Page 13 of Huck Frasier
I should’ve left.
Instead, I asked him to dance. Which was ridiculous, since there wasn’t music—just the sound of wind and low laughter from other tables.
But he stood up anyway.
And we danced.
No music. No beat.
Just hands. Eyes. Chemistry that hit harder than the heat.
And later, when he pulled me toward the hotel, I didn’t say no.
When he asked for my real name…
I didn’t give it.
Not because I was being clever.
But because it was already too real.
We didn’t sleep much.
We talked about anything but us.
About books. And war zones. About what it meant to care about broken things and still want to save them.
He listened like I mattered.
He kissed me as if I were worth something.
I hadn’t let anyone touch me like that inyears.
And that terrified me more than the cartel, the undercover missions, the twisted politics I’d risked my life to expose.
He made me feel seen.
Wanted.
Safe.
And I didn’t know how to live with that.
So I did the only thing I knew how to do.
I slipped out while he was on the phone.
I didn’t leave a note.
Didn’t take a souvenir.
Except for the soft black shirt, which smelled like soap, cinnamon, and something dangerously close to home. It’s become my favorite piece of clothing.
Present
I stoodin the middle of the general store’s parking lot with my heart beating like it was back in Tunisia.
Frasier was still watching me. Still waiting for my answer.
