Page 5

For at least a century, what was left of humans struggled to survive.

Homo sapiens is a resilient species, however, and we eventually started to recover. At first, it was merely a collection of small towns in shoddily fortified safe zones free of radiation, but those grew as the years passed.

Now, a patchwork of city states comprised the civilized world, a confederation of the descendants of survivors that were spread out and separated by vast wastelands in between.

In my home state, some of the conveniences that had existed before The Fall were reestablished, with a few limitations.

Electricity, for one, turned off after eleven o’clock at night.

Each person had a daily ration of water and a weekly allotment of food, which was somewhat limited in variety.

It was all meant to keep our city state healthy and sustainable.

World travel was a thing of the distant past, a rare privilege employed only as permitted by the council and only when necessary. There was no need for it, really. We had everything we needed right here, but that didn’t stop me from being curious about what lay beyond our borders.

Even here in my home, there were still scars of the past written deep into the earth.

If I climbed up to the roof of my building, I could see in the far distance the massive perimeter fence that protected our borders.

Beyond it, the ground was a dusty bowl gouged out by an explosion from back then, still radioactive enough that nothing grew anew. I didn’t know what else was out there.

Honestly, I’d never even considered the possibility that I’d ever get to find out.

A knock sounded at my door.

I leapt to my feet, startled. I nearly spilled my glass of wine before I set it down and placed my palm over my racing heart.

It was him. He was here.

I groaned inwardly before walking out of my kitchen and over to the front door.

When I opened it with a trembling hand, he was there waiting.

In his hands was a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.

Pristine white roses, hydrangeas, lilacs, blue carnations, and others I didn’t recognize.

It was impossibly beautiful, and I was momentarily stunned.

“Naomi.” He spoke just my name in a deep, resonant tone and dipped his head respectfully.

“Ryker,” I answered, feeling embarrassed even though he had only said my name in a simple greeting.

“These are for you,” he grinned, passing me the bouquet with a look of expectancy I found confusing. I took it tentatively, probably looking like he had just handed me a live snake.

“I don’t understand,” I answered, staring down at the blooms. A wayward breeze sent the soft, flowery scent whirling around me. It was calming, sweet and lovely.

“I know it is not your custom, but I wanted to bring you something nice in exchange for dinner and opening up your home to me.”

I nodded, not knowing what else to do and feeling distinctly discomfited by this unfamiliar interaction.

“Come in,” I invited him with a welcoming gesture, finally remembering my manners.

He ducked his head and walked past me, brushing against my forearm in the process.

An electric current passed through my body, and I shivered, warm sensation spiraling deep down into my core.

I turned my face away, afraid he might sense my reaction to his nearness if he could see my face.

“You have a beautiful home. Very modern.”

“Thank you. The council gifted it to me on the day I was promoted to museum curator,” I explained.

“You should be very proud of the work you have accomplished during the course of your career,” he said, and this time, there was nothing I could do to stop the heat from rushing straight to my face. Flustered, I stared down into the flowers.

“I must confess. No one has ever given me flowers before,” I blurted, needing to say anything to divert the conversation from the effect he was having on me simply by complimenting me. He smiled, his expression softening.

“The first thing you need to do is get them in some water. Do you have a vase?” he offered gently.

I furrowed my brow and shook my head.

“Mind if I peek through your cabinets?”

I nodded quickly, surprised and pleased by his kindness. If anything, he was the perfect gentleman. The sort I’d read about in one of my stolen romance novels.

I watched as he opened several of my cabinets, searching until he found an oversized glass pitcher I’d used for the strawberry lemonade at the summer equinox gala that the museum had organized to garner donations from the public. It had been a massive hit.

He strode over to the kitchen sink and started filling it with water.

He used a little more than I anticipated, and I hoped I’d have enough to take my usual hot shower at the end of the day.

When he finally shut it off, a sigh of relief escaped me.

