Page 3 of She's Like the Wind

Singular.

Deafening.

My heart went quiet just to survive it.

It was my fault.

I should’ve never told the biggest commitment-phobe in New Orleans that I’d fallen in love with him.

The words had slipped out when he was inside me.

“You make me feel so fuckin’ good, baby,” Gage groaned as he pumped in and out of me.

He cupped my ass, lifting me so he could go deeper.

“Say you’re mine,” he demanded, his blue eyes looking intensely into mine.

It was uncharacteristic of him to say something like that—and it freed something inside me, something that had been building for months now, a need to tell him how I felt, show him my heart.

“I am,” I whispered.

And then, after we orgasmed together, I whispered in his ear, “I love you.”

There was that whistling sound then, too.

He’d pulled out immediately like he’d just found out I had syphilis.

Usually, we lay together, he even slept at my place unless he had to head to a site early in uptown, then he’d stay at his house, which was there. Not this time.

Three little words, and it wasover.

I knew it when he gave me a tight smile, a peck on the cheek, andran.

Did it hurt to see him, just two days since I spilled my heart, kissing another woman?Yes.

Was I surprised?No.

I was, after all, a practical woman.

I knew what it meant to be an obligation.

MyseverelyGod-loving uncle and aunt let me stay with them in Baton Rouge after my parents passed away when I was thirteen. They treated me like a duty, a penance. I’d promised myself that when I had relationships, they’d all be authentic and would exist onlybecause I wanted them to and because my affection and love were reciprocated fully and wholly.

After telling Gage how I felt and having it thrown in my face, I could no longer pretend that what we had was sustainable.

We weren’t justcasuallydating any longer.

I’d caught feelings, and he didn’t do that.

He’d been clear about that from the start. I appreciated his candor, his openness—and then, slowly but steadily, I fell in love.

How could I not?

Gage Walker was a wonderful man.

It didn’t hurt that he looked the way he did. Broad and muscular, he had a striking presence, with a bold tattoo spanning his upper back and a sleeve of ink winding down one arm. He kept his hair closely cropped for practicality, and the neatly trimmed beard was a habit he’d picked up as a teenager, back when he was eager to look older.

He loved his parents—visited them every week without fail. I saw them once, by accident, when I bumped into Gage at the Easter parade in the Marigny. He was walking with them, laughing. But when he spotted me, he didn’t stop. Just gave me a nod and kept moving.