For a long moment, they stood there, joined, panting, the cool mountain air raising goosebumps on their heated skin. Owen pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to the nape of her neck before withdrawing and helping her right her clothing.
When she turned to face him, his eyes were still dark with satisfaction, a possessive gleam in their gray depths that made her heart skip. She knew what he was thinking—that she’d be too boneless with pleasure to insist on going to the festival now.
Naomi grinned up at him, adjusting her shirt and smoothing her hair. “That was amazing,” she said, pressing a kiss to the underside of his stubbled jaw. “And we’re still going to the festival.”
Owen’s face fell, and he let out a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, tucking himself back into his jeans.
“But you love it,” she countered, enjoying the way his eyes flashed at the word neither of them had spoken aloud yet.
“I’d love it more if you’d stay safely on this ranch,” he grumbled, but she could tell he’d accepted defeat. He glanced at his watch. “If we’re doing this, we should get moving. I want to be there when it opens, scope the area before it gets too crowded.”
She nodded, trying not to smile at his tactical approach to a small-town festival. “I’ll grab my bag.”
As she headed inside, she heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like “stubborn woman” under his breath. She didn’t bother hiding her smile this time. He wasn’t wrong.
thirty-eight
Twenty minutes later,they were in downtown Solace, where the fall festival had completely taken over the town square and down Main Street. Stalls lined the streets, offering everything from local honey to hand-carved wooden toys, while the scent of roasting corn, caramel apples, and wood smoke filled the air. Children darted between the booths, their laughter rising above the steady thrum of guitar music coming from the stage set up near the courthouse steps.
Owen clearly considered it all a security nightmare. His shoulders were like rocks under his jacket, his jaw set in a hard line.
She reached for his hand, entwining their fingers. "It'll be fine. No one's going to try anything with hundreds of witnesses around."
"You'd be surprised what people will try," he replied darkly. "Crowds create confusion. Distractions. Opportunities."
She squeezed his hand. "And that's why I have you with me. My very own guardian angel."
He snorted. "Angel isn't exactly what most people call me."
"No," she agreed, her voice softening. "But you're mine. My fierce warrior angel, always ready to save me." She meant it as a joke, but the words caught in her throat as his gaze met hers.
He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Always.”
Hands still joined, they made their way toward the far corner of the square, where Naomi could already see her grandmother’s booth—a riot of color against the muted fall palette of the festival. Ava Charlo was a force of nature, and her booth perfectly reflected her personality. Bright beadwork caught the light, dream catchers hung from the stall’s frame, and fry bread sizzled on a portable griddle, sending up tendrils of fragrant steam.
Ava spotted them before they reached her, her face lighting up with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. She wore her silver hair in two thick braids wrapped with vibrant ribbons, and enough turquoise jewelry to sink a small boat. But the star of the outfit was her beaded, fringed bell-bottoms, which had been turning heads since the 1970s.
“There’s my girl!” Ava waved them over with a beaded wooden spoon. “And you brought your shadow! Good. He can reach the high hooks.”
Ghost raised an eyebrow at being referred to as Naomi’s “shadow,” but didn’t contradict Ava. Smart man. No one contradicted Ava Charlo. Not unless they wanted to face a creative form of retribution.
“Hi, Grandma,” Naomi said, accepting Ava’s fierce hug. Her grandmother smelled like fry bread and sage, a combination that instantly transported Naomi back to childhood summers spent in Ava’s kitchen.
“Let me look at you.” Ava set her back at arm’s length and examining her with a critical eye. “Still too thin. But at leastyou’ve got some color back.” Her gaze slid to Ghost, standing silently behind Naomi. “And you. Are you feeding her properly?”
“She eats what she wants,” Ghost replied, his voice neutral but his eyes wary.
Ava snorted. “Men. Useless in a kitchen.” She turned back to her griddle and flipped up a piece of fry bread onto a napkin. She shoved it at Naomi. “Eat.” Then she pinned Ghost with a scowl. “Well, don’t just stand there looking pretty. Put those muscles to work and hang these dreamcatchers on the top hooks while I finish this batch.”
To Naomi’s surprise, Ghost complied without argument, taking the delicate dreamcatchers from Ava’s worktable and hanging them from hooks along the top of the booth as if handling live explosives instead of beaded handicrafts.
“He’s not so scary once you get him working,” Ava observed in a stage whisper loud enough for Ghost to hear.
He shot her a look that would have made lesser women faint, but Ava just cackled and handed him another dreamcatcher.
“Don’t scowl at me, young man. You don’t scare me. I was intimidating men before you were even a tickle in your father’s balls. Now hang that one in the center, it’s my best work.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Ghost’s mouth—so brief Naomi might have missed it if she hadn’t been watching. “Yes, ma’am.”
