Page 101 of Sunrise & Serenity

“Good point.”

It doesn’t take us long to get dressed, even factoring in how many times I distract her by pressing my lips to various parts of her skin. Now that I’ve tasted how sweet she is all over, it’s hard to stop indulging.

As we drive down to the ranch, the faintest light behind the mountains warns me we don’t have much time to spare. Luckily, the place I’m taking her isn’t too far on horseback.

“We’re riding?” she asks as I pull my truck up in front of the main stable.

“Yeah. It’s the best way to get there.”

After we saddle Cozy and Whiskey, we mount up, and I lead Sage to a partially overgrown path that climbs into the foothills. The trail narrows once we leave the ranch behind, winding through pine trees still damp from overnight mist.

We ride mostly in silence at first. Sage keeps Cozy close behind Whiskey, the soft sound of hooves on damp earth blending into the quiet mountain dark around us.

“So… do you do this often?” she asks eventually.

“Drag women I spend the night with into the mountains before sunrise?”

A quiet laugh carries from behind me. “Something like that.”

I glance farther up the trail, and my lips curve. “You might just be the first.”

She’s quiet again, the only sounds the creak of our saddles, the muffled hoofbeats of the horses, and a growing chorus of bird calls as dawn approaches.

I let a few minutes pass before admitting, “I looked you up after you got here.”

She straightens in the saddle. “You did?”

“Wanted to make sure the strange woman living next door to me wasn’t secretly an axe murderer.”

A laugh bubbles out of her. “And?”

“And apparently axe murderers don’t usually get their work shown in galleries.”

She hums. “Depends on the gallery.”

I shake my head, smiling, but it fades as I remember the photos I found of her a little too clearly: gallery openings, fancy rooftop parties, Sage in a long black dress standing beside one of her photos, her ex on her other side, his arm around her waist, his hand gripping her hip possessively.

She looked beautiful. Elegant. Like she was part of a world I could never imagine living in. “You looked different,” I say before thinking better of it.

“Different how?”

I shrug one shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “Like you belonged there.”

“You mean in New York?”

“In that world—art, galleries.”

She draws a quiet breath. “I thought I did.”

The words hang in the air between us for a moment. I don’t let myself dwell on where she thinks she belongs now. Instead, I ask about something I’ve been wondering since she told me she started photography as a hobby. “What made you pick up a camera for the first time?”

“Oh, well, my grandmother gave me one of those kids’ Polaroid cameras for my birthday. I used up all the film that first week. Pretty sure my parents were happy about that part.” She laughs. “Unfortunately for them, I was already addicted.”

“There are worse things to be addicted to.”

“Yeah.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

I look over my shoulder at her. “Is your grandmother still alive?”