His thumb was still moving over my pulse point, slow circles that made it hard to concentrate on anything else. The alley suddenly seemed smaller, the air between us thicker. I could hear my own breathing, too fast and shallow.
"I know what I want," Dan continued, his voice dropping lower. "I've known since you carried me through that storm like I weighed nothing. Since you sat beside me in the dark and promised to help find whoever tampered with my car."
My face was burning now, but I couldn't look away from him. His eyes held mine like they had their own gravity, pulling me in and holding me there.
"I want you, Harlow McKenzie," he said, each word precise and deliberate, like he was making sure I understood exactly what he meant. "Not as a friend. Not as someone to protect or take care of. As a partner. As a man."
My heart hammered so hard I was sure he could feel it through my wrist, where his fingers were still wrapped. I didn't know what to say—words had never been easy for me, and now they seemed impossible. But I needed him to know I felt the same, needed him to understand what I couldn't figure out how to tell him.
So I did the only thing I could think of. I turned my hand in his grip until our palms were pressed together, then slowly laced my fingers through his. His hand was so much smaller than mine, but it fit perfect, like it was made to be there.
Dan looked down at our joined hands, then back up at me. The smile that spread across his face transformed him, lighting him up from the inside in a way I'd never seen before.
"There's so much I want to tell you," he said, squeezing my hand. "So much we need to figure out. But not here, not like this, with five minutes stolen behind a bakery."
I nodded, understanding what he wasn't saying. Ma would be looking for me by now. We didn't have much time.
"When?" I asked, the single word carrying all my hope and fear and longing.
"Tomorrow night," Dan said without hesitation. "I'll be at the river bend, by the old oak, at sunset. Can you get away?"
The river bend was on the edge of our property, far enough from the house that Ma wouldn't hear me leave, but close enough that I could get there and back without raising suspicion if I was careful.
I nodded again, this time more firmly. "I'll be there."
Dan's smile widened, and something in his eyes made my breath catch. He leaned in, so close I thought for a wild moment he might kiss me right there in the alley. Instead, he pressed his forehead against my chest, just for a moment, his free hand coming up to rest over my heart.
"I've been waiting for you to find me," he whispered, his words vibrating against my sternum. "Ever since I came to this town, I've been waiting for you." Then he stepped back, slowly releasing my hand. "I should go first," he said, his voice returning to normal. "Your mother might be looking for you."
I nodded, already missing his touch though he was still standing right in front of me. "Sunset tomorrow night," I confirmed. "I'll be there."
Dan gave me one last look, something fierce and possessive in his eyes that sent a shiver down my spine. Then he slipped out of the alley and back into the crowded market, leaving me alone with the thundering of my heart and a hope so bright it almost hurt to hold it.
Us. We were an "us" now. Or we would be, after tomorrow night.
For the first time in my life, I felt the boundaries that had always hemmed me in start to crack and fall away. Ma would be angry. The town would talk. But none of that seemed to matter anymore, not when Deputy Dan Latham was waiting for me tomorrow night by the river at sunset.
Chapter Eight
~ Daniel ~
I paced the perimeter of my apartment like a caged animal, each turn bringing me past the same half-unpacked moving box I hadn't bothered to deal with in the three months since arriving in McKenzie River.
My knuckles were white from clenching my fists, my jaw ached from grinding my teeth, and the walls of this place seemed to close in with each circuit I made.
Five days since I'd left the McKenzie farm. Five days of Hetty McKenzie's voice mail messages about how "good" it was that I was recovering, each one making it crystal clear that my welcome at their home had expired permanently.
"Like I don't know what you're doing," I muttered to the empty room, coming to a stop in front of the framed certificate from the police academy—the only personal item I'd bothered to hang.
The woman's tactics weren't exactly subtle.
Three times I'd called the McKenzie house this week. Three times Hetty had answered with a voice dripping honey while she explained that Harlow was "busy with chores" or "helping his father in the far pasture" or—my personal favorite—"taking a nap" at four in the afternoon.
I moved to the kitchenette, yanking open the refrigerator door with enough force to make the condiments rattle. The cold air did nothing to cool the heat rising under my skin. The few items inside—a six-pack of beer, leftover Chinese, a jar of pickles—reminded me just how temporary this place still felt. I grabbed a beer, twisted off the cap, and took a long pull.
The apartment was sparse, functional, like my life had been before Harlow McKenzie carried me through a storm. A couch that came with the place. A coffee table with a stack of casefiles I'd been pretending to review. A TV I rarely turned on. The walls were bare except for my academy certificates and one photograph of my parents I kept out of obligation rather than sentiment.
"He's a grown man," I said out loud, the words bouncing off the empty walls. "Not a child."
