Page 20 of Whirlwind

“Hell, yes. Fucking hot and super macho.”

He lifted his chiseled chin at me, his fingers touching his bruises. “You did me a favor.”

My insides charged at the rough in his voice, the bright gleam in his eyes, the sly grin, and I crossed my legs, tightly. “Wes told me he was going out with a friend tonight, but he didn’t say it was you. I didn’t even know you were in town.”

“We finished the tour in Denver last week, and I needed some down time away, alone. Worked out since my mom and Finger are on vacation—”

“Are they?”

“He surprised her with a trip to Costa Rica for their anniversary.”

“Wow, did he?”

“He’s always good to her.”

“They have this intensity between them that just keeps getting stronger.”

“It does. It’s fantastic.”

Yep. Fantastic and oh so foreign. A fairy tale come to life.

His eyes lifted to mine, his fingertip tracing a line on the counter. “You weren’t at their wedding.”

He’d noticed? My heart thudded in my chest. I leaned over on the counter. “Do you remember what we’d talked about? That night at Pete’s?”

“I remember.” He held my gaze, his eyes molten arctic sapphires melting my insides.

“I took your advice and went for what I really wanted. I applied for an intensive workshop on photography, and I got in. Instead of going on a trip to Europe that my dad had arranged for me as a college graduation gift—which didn’t go over very well—I went to Canada to this arts school and took that workshop, which is why I missed the wedding.”

He leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest, a warm smile sweeping his lips. Pride, approval, excitement—all of it showering over me like a hot fragrant rain. “Well, well, well.”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

He gestured at the framed photograph on the wall by the sink. “Is that yours?”

My heart swelled, and I let it. That photo was the most special piece of work I’d ever created. “It’s mine.”

He got up from his chair and went to the photo, studying it. “I noticed it right away. It’s some sort of overlay collage, right? These swishes of color are really…mod.”

“Mod is the word. I was going for that seventies-eighties feel. That was my grandma’s time, and my mom and I have always been seventies bohos at heart.”

“And the girls, they’re so vibrant.” He moved in closer to the photo. “Hang on, that’s you, isn’t it?”

“It’s me, my mom, my aunt, my gran, my sister, and my grandma’s cousin. All of us at the same age. The Dillon women in layers, colors. Different generations, different dreams, yet—”

“The same energy.” He turned, facing me.

“The same,” I breathed as his suddenly bright gaze locked on mine. He saw it. He felt it. He understood.

“It’s good, Violet. I like it.”

His words fisted in my gut, and I trapped them there. “Thank you.” I cleared my throat. “You’ll like this fun fact: my gran’s cousin—the one with her arms in the air and the long hair flying?”

His attention returned to the photo. “Total babe.” His lips tipped up in a grin. “Wild girl?”

“Oh yeah, very. Isidora was a singer in a rock band. I took that image from a pic my grandmother took of her performing at a local festival in the late seventies. My gran went to a lot of her shows—they were best friends. A few times she even took my mom with her, who was thirteen, fourteen. Those pics have a real raw and rough quality that always inspired me. You can feel that rock and roll energy in them, that wild.”

“I’d love to see those photos.”

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