Jase nodded to himself, finally putting it together. “This changes things.”
“Right?” Blythe said. “Anyway, we just figured it out.”
Dew decided to keep it to herself that she’d figured it out last night; the timing wasn’t important.
“And now Dew wants to go talk to him. So, do you know where he is?”
“Yeah. He passed by earlier, heading for the lake.”
Blythe reached over and squeezed Dew’s hand. “Ready to do this? Maybe he’s your mate—and your key to getting out of this place.”
Dew nodded. She had forgotten about the idea of escape in all the excitement of love and “mates” and S—Stetson—being here. In this junkyard. With Dew.
“I’ll point you in the direction of the lake,” Blythe said. “Then, Jase, I’m coming back here to give you a lesson in poetry writing. I have decided that I require a love poem.”
“What?” Jase said.
“Yep.”
“Babe,” he said, a hint of panic in his voice. “I’ll make you a table. I’ll make you a chandelier. I’ll make you a fuckin’ throne. Don’t make me write you a poem.”
“See you in a few,” Blythe said, hooking her arm through Dew’s once again to pull her outside.
They walked past piles and piles of machinery, old furniture and appliances, and things that used to be vehicles, until they reached trees. Blythe pointed to a faint trail moving through them.
“Follow this and you’ll reach the lake. If Stetson isn’t there, just come back and I’ll send Barnum or someone to sniff him out for you, okay?”
“Okay,” Dew said, her heart thumping triple time at the idea she might get to talk to S in person.
“You got this,” Blythe said.
“Right. I got this.”
Dew stepped forward, following the trail. What would she say to S? She’d thought about meeting him for so long. She’d imagined so many ways this could go. A handshake that turned into him kissing the back of her hand. A friendly hug. A lover’s embrace. A kiss—with tongue.
As she made her way to the lake, she let one of his poems run through her head.
Many are the stars above
The beating of my heart
Whisperings of wind through grass
Nighttime cries,
A fullness, your release a song
I long to hear once
Only to hear it once again.
He wanted to hear her release. She made his heart beat. Their correspondence had been anything but casual.
Dew couldn’t wait to meet him.
8
Stetson didn't have a book. Without one, he didn't know what to do with himself. Books gave him something else to think about, something beyond everything that had brought him here.
The lake was in front of him, its still, gray water reflecting the still, gray sky.
At the moment, it wasn't his past he was in danger of thinking about. When he closed his eyes, he saw Dew. He saw her apprehension as she approached the wall, followed by her surprise when he shouted no. Then she’d stumbled over the boundary. She’d looked confused, maybe a little happy, at first, to see him. Or maybe he’d been imagining that.
Now, though, in his imaginings, she did something a little different. She stood up straight, frowned, and pointed at Stetson. She said, “This is all your fault."
And she wasn't wrong. He still didn't know why she’d brought that book to the Junkyard. What had happened to the usual guy and the usual routine of taking the books to Grant?
Whatever had gone wrong with their system, it didn’t change the fact that if he’d never written to her, she likely wouldn’t have come to the Junkyard at all.
Footsteps sounded behind him, crunching over frosted pine needles and spots of thin snow. He inhaled carefully, taking in the swirling scent of mint and clover. This would be her—Dew—he knew without looking. But he had to look, had to feast his eyes on her beauty again. It was impossible to stare at the lake when she was nearby. Slowly, he turned.
She looked at him for a long moment, and he stared back. He liked everything about her, from her coils of black hair and her deep brown eyes to the full pout of her lips and the perfect curves of her body.
“So,” she finally said. “You must be S, huh?”
He nodded. “So you figured it out. Found your letters?” A few were tucked into random books, although most of them were hidden in a special place. He wouldn’t blame her for snooping, though.
“I recognized your library,” she said.
Of course she had. They’d written about books more than anything.
She bit her lip, then let it go and smiled, lifting those kissable cheeks. “I didn’t think our first meeting would be awkward.”
“I didn’t think our first meeting would happen at all,” he said shortly.
Her shoulders fell, her brown eyes filled with hurt. Immediately Stetson wanted to take back what he said, the way he’d said it. He wanted to soothe her unhappiness, gather her in his arms, murmur comforting sounds in her ear. Kiss her rounded cheeks. Her smooth lips.
The list of what he wanted to do to her, with her, went on and on. Now, though, everything he wanted to do to her seemed more intense in both good and bad ways, because he knew what she looked like and he could envision it even more easily. There was a person—a gorgeous face and a gorgeous body—to go with the gorgeous mind he’d gotten to know through their correspondence.
His feet were carrying him forward before he could stop to think any longer, and he stood a foot away from her. The clover scent clung to her skin and he inhaled as if doing so could bring Dew closer.
She lifted her gaze to meet his. Her brown eyes were beautiful—dark, full of emotion.
Stetson jerked up his hand, holding it out between them. "Guess we should meet properly. I’m Stetson."
"I'm Dew."
Her fingers felt so soft against his, he didn't want to let her go. A wintry hush fell over the forest, over the two of them, and all Stetson heard was their breaths and heartbeats.
This was a moment.
Pressed in time.
Unshakable.
If he were anyone else, with any other past, he would be tugging this beautiful woman to him, removing her clothes, claiming her for now and always. But he wasn't anyone else, and he had demons dancing on his soul, and he would not allow Dew to be tainted by any of that.
Abruptly, he dropped her hand.
“It's very pretty out here," she said. “Isn’t it? Do you ever do your writing out here?"
"Sometimes. When it's quiet." His tone was gruffer than he intended.
She stepped back as if he'd shoved her. "I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you."
He didn't meet her eyes. "It's okay. I was leaving anyway."
Knowing that he sounded like a dick but not knowing how to apologize for it when he had to escape—right fucking now—he brushed past her and headed for the dump. He needed to grab some clean clothes, and if Dew was out here, it meant she wasn’t in his den.
Dammit, he was such a dumbass. Bad enough for him that he wouldn’t act on his feelings for her. He didn’t have to be rude to her on top of that.