zipping back and forth between them.
Why this guy? she thought, as she’d thought a thousand times before. Why, always, in the end: Buck?
Nadine appeared with their steaks. She served them and took their salad plates away.
Buck started in on his T-bone. B.J. sipped her water and told herself not to go there—after which, she promptly went there. “And anyway, I wasn’t asking about Bowie. I was asking about you. If you got a woman pregnant, would you think you had to marry her, whether you really wanted to or not?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” she baldly lied.
Those eyes of his seemed to bore holes right through her. And then he lifted one hard shoulder, sketching a shrug. “Honestly, I can’t say for certain. It hasn’t happened.” Then he frowned. “Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me something?”
“No. No, I’m not.” Well, it was the truth. Barely. She wasn’t trying to tell him. Not now. Not yet…
“I’ll say this much.”
She gulped. “Yeah?”
“Any kid of mine is going to know his dad and know him well.” His steak knife glinted as he sliced his T-bone.
B.J. realized she’d been holding her breath and let it out. Slowly. “Buck?”
He set the knife aside. “Yeah?”
“Why are we doing this?”
He arched a dark brow. “Because it’s dinnertime? Because we have to eat—by the way, your filet’s getting cold.”
Stop, a voice inside her head commanded. Drop it. Now. But her mouth kept right on talking. “No. I don’t mean dinner. I mean this whole thing. You and me, here in your hometown. Why did you find it necessary to drag me across the country with you? We both know there’s no reason you can’t write this damn piece yourself.”
“No denying it now,” he said wryly. “You are talking to me.”
“Against my better judgment,” she shot back, then cut the sarcasm enough to ask, “And will you please answer my question?”
He looked at her in a measuring sort of way. The seconds ticked by. At last, he said, “Eat your steak so we can get out of here.”
“And then?”
“You’ll get your answer.”
Buck said nothing after they left the restaurant. In the chilly Sierra darkness, they strolled down the street, around the corner and across the bridge. The stars overhead, no city lights to mute them, shone thick and bright against the black-as-velvet night sky.
At the Sierra Star, the curtains at the front window were still open. Inside, as they mounted the steps, B.J. could see Chastity, sitting alone by the fire, reading a paperback book, an orange tabby cat curled in her lap.
Buck opened the door and ushered B.J. in—still without saying a word. Evidently, he’d decided against explaining why he’d forced her to head for the hills with him.
Fine. She was having second thoughts, anyway, wondering what had possessed her to ask him why in the first place. Whatever his reasoning, she didn’t need to hear it.
And it had been a long day. She’d go upstairs, enjoy a soak in her own private claw-footed bathtub and then watch some TV. Maybe jot a few notes for the story. Play a computer game. Read a book.
Whatever.
The keyword here was disengage. When it came to Buck, prolonged contact inevitably meant trouble. If she didn’t watch herself, she’d start obsessing over how attractive he was, how smart, how funny. In no time she’d be thinking that maybe they could get something going, after all.
It could end up just like that night in September—with her naked on top of him, demanding more. Or beneath him, begging for more. Or…
Now, see? See what she was doing? All it took was dinner and a little semi-friendly conversation, and she was back with the vivid images of the two of them doing things they were never going to do again. Italics intended.
Chastity looked up from her book. “Did you two have a nice dinner?”
“Great,” said Buck.
“We did,” B.J. agreed. She brought her hand to her mouth as she faked a yawn. “I’m pretty tired, though. Jet lag, I guess. Goodnight.”
“Sleep well,” said Chastity with a serene little smile. The cat looked up at Buck’s mother and twitched its caramel-colored tail. Chastity petted it as she turned her attention back to her book.
Buck said nothing. Why? What was he thinking? What did his silence mean?
Bad questions. Pointless questions. Keyword: disengage. B.J. turned for the stairs.
He fell in behind her. He walked softly. Still, she could feel him at her back all the way up the stairs and down the hall to their side-by-side rooms. She had her key ready. She slid it smoothly into the lock and pushed the door open. Stepping swiftly in, she turned to shut it behind her—to shut him out. She almost made it, too.
At the last possible second, he said, “Five minutes.”
Disengage, disengage. Without a word, she shut the door the rest of the way and shot the bolt, heard that reassuring click as the lock slid home. She turned with a groan and sagged against the door.
“Shit,” she said to the empty room. Five minutes. What did that mean?
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