Page 22 of Mountain Daddy's Girl
Lila bites her lip, then pulls herself in for a kiss. Between hot mouthfuls of contact, she says, “I … don’t … know.”
“What don’t you know?” I groan.
“If you, if we, can make this work.”
“Just watch me, Snapshot.”
7
LILA
“This is delightful,” a stylish woman with ironic love-heart glasses propped on her head says, gesturing to one of my photos. “I love the contrast between the gray and the black. It makes parts of the night seem lighter. Parts darker. But it’s all still … night.”
I offer my most convincing smile. “Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”
The gallery opening is going well. My Montana shots are getting the most interest. A collection of people has gathered around my best shot: the trees, rain clinging to them, glistening.
Abby walks over. Ever since we stayed at the MMA camp, she’s been acting differently. Rosa thinks something happened between Abby and the deputy, Clint, but she won’t talk about it.
She claps me on the arm supportively. “This is great,” she says.
I smile, look around the room lit with soft lanterns, the backlit photos, the stylish hipster guests.
You did great, Lila. Enjoy it. Relish it. All the hard work has paid off.
But as I grab myself a soda from the bar, I can’t help but think of the last time I saw Boone. He’d just taken my virginity, and then it was time to go, the road cleared, destiny interrupted.
I don’t believe in destiny, so I should really stop thinking things like that, but I can’t help it. I feel like I’m suffering from a weeks-long hangover.
We didn’t exchange numbers. He didn’t ask, and neither did I. I was waiting forhimto ask. I was waiting for him to make the move.
Is that stupid in hindsight? Did he use me?
Fill my head with a cacophony of madness and then end things? I don’t want to believe that, but each night I lie awake and I feel his solid body, his firm muscles pressing against me, his warmth, his hot breath whispering over my skin.
Abby nudges me again. “This is a good night, Lila.”
“I know,” I mutter.
You did good, Snapshot, I imagine Boone snarling.
He’s busy with his fighting camp. After leaving Montano, I spent some time looking him up. Boone isn’t some small-time fighter. He’s headlining a fight card this Saturday. He’s a multimillionaire who decides to train in the mountains because it brings out his savage side.
A quote from one of his interviews replays in my mind.“I’ve got enough money to start a family and put down roots, but I doubt I’ll ever find the right lady.”
It’s silly of me, right, to thinkIcould’ve been that woman after such a short time together. A fling.
I spend some time circulating, speaking with people about photos.
Then I freeze.
Several people turn slowly to the doorway, to look at the presence that fills it, his savage form stuffed into a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his muscular arms, the soft lighting catching the silver streaks in his head and beard.
He makes a primal groan when he sees me, then rushes across the room. People gasp as he sweeps me into his arms. It’s like a scene out of a movie. They gasp without even knowing our connection, our too-brief history.
My sex aches and my lips tingle when he wraps his arms around me. Something warm and fuzzy tugs in my chest. My world tilts as he leans down, brushes my face with his beard, stares meaningfully into my eyes as though the rest of the room, the rest of the world, doesn’t exist.
“Snapshot,” he whispers, stroking his hand through my hair.
