“Yeah.” She leans her head against the car window. “I love the mountains and cacti here. It looks like another planet compared to the Midwest. And I don’t mind traveling for work—I’m grateful for the chance—but...I also hope someday I’m able to go places with time to soak them in.”
I chuckle. “Work isn’t a vacation. We’re dealing with very demanding clients and competitors pissier than any rattlesnake out here.”
“I know, but we were so close to Hollywood in L.A. I wish I could’ve seen the stars.”
“Like who?” I ask.
“No, not actors. Like the ones on the ground.”
“Oh—the Avenue of Stars,” I say.
Mental note: Next time we’re in L.A., make sure there’s time for a Hollywood trip.
The desert sun dips low in the sky, casting a brilliant neon-red sheet over everything. We’re well outside the city now, past Scottsdale and Fountain Hills. The suburban houses thin and the landscape turns wilder, filled with brush and soaring cacti and hawks that look like they’re on a mission.
“Whoa.” Sabrina fuses her face to the passenger window. “This is beautiful, Mr. Heron. I knew I’d like the desert since it’s unique, but I didn’t know it’d be so breathtaking.”
“It only gets better at sunset. Trust me.”
“Wow, look—that’s amazing!” She beams with a smile far brighter than the landscape lit all around us.
I glance over.
She’s pointing to the mountain range in the distance, one of the taller McDowells with its wrinkled, rolling peaks and winding valleys. It looks like a giant took a rake to the entire landscape thousands of years ago.
“I’ve never seen rocks like that before,” she whispers with the awe only a flatlander has.
“There were mountains in L.A.,” I remind her, fighting a smile.
“Oh, right. We didn’t really get out of the hotel much.”
“I’m sorry.” I pull over to the side of the road.
She shrugs, rolling her delicate shoulders.
“It’s business, and you pay well. I’m not complaining.” She blinks as I turn down a rockier side road. “What are we doing?”
“Since you adore the mountains so much, I thought we’d stop and have a look around. This is part of the main park, anyway. Just not the main entrance.”
“Oh, sounds great.”
A minute later, we’re parked and she opens her door, stepping out with the grace of an explorer in a new world.
“Be careful,” I say, getting out of the car. “Flip-flops probably aren’t the best shoes for this excursion. These trails are rougher than they look.”
“Chill. I’m totally fine,” she assures me, throwing a thumbs-up as the desert breeze whips her hair around.
Destroyed.
For what feels like a minute, I’m rooted to the ground, standing there like a lunk who’s forgotten how to walk.
All because the Arizona sun turns Sabrina Bristol into a work of art.
Passion.
Music.
Soul.
She’s an angel cast in rusted light and shadows that contrast far too brilliantly with her mahogany hair and a smile that could rob a man blind.
My hands drift to my pockets, though my wallet isn’t what I’m worried about losing.
I just don’t have a way to check my head, my heart, and find out if I’m still all there, or completely hollowed out by this spitfire Venus I damn sure shouldn’t be fawning over.
“Follow me,” I clip off, forcing my knees to move so I break the trance.
I point to the mountaintop and a wide, flat ledge of rocks below that should make a good place to sit.
“We’ll have a great view from there if we hurry.” I grab the picnic basket out of the back seat and lead the way.
A few minutes in, I turn back to find Sabrina struggling along behind me.
“Why don’t you go ahead of me? I’ll catch up,” I tell her.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“I insist. Ladies first.” I wave my arm in front of me, hoping she’ll pass.
The ground becomes rockier and less even when we’re closer to the shaded area I plan to stop at. Sabrina almost loses her footing, rocks skidding out from under her.
I slow down, ready to catch her if she falls. She uses her hands to catch herself and rebalance several times, yet continues the climb.
She’s quick on her feet.
I’m not sure I could do that so gracefully in flip-flops.
Then she missteps with a loud squeal.
I slide the picnic basket up my wrist and stretch my arms to catch her. It doesn’t matter though, because she’s falling, overcompensating her balance, and slams into my chest.
Shit.
I brace myself to keep from keeling over with her. My free hand instinctively closes around her, turns her gently to face me, and I hand her the picnic basket.
“Hold this.”
“Why?” she asks.
I sweep her off her feet. Literally.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m cradling her head in one elbow while her feet dangle over my other. Our eyes lock with a hot polarity that makes her gasp.
Fuck.
For a second, I wish this grip on her was about more than preventing a broken neck. She trembles at my touch, supple curves and rippling hair, my own raging desire personified in one stubborn, gorgeous, and right now far too vulnerable young woman.