Page 58 of Fat Sold Mate
“And you're an infuriating patient, James Morgan,” I counter, pulling back onto the empty highway with perhaps more speed than strictly necessary. “I said I'm fine.”
He doesn't push, but I feel his concern through the bond, warm and unwelcome. We drive in silence for several miles, the tension between us building with each passing minute. Every accidental brush of his arm against mine as he reaches for the map sends electricity skating across my skin. Every shift in his scent as he responds to my proximity registers like a physical touch.
It's maddening. And judging by the rigid set of his shoulders, the carefully measured way he breathes, he's suffering just as much.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter finally, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“What?” James asks, feigning innocence so poorly it would be comical under other circumstances.
“You know what,” I snap, gesturing vaguely between us. “We just need to… we need to move past it.”
James raises an eyebrow. “Move past it,” he repeats flatly.
“Yes,” I insist, though the bond between us pulses with shared awareness that belies my determined tone. “It's just magical backlash. Like I said last night. It’s… magic, being weird. That’s all it is.”
“Right,” he agrees too easily. “Just backlash. Nothing to do with the fact that we've now had sex and—”
“Once,” I interrupt, heat flooding my cheeks. “Last night was just a kiss.”
“A kiss,” he echoes with a snort. “Is that what we're calling it?”
“What would you call it?” I challenge, immediately regretting the question.
James turns to look out the window, but not before I catch the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I'd call it a promising start.”
The words send a jolt of heat straight to my core, my body responding with embarrassing eagerness. Through the bond, I feel his immediate awareness of my reaction, his own desire spiking in response.
“Focus on the road, Ruby,” he murmurs, still looking out the window.
“I hate you,” I mutter, pressing the accelerator a little harder.
“No, you don't,” he replies with infuriating confidence.
I refuse to dignify that with a response.
By mid-afternoon, we're both desperate for a break from the confines of the truck cab and each other's proximity. I pull into a state park rest area, parking beside a trailhead that promises a short hike to a scenic overlook.
“Fifteen minutes,” James says, already climbing out of the truck. “We stretch our legs, then keep moving.”
The fresh air is a blessed relief after hours of breathing in each other's scent, being constantly aware of each other's every movement. I wander a few yards down the trail, stretching muscles stiff from driving, trying to ignore the way my body still hums with awareness of James nearby.
I'm examining a patch of wild herbs that might be useful for basic protection spells when footsteps approach—too heavy to be James, who moves with predatory silence even in human form.
A hiker rounds the bend, mid-fifties with a weathered face and friendly eyes. He nods in greeting, slowing his pace.
“Afternoon,” he calls. “Beautiful day for a hike.”
I nod, immediately wary of any stranger in our current situation. “Just stretching our legs. Long drive.”
The man pauses, leaning on his walking stick. “Heading toward Silvercreek?”
My blood turns to ice. “What makes you say that?”
He gestures toward our truck, where James has gone instantly alert at the mention of our pack. “License plate frame. 'Silvercreek Public Library.' My sister's a librarian there. Carolyn Pierce?”
The name is familiar—an older woman who sometimes borrowed books from my shop for her children's reading program. The coincidence seems too perfect to be genuine.
“Small world,” I say carefully.
