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She looked at him sidelong, examining his expression while he talked about it, what it was like to jump into a relationship with her because he was lonely and spinning his wheels.
“I know what that’s like,” she said. “Sometimes a pretty face is all you need for a while.”
It was Dave’s turn to look at Katrina. “Where have you been all my life?”
That comment went right to her heart and tears welled up. Katrina wasn’t a crier, but something about Dave Chastain moved her like no other man ever had. He was real.
“I was here for about an hour when I met Alphé. He’s a safe port and little else.”
“If you say so,” Dave replied.
Scared, he knew he was going to have to make a move or risk losing her, or at least the chance of her.
Every opportunity after that, he hunted her down; on the street, he’d invite her for coffee and they always went to the place out of town, on the highway. If he saw her car at the cottage, he’d make a stop, hoping she’d see him and run out to say hello.
On Sundays, if they were working on the barn, he’d meet her at Bayou Cottage. They’d spend hours talking, sharing superficial stuff, just to be close to each other.
They had not touched each other except to shake hands, and it was always the same. The yearning to hold on to each other forever changing their DNA. They had to find a way to be together.
Chapter 2
One Month Later
On Monday night after work, Katrina went to see Alphé and his kids. It was the usual routine there, Calista helping out with the children, Alphé exhausted, snoring by eight thirty. She left for Creole Cottage, so restless, but she had nowhere else to go. Like suffering from teen angst ten years ago, there was something lingering in the air—passion, unrequited love, adventure. She just wasn’t going to get it with Alphé.
After locking her car up in the detached garage, she walked around to the front yard so she could get the mail when a sheriff’s car drove byslow, slow, slow, and stopped. Her heart rate sped up. She knew who it was. He’d never stopped by at night. Waiting, she held her breath, watching it turn to roll up into her driveway. They had not seen each other for days. Her life had been a whirlwind of travel, moving into the cottage, and getting settled.
The car stopped, and nothing happened for a moment. She stood statue-still, her fists gripped at her sides, eyes wide. The door finally opened, and Dave Chastain in all his glory unfolded his body out of the driver’s seat. He wore civilian clothes—blue jeans and a black t-shirt that strained across his chest, cowboy boots, and a three-inch-wide leather belt with a holster buckled on it.
They just looked at each other for a while, smiling.
“Can I come up?”
She nodded, but the sun had set long ago, and he couldn’t be sure what she was doing.
“I hope you’re nodding. Are you nodding?”
She laughed. “Yes. Come up, Dave.”
She waited for him to reach her on the walkway and looked up at his face. He was so sweet, grinning down at her. Energy flowed from his body to hers, and the hairs on her arms rose.
“Have you been traveling a lot? I’ve looked for you all week. I almost asked Maggie where you’d gone.”
“Yes, for work again. This week was nuts,” she said. “And then this; the cottage is finished. I just moved in.”
Not able to stand it another second, she had to touch him. Simply holding his hand to shake would not be enough tonight.
In the dark, she reached up with one fingernail, starting at the edge of his t-shirt sleeve, and gently stroked his arm in one long continuous movement down to his wrist, never taking her eyes off his face. When her finger reached his palm, he grabbed her hand. She wanted to follow her finger with her tongue. It would be better to wait until they got inside.
Gooseflesh followed after her touch, and he shivered. The look of passion on his face took her breath away as he brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed it, leaving a ghost of a kiss behind. A sob escaped her, and he nodded, squeezing her hand again, pulling her body up against his.
They held each other for a moment, unfamiliar bodies making desire surge. He let go of her, nodding toward the door. “Open it. I can’t take much more.”
Slowly turning around, aware of him right behind her, she walked up two steps to the porch, and using the light on her key fob, keyed in the combination to the door lock. She could feel the heat coming off his body he was so close to her. Looking at him over her shoulder, she whispered, “One, seven, six, nine.”
He repeated the numbers. “Seventeen sixty-nine.”
The smell of fresh plaster and drywall, paint, and shellac flowed out when she opened the door. The interior was dimly lit; recessed lighting at the front of the bookshelves illuminated just enough. She stood aside so he could get by, and then she locked the door.
