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“But you just said the fire starter guy was a mage.”
“The planet contains powerful mystical and elemental forces and the Dendroignis outliers have learned to harness them. But the current leader of the Cedarians, Willow, is a first-generation weather mage. She draws her power from the cedar trees Alpha Gen planted five hundred years ago. Something in the soil has mutated them into powerful…”
And on he went… this story sounded crazy and convoluted. The author had clearly been unable to decide if he wanted to write sci-fi, or fantasy, or good old-fashioned mythology. So he had thrown everything but the kitchen sink into the story.
Aaaand now there were…
“Dragons?” Seriously?
“Well, not dragons as we know them,” he explained earnestly. “A native species of flying reptile. Willow has leaf-bonded with a hatchling. I think the connection between her and Delonix—the hatchling—is going to be a serious game changer.”
“How many books are in this series?”
“Ten. The author, Michael Quinn, has written several epic series before this one. I’ve read them all, but this is my favorite.”
“I see,” she said faintly. “And you like this space opera stuff?”
“They haven’t all been space operas. The last one was straight up fantasy.”
She honestly wouldn’t have taken Mr. Straitlaced Hollingsworth as someone who enjoyed anything as fantastical as this. She’d only ever seen him read newspapers. Then again; he often sat in isolation—a pair of headphones clamped over his ears—while his siblings and friends laughed and played. She had always believed that he chose to cut himself off from them because he was dour and unfriendly and a workaholic. But she now understood that this was his way of relaxing. All those times he had been lost in one of these insane stories.
This man: rescuer of stray pups, avid fan of over-the-top fantasy fiction, sudden boiled egg naysayer, recent frequenter of her most erotic fantasies, was nothing like the cold, calculating person she had originally believed him to be.
“Do you only listen? Or do you read these books as well?” she asked when he took a breath between raving about dragon bonds and the discovery of a new and hotly contested continent.
“I don’t usually have the time, or patience, to sit and read a book. I can’t remember the last time I read one from start to finish. I often multitask when I’m listening to a book. It’s a more efficient use of my time. We’re here.”
The last two words surprised her and she glanced out to see that they were, indeed, pulling up to the dirt parking area at Klein Bekkie. There were only three other cars in the lot. The half hour journey had flown by. She had been so riveted by his retelling of the bizarre space saga, that she hadn’t paid much attention to the passing scenery.
“You ready for your beach debut, Monster Mutt?” he asked over his shoulder as he put the vehicle in park. The pup whined in anticipation and he grinned—a wide, open, boyish grin. He turned to Charity and gave her the full force of that smile, dimple and all, and it
stripped her breath away.
“She loves the lake and I’m keen to see how she takes to the ocean,” he told Charity, his gorgeous smile remaining firmly in place.
“I’m sure she’s going to love this too,” Charity said her voice faint, as she tried to find the breath he had stolen from her with that gorgeous grin.
A deep, purring, oh-so-sexy sound of approval rumbled from his chest, and he opened the door and leaped from the Land Rover. She was still unbuckling her seatbelt by the time he had rounded the front of the vehicle and opened the door for her. A little flustered by the consideration, she didn’t give herself time to think before taking the hand he offered, and stepping to the ground on wobbly legs. His hands weren’t as soft as she would have imagined. The last week or so of wood chopping and garden work had formed a few callouses on those capable, broad palms, and she loved the feel of the rough texture of his skin on her own.
She shuddered as she imagined them exploring other, more sensitive, parts of her body and helplessly clenched her thighs at the thought. Thank God, he seemed to remain oblivious her reaction. Instead, he released her hand almost immediately and turned back to the vehicle for Stormy. The pup’s excited whining was turning into yelps of approval, and he chuckled.
“Cool your jets, Stormy girl,” he said, as he lifted her from the booster seat and snapped a leash to her harness. He clipped a bag of treats to one of the belt loops of his well-fitted, low-riding jeans, donned his backpack, and beamed at Charity. “Ready?”
It was breezy this close to the ocean, and Charity’s hair was starting to lift and play around her face. She regretted not bringing a hair tie and swept the length over her left shoulder and tried to anchor it in place with her scarf.
She grabbed up her own backpack and shrugged into it before nodding.
“Ready.”
Stormy was tugging at the leash, while Miles waited for Charity to join them.
His eyes ran over her face. “You cold?”
“It’s nippy but not too bad.”
A long strand of her hair escaped the imprisoning hold of the scarf and danced on the wind. He leaned forward and very slowly—clearly projecting his intention and giving her ample opportunity to back away if she chose—reached out and tucked the hair behind her ear.
She stood her ground and allowed it. Happy that he had—by the excruciating slowness of his movements and the question in his eyes—requested permission to touch.
