Page 35 of The Lonely Road

Mav and Aria are dancing the way people dance when they’ve been doing it long enough to know each other completely—unhurried, present, loving…and almost romantic, not that I know what the fuck that actually is.

Bree Keaton appears at the edge of the dancing area, watching, and then Kaz materializes behind her and says something low, and she turns and says something back, and for a moment they’re doing the thing they always seem to be doing—having an entire argument in the space of four words, neither of them moving, both of them absolutely aware of every inch between them.

Taya waves at someone, and I clock them.

Duke Wilder is deep in conversation with a man I haven’t met yet.

I know him from the file. Nokoni Red Clay, Southern Ute, chairman of the tribal council. He waves back at Taya, and then Duke nods at her, smiling.

The men go back to talking to one another.

“Who’s that with Duke Wilder?” I ask unnecessarily.

“That’s Elder Nokoni.” She stands up and brushes her hands on her jeans. She holds one out. “Dance with me.”

She’s looking at me with the expression of someone who has already decided and is waiting to see how I handle it.

“I’m a shit dancer.”

Her face flowers into a broad smile. “Me, too. Come on.”

I place my hand in hers, charmed by her boldness, her candidness, her openness.

Moral flexibility means I don’t feel guilty about taking advantage of all those personality traits. I decide to feel secure in that thought.

I’m not a shit dancer, as I said. What I am is functional. I know where to put my hands and how to move without embarrassing myself, which is the floor requirement.

I have danced before. With women. With women whom I have slept with. But none of them fit in my arms the way Taya does—which is perfectly.

Her hand in mine is warm. Her body brushes against mine, feminine and luxuriously perfumed.

We’re not doing anything complicated, but her nearness is making everything complicated. I want her. Not just to fuck—though I want that, too, but to have.

Brooks, buddy, get your head out of your ass, yeah? This ain’t gonna be a Mav-Aria-style romance. You have a job. Hell, she is the job.

I silence the voice in my head and just enjoy having this vibrant woman in my arms.

She’s careful—all around—but when she decides that someone is okay as she has me, she’s even more vivacious.

“How long will your work here last?” she asks, her eyes holding mine.

I sense emanating from her the exact radio waves of want that I’m giving out.

This has never happened before.

Usually, when I am interested, it’s a physiological function, not an emotional one.

Maybe I should tell Jessup I can’t help him?

The thought comes unbidden—a thought I’ve never had before. I don’t walk away from jobs that pay this well. A quarter of a million to dismantle a case is not unheard of—but it is generous even if it’s my going rate. Fixers like me are rare and busy. You want to buy our time, you have to pay for it.

The job didn’t look difficult when I took it on. It’s still not difficult. But it is getting knotty because of the woman I am holding, smelling…wanting.

“A few weeks.”

I see her disappointment, and I wonder if it mirrors mine.

“So, you’re just passing by.”