Carolina Moon

find him.” Or he’ll find me, she thought. He’s already found me.
    “I have no intention of standing by this time while someone else I care about takes foolish risks.” He set the coffee aside. “You need to pack some things, go stay with your aunt and uncle.”
    “I can’t do that. I have to stay here. I can’t explain it to you except to say I have to stay here. If I’m wrong, there is no risk. If I’m right, it won’t matter where I am.”
    He wouldn’t waste time arguing. He’d simply find a way to arrange it as he thought best.
    “Then I’ll pack a few things of my own.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I’m going to be spending a lot of time here. It’ll be more convenient to have what I need close at hand. Don’t look so surprised. One night in bed doesn’t make us lovers. But that,” he said, pulling her to her feet, “is what we’re going to be.”
    “You’re taking a lot for granted, Cade.”
    “I don’t think so.” He caught her face in his hands, kissed her, sliding her closer until her lips softened, warmed, beneath his. “I don’t think I’m taking a thing for granted. Most particularly you. Let’s just say you get your feelings about things, Tory. Things you know without being able to explain them. So do I. I’ve had one of those feelings about you, and I’m going to stick close until I can explain it.”
    “Attraction and sex aren’t such a puzzle, Cade.”
    “They are when you haven’t found and fit in all the connecting pieces. You let me in, Tory. You won’t get me out again half as easy.”
    “It’s a clever trick. How you manage to be annoying and comforting at the same time.” She drew away. “And I’m not sure I let you in at all. You just pretty much go where you please.”
    True enough, and he wouldn’t bother to deny it. “Going to try to kick me out?”
    “It doesn’t look like it.”
    “Good, that saves us an argument. Well, since we’re up and dressed, why don’t we do some business?”
    “Business?”
    “I’ve got those samples out in the truck. I’ll bring them in, and we can negotiate.”
    Tory glanced at the clock. It was still shy of seven. “Why not? This time you make the coffee.”
    Faith waited until half past ten, when she was certain both her mother and Lilah had left for church. Her mother had long since given up expecting Faith to attend Sunday services, but Lilah was bullheaded about God and often considered herself His drill sergeant, whipping the troops out of bed and into church with threats of eternal damnation.
    Whenever she was home, Faith was careful to hide and hide well on Sunday mornings. She made up for it by occasionally putting on a demure dress and presenting herself in the kitchen so Lilah could shuffle her off toward redemption.
    But this particular Sunday she wasn’t in the mood to be obliging, or to sit on a hard pew and listen to a sermon. She wanted to sulk over a breakfast bowl of chocolate ice cream, and remind herself what bastards men were.
    When she thought of all the trouble she’d gone through for Wade Mooney, she could just spit. Hadn’t she slathered herself all over with perfumed cream, slithered into the sexiest lingerie money could buy—and would have been perfectly willing for him to rip those bits of satin and lace right off her body, too. She’d dug out four-inch heels and had strapped herself in an excuse for a little black dress that shouted “I want to sin.”
    She’d raided the wine cellar for two bottles that cost more than a college education, and when Cade found out, he was going to skin her for it.
    And when she’d arrived at Wade’s, primed, polished, and perfumed, he hadn’t had the decency to be home.
    Bastard.
    Worse, she’d waited for him. She’d tidied up his bedroom like a little hausfrau, had lighted candles, put on music. Then had damn near nodded off during the vigil.
    She’d waited another hour, till almost one in the morning, primed for a different purpose. Oh, how she’d wanted him to walk in the door so she could have kicked his inconsiderate ass all the way back down the steps.
    It was his fault that she’d gotten half drunk on the wine, and certainly his that due to the alcohol content in her blood she’d misjudged the turn through the gates and had scraped the side of her car.
    So it was absolutely his fault that she was sitting there on a Sunday morning, miserably hung over and stuffing ice cream in her face.
    She never wanted to see him again.
    In