He carried the pitcher over to the island, placing it directly in the center. He beckoned for me to come closer.

“May I?” His hand stopped inches from my mine, which was clasped a bit too tightly around the stems of the bouquet. I nodded quickly and gave them over.

When his fingers brushed against mine, that same electric current shot through me once again and I froze.

I hadn’t believed it was real the first time, but there was no denying it now.

There was something between us, something that I couldn’t quite understand and didn’t know if I was ready to confront.

He said nothing, instead unwrapping the satin bow from around the base and arranging the bouquet within the pitcher.

By the time he was done, I could have sworn the flowers bloomed brighter.

The westering sunlight streaming low through the window caught them just so and I gasped in wonder.

The whole thing reminded me of a faded picture in a book long ago, a meadow full of wildflowers swaying in the breeze.

I smiled gratefully.

“There. All you need to do is change the water every few days and these should last a while,” he explained.

“Where did you even get such a thing?”

“I had to walk the people at the garden center through it. They made a few mistakes along the way, but I think it turned out well,” he answered.

I knew the place he was talking about; it was a center for propagating plant life. Most gardens had a role, such as a medicinal or manufacturing purpose or, of course, for food. None of our plant life was grown for the sole purpose of looking pretty on someone’s counter.

It seemed almost wasteful…

But I liked it. It had been a gift from him, and I would treasure that, although in secret.

I glanced up into those ocean eyes. He was watching, me and the look on his face made my breath catch.

“Would you like a glass of wine? I prepared a charcuterie board for us to enjoy before our meal,” I said quickly, wanting to distract him from whatever he might have seen written all over my face right then.

“That would be lovely,” he answered. He took a few steps back and sat down at the table. With a bit more distance between us, I felt more comfortable, but I couldn’t deny there was a powerful yearning to reach out and move closer to him despite that.

I ignored it the best I could by distracting myself.

I poured generous glasses for both of us, knowing that I would need a little liquid courage to get through whatever this night presented.

I suddenly couldn’t entirely remember what my intentions were for having him over.

I didn’t know what to do or say and my brain seemed to have forgotten all about the purely academic discussion I meant to have about our impending journey.

He made me nervous, not because he was scary or rude or cruel in any way, but because I was so intensely drawn to him in a way I’d never been to any man before.

I carried the glasses over and fetched the wooden cutting board overflowing with dried fruits, meats, and cheeses. He popped a piece of sausage into his mouth, chewing it thoughtfully before he took a sip of red wine. He hummed an approving sound, which oddly pleased me.

I wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. The man vexed me.

“Do you want to tell me a bit about Cressida?” he asked, breaking the tension after a long moment of silence. He cocked his head, and I smiled gratefully.

“I’m happy to share what little I know,” I replied, taking a moment to clear my throat and gather myself as quickly as I could before I continued.

“I dug into my archives and found only a handful of mentions of such a place. The exact GPS location was classified, but I did find hints to its location in the southwest of North America, in a place that was once known as the State of Jalisco in the country of Mexico.”

“To my knowledge, no one has traveled that far in a very long time,” he replied.

“I can show you the maps tomorrow that give vague coordinates at best. For now, though, I can show you a scanned copy on my work tablet. It’s not as good as the real thing, but it would at least give you a better idea of where I’m talking about.”

I got up and I felt his gaze following me.

I lowered my eyes to the floor and wrapped my arms around my waist in an uncharacteristic self-comforting manner as I walked into the other room to retrieve the device off my desk.

On the way back, I tapped in the passcode with my fingertip and dug into my records, scrolling until I found the map I was looking for.

I opened the file and zoomed in on the area in question.

“Before The Fall, this location was known as Chamela, in Jalisco, Mexico. Cressida Labs is a bit north and east of the city. This particular area was green, mountainous, and forested, though much of Mexico and the American southwest was relatively dry and covered with inhospitable deserts,” I explained, pointing to a spot on the map.