That startles a laugh out of me. “They did not.” We’re out of the moonlight now, in the shade of the trees that surround the tall rocks. Joe stops and we both sit on a small-ish boulder that’s tucked under the branches. From here we can see out into the moonlit desert and it’s like we’re sitting in a dark theater watching an old western movie with a night filter on. Stars wink overhead and the horizon is still a faint pink where the sun set a few hours ago.
“Oh, I can assure you they did. They’re scary when they threaten me. I’m supposed to do everything in my power to get you to stay.”
That thought makes my heart stutter, and the thought of staying permanently makes my stuttering heart happy. “Everything in your power, huh?”
“Yes.” His voice is a low rumble now, like far away thunder.
“Such as?” My voice is quiet now, too. It’s like we’re both afraid to disrupt this delicate situation or wake up whatever animals are sleeping out here.
He inches closer to me. I inch closer to him. His hand is on the rock next to mine, and I feel his pinky finger slide up against mine. All of my senses are on high alert. We have pinky contact, people. Pinky. Contact.
“I think—” His pinky finger slides down mine and back up again, making my heart pound in my ears, “if I do everything in my power to keep you, if I tell you the thoughts I’m having, I will scare you away.”
“If the scorpions don’t scare me away,” my voice catches as his pinky finger hooks around mine, “I don’t think you can.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, and when I nod his fingers interlock with mine, a perfect fit. “Then let me tell you what I’m thinking. I think I want to see you all the time. I wake up thinking about you.”
“Is that why you keep pounding on my window in the morning?”
“Knocking on your window is nothing compared to what I would prefer to do. It takes everything I have not to climb into that van and wake you up. So, yes. I think about you… all. the. time.”
My instinct is to pull away, to hide in the shadows before he realizes who he’s talking to. I keep my hand in his, though. I may be insecure, but I’m also greedy. “But I’m a mess. You’ve only seen the version of me with camping hair, in the middle of a quarter-life crisis.”
He groans. “You are not a mess.” He’s rubbing circles on the back of my hand with his thumb as he talks, “This reminds me. Back at the house you said something that bothered me.”
I know exactly what he’s talking about, but I’m not about to bring it up. I duck my head, even though I’m sure he can hardly see my eyes in the dim light.
“Remember when I told you you're beautiful and you disagreed with me?"
I nod my head even though it’s dark. I’m afraid to talk.
"Looking beautiful and being beautiful aren't exactly the same." His thumb is still making those circles on my hand that are driving me crazy. I'm trying to focus. "The first time I saw you, youlookedbeautiful. Took my breath away, actually."
How can he say that so casually? His tone says he's just stating facts, but he has no idea what he's doing to my heart. I take his fingertips and place them inside my wrist where he should be able to feel my hammering pulse. He resumes circling and stroking the soft skin there and I almost pass out.
He continues, "You looked beautiful that day, but I had no clue how beautiful youare." His fingers pause and I want to whimper. "’Beauty exalts the mind or spirit.’ That's straight from the dictionary.” This secret nerdy side of him almost unravels me. I sigh and he continues.
"There’s a better word for it in Navajo. Have I ever told you about the name Nizhóní?" When I shake my head he says, "My mom's mom was Navajo.Nizhónímeans beautiful. My mom named the resort as a tribute to her."
"Just when I thought your mom couldn't be cooler." I squeeze his big fingers and he squeezes back.
"So true. And the thing about Nizhóní is that it can mean beautiful as in attractive, but it also refers to something that is inherently good. The Navajo idea of beauty means more than how something looks. True beauty is deeper than that. And that is you. You lift people up. You're kind. I feel better when I'm around you. You are a beautiful soul."
I'm thankful for the darkness because I'm definitely blinking back tears. To be seen for something besides my packaging makes me feel genuinely valued, maybe for the first time in my life. I rest a hand on his stubbled cheek knowing that I can't speak. My voice will crack and I'll break down. I settle for showing him my gratitude, instead of telling. And my fingers solve a mystery that has been taunting me for days—what would Joe's chiseled jaw feel like to touch? It is incredibly firm and sexy, just as I had hypothesized in my many daydreams.
I don't know how I can hear it in his voice, but I know he's smirking when he adds, "It doesn't hurt that you are also crazy beautiful on the outside."
"Oh stop." My voice is breathy, but I can't help it. "Go on."
I feel his chuckle under my fingers more than hear it. "Would you like to know what I thought when I first saw you?"
"You mean when I humiliated myself by kicking bushes and screaming the lyrics to a Billy Joel song in front of you?"
"Exactly."
I pull my palm away from his face to hide my own, but he’s faster, snatching my hand and holding it against his jaw like it belongs there. Maybe it does. The feel of his stubble is kind of intoxicating.
He continues, satisfied with my hand placement, "First, I saw you from far away and I thought, Hmm… look at that dark red hair. Gorgeous. I've always had a thing for redheads. And since I'm a gentleman I won't tell you the ungentlemanly thoughts I had about that fancy dress thing you were wearing."
