Page 17 of The Mountain Man's Curvy Trick-or-Treat

An angry hiss breaks the silence. I touch his neck; a spark bites my fingertip. “Ow!”

Leaning forward, I see metallic filigree along his spine sizzling and smoking.

“Regulator,” he mutters, voice strained.

Something in his tone chills me, the way people sound when they’ve already decided to protect you by disappearing.

“Does it hurt?”

He forces a smile. “Nothing hurts now that I have you. But?—”

My brow furrows. Before I can ask, his hand cups my face, fingers pressing against my temple. The world folds in on itself. Darkness rushes up. His voice follows me down:

“They’ll come for you before they come for me.”

I snuggle deeperbeneath my pink sheets, lost in the haze of warmth and memory.

“Best dream ever,” I yawn, rolling toward the alarm’s shrill beeping.Just a dream.

The scent of yeast and sugar should fill my little apartment above Eden’s Bakery, but it’s Sunday—my one day off.

“Star-honey,” I chuckle, touching my lips. “How do I get more dreams like that?”

I shift, savoring the delicious soreness from?—

I freeze.

“Oh, God.” I sit up.Soreness from what?

The name surfaces like a spark: Everett.

Heat floods me.It was a dream. It had to be.But my body aches like proof.

In the mirror, faint silvery bruises mark my hips—too large, too glittery for an easy explanation. But I can’t. I justcan’tgo there. “No, Eden. Stop this. Marks from a tight costume, that’s all.”

I gather clothes, refusing to look again. No to the faint shimmer under my fingernails—probably cookie glitter from the bakery. No to the swollen lips, the beard-burned cheeks.

No to the hum still vibrating under my skin.

I shower, blow-dry, dress in my pink jogging suit and fluffy socks, trying to drown the memory in caffeine and Top 40. But every swirl of coffee reminds me of his glowing skin.

I put yogurt in a bowl, top it with fresh strawberries, and head into the living room to sit at the dining room table. I slide up my phone screen, checking the latest news, absolutely refusing to think about anything related to the dream.

Not the faint metallic smell in the air. Not the ozone signature of his regulator.

The local newspaper and TV station are buzzing with something that happened last night. “A localized magnetic disturbance in the Sierra Nevada,” I read aloud. “Whatever that means.”

I frown, take a sip of coffee.Everett.If only.

“I wish I had something sweet,” I say restlessly, looking around. But what I really want is about six-foot-five, bearded, and glowing.

I tell myself again it was a dream. I almost believe it—until I see the plate.

A plate of Star-honey, sticky and rich, tempting and emitting the faintest glow.

Chapter

Seven