Booted (Trails of Sin 3)

He follows me into the cab of Jarret’s truck, wedging me in the center. After checking the glove box for Jarret’s pistol, he settles into brooding silence.

It’s a miserable ride.

An hour later, the six of us sit in a fine-dining steakhouse several towns over.

For a restaurant that’s only been open for a month, I expected it to be busier. Only half the tables are occupied, each one draped in linens, silver, and soft-glowing candlelight.

Conor chose it for its lakeside view and raving reviews.

The servers don black suits and pour water into stemmed glasses, and the scent of seared meat permeates the air. It reminds me of the places John used to take me. He liked to wear me on his arm and mingle with the upper-class like he was one of them.

Lorne sits beside me, hands on his lap, stiff and motionless. His eyes move frequently, watching everything and everyone around him. That is, when he’s not watching me.

I feel that green gaze like a kiss. His kiss. It caresses my skin, seeking and finding erogenous zones I didn’t know I had until last night.

He watches me through courses of soup, salad, and fancy little appetizers. When the guys order beers, he drinks water and continues his vigilance, speaking only when prodded and smiling only at his sister.

But he doesn’t offer dimpled smiles. He’s too on edge.

I’m still mad at him and refuse to give him my eyes or any compassion for his discomfort.

Until he leans across the two-foot distance between us.

“Move closer.” He grips the seat of my chair. “Please.”

It’s the Please that reaches through my resentment and shakes me.

I lift my weight and let him slide me to his side. The position doesn’t look odd, seeing how the other four are already paired off in the same way.

Lorne stretches an arm along the back of my chair, and his fingers sink into my hair. As he idly strokes the strands from roots to tips, his entire demeanor relaxes. He sits back, muscles loosening and breaths slipping into silence. The slow, rhythmic slide of his hand through my hair is so palliative and trance-inducing I could curl up on his lap and fall asleep.

The serenity of nightfall blankets the lake beyond the wall of windows and spills into the dining room. Muted whispers, soft clinking china, and dark wood furnishings add to the ambiance.

The servers bring out the main course, and everyone digs into their steaks, chops, and roasts. The tender meat melts in my mouth, the vegetables buttery and crisp. The food is as comforting as the atmosphere.

As Conor and Lorne talk about her veterinary practice, it becomes apparent that he finally stopped by to see it today. At least he’s doing something right.

My stomach pinches. I shouldn’t judge him too harshly. He has a strong constitution and a courageous heart. He survived prison, hasn’t turned to alcohol, and here he is, sitting among strangers without losing his shit. I’m proud of him.

When he isn’t being a jerk.

Jarret orders another beer, and Jake teases Maybe about the critters that died under the farming machines that harvested her salad. By the time the plates are scraped clean and desserts are ordered, the mood has lifted into easy conversation and content smiles.

Lorne’s hand returns to my hair, his attention on his family. “When are you getting married?”

“We’re waiting for things to settle down.” Jake pointedly looks at me.

My shoulders tense. What does he mean? Are they waiting for John Holsten’s death? Or is he implying something else?

“We’re kicking around the idea of one wedding.” He brushes away an auburn lock from Conor’s cheek.

“You would share your wedding days together?” I glance between Conor and Maybe.

“Sure.” Conor turns into Jake’s palm, touching her lips to his scar. “We could go small. Just our family in the backyard.”

“Or we can do it in Sandbank,” Maybe says with a grin, “and invite the whole town.”

A shadow caresses Lorne’s face before a flicker of candlelight chases it away.

“Which would you prefer?” he asks.

My breath stutters when I realize he directed that question at me. “Why would it matter what I—?”

“It’s hypothetical.” His fingers clench in my hair. “Breathe.”

I draw air through my nose as everyone at the table stares at me.

“Now tell me.” His hand trails down my back. “Do you want a big wedding or a small one?”

His hypothetical inquiry is making me hypersensitive to the invasive, unwavering way he’s observing me.

“I don’t know.” I go still beneath his eyes. “I’ve never thought about it.”

A week ago, I didn’t even like men. Not enough to willingly attach myself to one.

The server appears with our desserts, saving me from further scrutiny. Lorne ordered the Grand Marnier soufflé for me and a coffee for himself.

I scoop out a spoonful of jiggly orange pastry and offer him the first bite.