Page 101 of The Temptation of Truth
I wait, and I hope like hell that I’m strong enough to handle it.
22
AURORA
The momentthe French doors open, my eyes snap up from my notebook.
I knew she’d come. I didn’t have the courage to knock, but something in me knew that I wouldn’t have to. I was right. I’ve only been out here ten minutes, and already, she’s here.
“Good morning.”
Mabel’s voice is still sleepy as she pads on bare feet toward me. I let myself look her over, and the sight both quickens my breath and calms my mind. She’s in a pink silk robe that hits her midthigh, the neckline open just enough to show pajamas with lace trim. Her face is bare. No thick, black eyeliner. No bright pink lipstick. Just Mabel.
This was the worst part of sharing a room with her in Adelaide. Seeing her dressed down and real. It made me feel things I didn’t understand—truthfully, I still don’t understand them—yet I still craved it. Now I miss it. I miss it so much that now that she’s here, I can’t bring myself to look away. Not even when she catches me staring. Her naked lashes flutter and she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth before setting a latte cupon the table, toffee from the smell of it, and taking a seat across from me.
She gives me a small, almost shy smile, and nods to the notebook in front of me.
“What’s that? Are you writing poetry?”
I drag my eyes off her long enough to glance at the open page filled with my loopy handwriting.
“Journaling.”
Not poetry. Not yet. But journaling is a start.
“About your Tour du Australia?”
“Well, right now I’m making a list of places I want to visit. If I get the chance.”
“Yeah?” Her mouth curls into an excited smile that I can’t help but mirror. “Can I know what’s on the list?”
“They’re pretty generic travel destinations, I think.”
“Tell me anyway.”
She lifts her latte to her lips and takes a sip without breaking eye contact, and there’s something so intimate about it that I nearly lose my breath. I avert my eyes to my notebook and read.
“Paris. Rome. London.”
“Good choices. Where else?”
“Marrakech.”
“Oh, Morrocco. Nice.”
I glance up at her and find her brows raised with interest.
“I’ve never been there. Why Marrakech?”
“There’s a garden there,” I say slowly. “Jardin Majorelle. I’d like to visit it.”
“Like a botanical garden?”
“Yeah. But kind of different.”
“Different how?”
I try to sound nonchalant, try not to geek out over it, but she’s so genuinely interested that my excitement boils over, and I start to ramble.
