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He kissed her eyelids, first the left, then the right. “Yes you do, Kate.”
She let a breath ease out and was surprised to find that it shook. She’d never spoken these words to anyone, and saying them now almost burned because the weight of her failure was behind them. “I didn’t kill the man who killed my mother.”
She was ready for him to dig, to ask why, to turn this into an interrogation. But he hesitated, his breath warm on her temple. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. God, no.”
Then the cord of tension snapped, and his mouth found hers.
Hunter was fierce and gentle, but there was nothing aggressive about this kiss, nothing angry. This felt like a first kiss—not just with him, but . . . but ever. No pretense, no games, just a boy kissing a girl because of wildfire attraction.
And here, in the middle of nowhere, there was no need to shield their abilities. His power surged and whispered against her skin. The air chilled and warmed her simultaneously, but she felt heat in his touch. The earth rejoiced that they were here, full of energy and talent and letting it ride out in streamers.
His tongue brushed her lips, teasing. Her lips parted, allowing him in, drawing at his mouth until she pulled a gasp from his throat and his hands snaked under the sweatshirt.
o;Exactly.”
“That was a plane, and you’re not Kirstie Alley.”
“Yeah, well, you’re no John Travolta.”
“Thank god for that.”
She had no idea where they were—but she liked that. They’d driven for well over an hour, maybe two, until the highway started to wind through mountains and there were signs for falling rock. The air was cooler here, sharp and biting against her cheeks. Hunter had found an abandoned parking lot—in front of an abandoned department store—and he was teaching her to drive his car.
She’d only stalled the vehicle once before figuring out the balance between the clutch and the accelerator.
“You’re better at this than I thought you’d be,” Hunter said.
“Is that an insult or a compliment?”
“Lady’s choice.”
And now she didn’t know whether to smile or smack him. Everything felt tentative. Precarious, like a small tap in either direction would have them at each other’s throats again. “We’re only going ten miles per hour.”
“Want to try it on the highway?”
“What? No!”
“There’s no one here. Give it some gas, just don’t hit a light pole. See if you can figure out when it’s time to switch.”
She accelerated, and the car sped up, but she could feel the engine struggling in this gear, like something confined trying to break free. She hit the clutch, felt the release, and moved the stick.
The car stalled and the engine died.
Kate swore.
“Put it back in first,” he said. “You tried to jump to third. Second is straight back.”
“Intuitive,” she said, looking at the little ball on the top of the stick.
“Well, for most people . . .”
Now she did smack him.
When she went to move the stick, his hand came over hers and stopped the motion. “Clutch first.”
She did, then moved into first gear.
