Her body was attuned to mine. She rode me until I came, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The next time, I took her from behind, one hand buried in her hair, my possessive instincts out of control when it came to this girl.
I didn’t need to know her name to know she was meant to be mine.
I drifted off to sleep one more time, my fingers tangled in her hair.
* * *
When I openedmy eyes a few hours later, the bed was empty. I shot straight up and looked around.
She was gone.
I did not fucking imagine last night.
Then I heard boards creak out in the living room.
Fuck, she’s sneaking out.
Not only was I not letting her leave without getting her name, but she had no way to get home.
I bolted out of bed, not bothering with my jeans, and reached the living room. “Hey—”
She whipped around from where she was standing, fully dressed, by the front door. But she wasn’t looking at the door. No, she was staring at a picture below a trophy mount and an antique rifle.
A picture of me, my father, and my grandfather.
Instead of a sated smile, her face was the picture of horror.
“Are you okay?”
She backed away, edging toward the door, and tripped over one of her boots as she reached for the handle.
“You ... you’re ... Lincoln Riscoff. Aren’t you?” Her expression was echoed by the horrified tone of her voice.
No woman had ever looked at me like that before. Normally when they found out my name, they were on me faster than I could fend off.
My chin went up. “Yeah. So?”
“Shit.” She reached down and grabbed her boots before ripping the door open.
She was already partway down the drive before I hit the front porch.
“Wait!”
She gave me a backward glance and stumbled, dropping one of her boots. She didn’t even stop to pick it up. She just bolted.
Fuck.
3
Whitney
Present day
Ten years.That’s how long it’s been since I last saw theWelcome to Gablesign as I drove away as a newlywed in the back of a limo filled with regrets.
Since then, I can’t say how many times I’ve thought about making my return. A hundred? A thousand? Somewhere in between, most likely. I’ve pictured myself in a fancy sports car with my hair tucked into a scarf like I was Grace Kelly, or maybe in a chauffeur-driven SUV.
Not once in those ten years did I think I’d be coming back to town on a Greyhound bus.