Page 40 of The Taste of Deceit

“Maybe.”

She steals one more quick kiss.

“Later…” she says, smoothing a wrinkle from the front of my shirt, “you get to see me naked in my childhood bedroom.”

I stare at her.

Her smile grows.

“Sarah.”

“What?”

“Stop.”

“I’m just giving you something to look forward to.”

I take another slow look around the room.

Horse ribbons hang beside framed photographs. The bookshelves are packed so full the shelves bow beneath the weight. An old acoustic guitar leans in the corner beside the window.

Sarah steps over to the bookshelf without saying anything. Her fingertips trail absently across the worn spines.

I wander to the wall of photographs.

Most of them are horses.

Some are of Sarah, all long legs and wild auburn curls, grinning beneath a riding helmet. In another, she’s covered in mud from head to toe while Ford laughs beside her. One picture catches my attention longer than the others.

Sarah can’t be more than ten. She’s asleep across her father’s chest on the porch swing while he dozes with his hat tipped over his eyes.

I smile.

“You found that one.”

I glance back. She’s watching me with an embarrassed smile.

“I forgot Mama hung it in here.”

“It suits him.”

She laughs quietly.

“He fell asleep first.”

My eyes drift to the guitar.

“You play?”

She gives one shoulder a shrug.

“A little.”

She lifts it from its stand, brushes her thumb across the strings, and a few soft notes drift through the room before she sets it back exactly where it had been.

“Been a while.”

I look around once more.