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“Because it’s Tempest.”
“Everyone’s so cryptic. What happens in Tempest?” She lifts her hands and wiggles her eyebrows. “Boogeymen?”
If she only knew. “This town’s got a long history of weird.”
“What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever seen in Tempest?” she asks.
“California license plates in front of me.”
Her lips twitch, then she bursts into laughter. A bright musical sound that soothes my restless blood.
She shuffles closer, swiping at dandelion fuzz as it’s carried on the breeze. “So you can make a joke.”
I chuckle, unable to resist her charms. “Do you always say what you think?” I’m trying not to be in awe of this girl but consider myself failing fucking miserably.
“Mostly.” She dips her chin, blond hair falling around her face. “I can’t decide if that’s really brave or really stupid. Probably some of both.”
“Don’t do that. Call yourself stupid.”
Her lashes lower. “But I have done stupid things in my life.”
“Like what? Running to Tempest?”
Fuck. It’s the wrong thing to say. Her face clouds and her shoulders sag, but surprisingly, she answers me.
“I’ve always run. Packed precisely twelve suitcases in my life, and come the end of the summer, I’ll pack another. Lucky number thirteen.”
I frown at her words. They’re tinged with sadness. My eyes lock on her face, to the cheek that holds no evidence of that bruise she had when she arrived.
“You in trouble, darlin’?” When she’s silent, I press. “You came to my ranch with bruises on your face.”
A swallow jogs her throat. Then she says, “Not your problem, cowboy.”
I grit my teeth at my own words flung back at me.
In the distance, bells chime. A melancholy, haunting tune I’ve known my entire life. Delilah lifts her eyes skyward. “What’s that?”
“The old church. It chimes every hour. Plays ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’ every quarter hour.” Usurped by Pastor Sawyer’s megachurch, it sits abandoned on the outskirts of Tempest. But not forgotten. For the last two decades, an anonymous individual has been winding the mechanical clockwork system periodically by hand, ensuring that it still chimes for the entire town to hear.
We listen as it chimes ten times, then Delilah says, “That reminds me. I need to make pancakes.”
It’s so abrupt, I blink. “For dinner?”
“Breakfast is the only thing I can cook.” A smile crosses her face. “When my sister and I were little, I’d get up early and cook for both of us. Eggs, pancakes, black coffee.”
Black coffee. One thing we can agree on.
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“Well, you should.” She leans in closer. “It’s the most important meal of the day, or haven’t you heard? It sets everything in motion. Just the sun and the quiet and the closest people in it.”
There’s emotion on her angelic face. But something darker lurks. Sadness, mystery, pain. The impulse to reach for her, to dive deeper into whatever she’s hiding, makes me take one step toward her.
Fuck.
I need to go.
I don’t need dark conversations at late at night with a girl so beautiful she lights my blood on fire.
