mayo?”

She smiled. “I don’t know. Just making conversation.” She watched as he turned bacon over. “So what do you want to do today?”

He snorted as he walked by her headed for the kitchen with a plate of fresh cooked bacon. After setting it down on the small kitchen counter, he began assembling slices of tomato and large Boston lettuce leaves. Bud became captivated by his hands. Aside from the sheer size of them, which was impressive in itself, they had the look of capability. They were tanned and weathered from years of riding a motorcycle, probably without sunscreen.

She found herself wondering what those hands would feel like caressing her bare skin.

“What I want to do today… Well, I’d like to start with a few laps in the heated pool. Maybe have some Bloody Marys brought to me while I’m drying off in my thick white robe. After that, maybe a spin through the mountains in the Lamborghini.”

She took a seat at the table shaking her head. “Not gonna happen. It’s not running and there’s not a qualified repair within five hundred miles. The Bentley is running though. And I feel like electric blue today.”

“Bentley it is,” Cann said. “Maybe we’ll stop at that little roadside spot that specializes in fried calamari.”

“And margaritas. Don’t forget the important part.”

“Sorry, sugar. Even if you were old enough to drink, doctor says nuh-uh.”

“All right. Forget the margaritas.”

“Hell, no. I’m still havin’ margaritas.” He chuckled as he set two large cut-in-half sandwiches down on the table and smothered them in potato chips.

“That’s mean,” she said.

“Orrrrrrr…”

“Or what?” She couldn’t wait a second longer to take a bite. Those sandwiches looked like her idea of an ultimate fantasy meal.

“Or we could clean up. Go do some target shooting. Play some cards and work on your Spanish.”

Chewing while pretending to look thoughtful, Bud said, “Yeah. That sounds good, too.”

They walked about thirty yards away from the house and set up a makeshift target in front of a hill so that they’d basically be shooting into dirt and rock. Bud wasn’t kidding about being good with a gun.

When she hit her target six times in a row, she threw Cann a smug look. He smiled and nodded, which she took as high praise. Standing so close to him, she noticed the two days of red beard scruff coming in.

“Your beard looks like it’s on fire in direct sunlight.” He immediately reached up and scrubbed his hand across his jaw. “It’s kind of pretty.”

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