Moonstone: Gems of Wolfe Island One

“Except…I don’t feel like I stepped out of my comfort zone,” I say. “Kissing Luke felt… It felt…completely normal. Completely wonderful. I wasn’t even scared.”

“Not at all?”

“Only of the fact that I wasn’t scared. If that makes any kind of twisted sense.”

“Yes, it does make sense,” Macy says. “We all heal in our own individual way, Katelyn. What works for Lily or anyone else may not work for you. You have an inner strength that I don’t see in some of the other women.”

“I do? I don’t feel strong at all.”

“But you are. I’ve read your file from the center. I know how you found your strength—your will to live—while you were captive. That’s something so amazing. Don’t ever doubt that you can make the right decisions for you. You have that strength. That intelligence. You have drive, Katelyn. Drive to succeed, and that’s why you will be whole again. You’re nearly there already.”

Nearly there already?

That’s a stretch.

A real stretch.

I don’t reply to Macy’s comment.

Instead, I say, “Thank you for staying late for me.”

“I hope to see you next time at group, Katelyn. Or if you want to make an appointment for a private session, I’m always available.”

I nod.

And I smile.

Macy believes in me.

Or she makes a good show of it.

14

Luke

Biscotti’s isn’t The Glass House. It’s less expensive, for one, which should be a consideration for me but it’s not. It is, however, less visible, which is always a consideration for me.

Someone who needs to lie low shouldn’t be taking the most beautiful woman in Manhattan to dinner.

But someone can’t help himself.

What I’m feeling is different.

No longer am I a slave to beautiful women or to my own desires. No. I want to see Katelyn. Talk to her. Learn about her. Get to know her.

Sure, if I’m honest, I’d love to take her to bed and screw her senseless. I’m still a guy, after all.

But I know I won’t.

I’m different now. I can do this the right way. Even though I shouldn’t be doing it at all.

I wait outside the restaurant. I could go in and tell the maître d’ that I’m here, but I want to go in as a couple.

I twist my lips and lean against the building as people scurry by. Just another Manhattan evening. Everyone’s in a hurry here. Always rushing. Taxis honk as they weave through traffic. If it’s possible, this traffic is even worse than LA. At least there are highways that go through LA. Here? It’s all congestion all the time.

I hate it.

But big cities are all I know.

I’m wearing black pants and a black button-down. No tie. Easy attire, and easy to blend in. I scan the crowds scurrying up and down the street, looking for a particular blond head.

Is she coming? Will she stand me up? Give me the rabbit, as the French say?

My heart races faster. What if she does? What if she stands me up? It might be the best thing for both of us, but I may die an untimely death if I can’t see her again.

Still, I do know where she lives…

But I’m not that guy anymore. I made a promise to myself.

If I ever do it again, I’ll do it right.

Damn. Where is she?

If she doesn’t show, I’ll deal. Not like I have a choice. I won’t go back to my previous bad habits. I don’t want to be that person anymore.

Besides, if I do, my life will be over.

I grab my phone out of my pocket. She never acknowledged my text, but she also didn’t say she wouldn’t be here.

Did she even get the text? It says delivered, but what if her phone is dead? Or she’s separated from her phone. Or the cell tow—

She’s there then. In front of me. Her lips curved slightly upward, her gorgeous blond locks swept off her shoulders into a messy bun.

She wears a pink camisole—damn, I can see her nipples through the silky fabric—and black skinny jeans. Simple patent leather pumps with a medium heel. No jewelry other than plain gold studs in her pierced ears.

She’s utterly beautiful.

“Katelyn,” I say, my voice coming out breathy.

Get a grip, for God’s sake.

“Hi, Luke.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“You didn’t text me back.”

She widens her eyes. “Was I supposed to? After you called, you said you’d text, so I just…”

“It’s okay. You’re here now.” I pull open the door of the restaurant and gesture to her.

She walks in and then stops.

She wants me to take the lead. Okay. That’s cool. The reservation is in my name anyway. I proceed to the maître d’.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Yes. I have a reservation for two. Johnson.”

Johnson. The name still feels strange coming off my tongue.

Luke isn’t nearly as strange. Maybe because everyone calls me that daily. No one calls me Johnson.

“Yes, Mr. Johnson.” The maître d’ makes a mark on an iPad. “You’re table’s ready.” He hands off two menus to a young woman. “Loretta will show you to your table.”