Page 103 of Burning Daylight

He blinks, his knee bouncing like he’s shaking off whatever just had him suspended in place. “Nothing.”

Disappointment hits me like a wrecking ball.

“You know, if we had a secret handshake, that would have been the perfect time to use it,” he says, turning his voice into something light and teasing.

A smile crosses my face unbidden as he shifts the energy to something we both can handle. “You’re never going to give that up, are you?”

“I just think it’s bullshit. We’re practically a best friends’ club, meeting in the woods and trading confessions, but we don’t have a handshake? Even the Boy Scouts have one.”

I giggle. “They do not.”

“What, so you’re a Boy Scout expert now?”

His smile grows when I laugh.

“Come on,” he says, standing up and brushing the dirt from his jeans. “I want to show you something before it gets too dark.”

I scramble to my feet and follow him as he moves toward the edge of the cliff, the sun spraying the sky with deep purples and pinks as it sets. “Cutting it kind of close, aren’t you?”

He smirks, his dimples creasing his cheeks as he looks at me from his periphery. “Can you blame me? A pretty girl showed up and distracted me.”

I bite my lip. “Now you’re just flirting again.”

He turns toward me, slips his hands in his pockets, and leans in until his breath ghosts across my ear. “Flirting with you is the best part of my day.”

My heart flutters.

“What am I looking at?” I ask, trying to ignore how close he is and how I want him evencloser.

His arm lifts, breezing by my shoulder as it does, and his body curls around mine from the motion like he’s wrapping me up. He points in the direction of the old railroad, where a train that hasn’t been in use in years sits on the unused tracks.

As soon as my attention goes there, I see it. The setting sun creates an almost halo-like effect around the artwork, and it’s stunning, even if the sight of it causes fear to flood my veins. Fear forhim.

The piece itself is a silhouette of a man on his knees, shackles around his arms, the wordFreedomcreating the chains that lock his limbs. Behind him is a road sign that says,Welcome to Rosebrook Falls.

The image is visceral, and tears spring to my eyes.

“You did all this today?” I ask.

I spin to face him and lose my balance from how quickly I move. His hands shoot out to grasp my hips, and my palms fly to his chest to regain my footing. The air pulls taut when we touch, and his fingers flex against me like he wants to grab me tighter but is resisting the urge.

I look up at him, heat flaring through my veins like embers catching flame.

“It’s so strange,” I admit.

“What is?”

“Seeing your art and feeling like you’re painting pieces of my soul.”

Our gazes lock, his fingers digging into my hips.

His jaw tics once. Twice. Three times.

But then he lets me go.

I shake off the feeling of rejection, my teeth sinking into my lower lip as he moves to the edge of the boulder and leans against it.

“What made you paint it?” I ask.