Page 10 of River & Rue

The forest brightens again, shadows lifting. With a sigh that rises from the depths of his being, he opens his eyes and looks at me.

“It’s going to rain.”

The words are so confident I glance up, half expecting to see a storm brewing. But nope. Outside of a few fluffy white clouds, the sky is still blue.

Annoyed with myself, I give River a narrow look. His eyes, creased with amusement, are clearer now. Closer to the lionesque gold I know and loathe.

“You don’t believe me?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. “I know Ivy’s convinced you’re some weather psychic, but there’s no rain in the forecast.”

“Hmm. I guess we’ll see.”

“I guess we will.”

His grin is a flash of lightning, there and gone, leaving me blinking fast. He turns away, beckoning me with a lazy wave.

“Come on. We’re close.”

I follow, eager to put a locked door between us. Unlike before, however, he shortens his stride so we’re side by side. Although I preferred walking behind him where I could more easily imagine him tripping and smashing his face on a rock, I decide to pick my battles.

“Did Claudia tell you Kirk would bring your bags?”

I eye him warily. “She did, but why does that sound like a loaded question?”

“Did you actually meet Kirk? That guy eats LSD for breakfast. Yesterday, he almost drove the golf cart into the pool.”

My stomach nosedives, and I grab his wrist to halt him. “Are you fucking with me? My laptop is in my luggage.”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at my pale fingers resting on his darker skin. I snatch my hand away, prickling warmth rolling up my spine—definitely annoyance and not embarrassment.

“Apologies for the offense, your highness,” I quip with maximum sarcasm. “Now answer the question.”

River shakes his head, brows drawing together. His eyes flicker up, twin pools of honey beneath dark lashes.

Air thickens in my lungs.

“Howdy-ho, campers!”

The boisterous call coincides with a mechanical hum and grinding dirt on the path ahead. A golf cart barrels toward us, tires spitting plumes of dust. The grinning, waving man in the driver’s seat is Willie Nelson’s doppelgänger, down to his red bandanna and gray braids.

“Speaking of Kirk,” River says blandly.

“He’s not stopping,” I hiss, my muscles tensing in readiness to jump off the path.

“He will.”

Right as I’m considering abandoning River to his fate, Kirk hits the brakes so hard the cart slides before lurching to a stop five feet away. Dust clouds the air. I cough and wave a hand in front of my watering eyes.

“Sorry about that, folks. Still getting the hang of this contraption.” Kirk hops to the ground and hocks a loogie into the bushes.

River whispers, “Don’t look at his feet.”

I look and instantly regret it.

“Should’ve listened.”

I swing my elbow sharply, but River evades the blow with a smooth step backward.