Page 28 of Love Bound

Cory lifts one small hand and rests it on the horse's white star on his chest.

"Follow me, Cory," I say, clearly, as if directing traffic.

"Okay," he says, then turns and follows me.

I don’t turn around, I just keep moving, and I hear his little feet in the sand. I crawl through fast, turn around, and pull him out.

The gelding just stands there, pricks his ears, and then slowly—very slowly—comes over.

Cory hops up on the bottom rung again and this time I watch, ready to jump if the horse looks like he might startle. He could trample a little kid and not even know it. But he wants to smell Cory. He brushes against him and turns his head, looking at the boy with one eye.

Cory gazes at the horse and rubs in the chocolaty fetlock between the horse's ears. "His name is Salty."

"What?" I ask.

"Salty," breathes my nephew, and he closes his eyes. In this moment, he looks as relaxed and at peace as any other child.

"Well, let's tell Salty Happy Thanksgiving," I say.

"Happy Thanksgiving," he repeats, opening his eyes. Then he hops down. "Time to eat."

***

I’m just hanging Cory's little red coat on the peg when I realize I left my gloves outside. I open the door, and there, arm cocked and ready to knock, stands Finn Colton.

Instantly, my face grows warm.

He's just standing there with an old L.L. Bean canvas bag resting on the ground, and everything about him comes into focus.

"Am I late?" he asks.

That's a loaded question. Maybe if I'd met him three years ago before all that Jimmy Whitehead mess, I'd be able to look at him without being frustrated with myself. Often falling in love with the right person is a timing issue.

Unfortunately, he's here now, standing tall, with his olive complexion, wide hands, strong forearms, and I catch a whiff of something—his smell, almonds and salt with a twist of lime. Something you might lick before a shot of tequila. His coat, a collarless beige pilot's jacket, hangs on him, open, a plain dark green cotton shirt open at the collar. He leans over to grab the straps to the bag on the ground and I can feel the heat from the depths of his collar. There's chest hair, enough to make me want to slide my hand down his shirt and see where it leads.

"Can I come in?" he asks.

I shake myself. "Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Sorry." As I step back from the doorway to let him by, I babble on with, "You startled me. I left my gloves out by the horse and I was—"

"You mean these?" he says, setting my leather work gloves down on the side table by the door in the wooden key bowl. Looking at me—staring, really— with those gray-green eyes he says simply, "I saw them by the hose."

"Oh, thanks." I feel his hand at the small of my back. An intimate touch, I shiver, and I feel my crotch suddenly wet.

Jesus.

He leans forward slightly so he can whisper in my ear, "Great job with Cory. That was amazing to watch." His breath caresses my ear while goosebumps rise in a wave down my forearm.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

As we start up the stairs, I stop. I just stop. When I turn around, he's two steps behind me. I retrace one step back.

"Did you forget something?" he starts to ask, and I stop him, just like I did on the stoop—abruptly.

This time, I lean into him and kiss him. His head is a little below mine, his chin tilted up, his collarbone visible. I feel his body heat on my neck, and his lips—full and warm, soft—and a bit of stubble against my cheek. And as I breathe in, he breathes out like we are one being. It’s a simple kiss—quick, fleeting, secretive, and delicious.

I exhale when we part and he inhales my breath. And though his expression is unreadable, I’m not embarrassed.

"That was unexpected," I say, which is the truth, turning to finish the climb to the second story.