Loving the Dragon (Vintage Collection) - Page 9

“Okay,” she said. “I would like to know you, Aidan.”

He grinned, and her skin tingled.

“I’m glad.”

“I like your accent. Are you from Scotland?”

“Originally. But I thought I’d lost my accent by now. Very few people mention it anymore.”

“Really?” Kristen was surprised. “I can hear it. It’s very subtle, but it’s…charming.”

His dimple flashed. Was he blushing? Could he get any more adorable?

“I’m glad you like it.”

“So. How did you end up here then?”

Aidan cleared his throat. “I’d much rather talk about you.”

“But I thought we were supposed to get to know each other.”

“We will.” He cleared his throat again. “I’ve lived here in the states most of my life. About ten years ago I traveled through Colorado on a bike trip. I fell in love with the mountains, so I stayed. I found Nederland a few months ago, and the rest is history.”

“I see.”

“How about you?”

“I was born here.”

“Is your family still here?”

“No.” Kristen fidgeted with her napkin. She disliked talking about her family. A change of subject was definitely in order. “You know what I do. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a writer.”

Kristen nearly jumped out of her seat. A writer! Books were her whole world. “I had no idea! Oh, Aidan. What do you write?”

“Fantasy fiction. And I also paint. Mythical creatures.” He cleared his throat once more. Was he catching a cold? “Mostly dragons.”

“I’d love to see your work sometime. As you can imagine, I love books of all kinds.” She was gushing like a schoolgirl, but she couldn’t help herself. “And I’m nearly as fond of art. Have you been published?”

“Only in magazines so far.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“It’s a living. My art has been more lucrative than my writing.”

“I can’t imagine anything more wonderful than to live the life of a writer.”

“Do you write, Kris?”

Warmth bubbled through her. Kris. A childhood nickname she hadn’t heard in ages. It sounded right coming from him. Familiar, even. Of course. He’d called her “Kris” in that wonderful dream she’d had. Heat infused her cheeks.

“I only dabble, really. I’ve always wanted to do more, but the store takes up so much time. Not that I don’t love it. I do, but…”

“But what? What’s stopping you?”

“I…don’t really know you well enough…”

“Go on.”

“This isn’t something I talk about. It’s…personal.”

“But you asked to see my work. What makes you think it’s not personal to me?”

“Well, because you’re published, for one. And you said your art has been lucrative. It’s what you do.”

“I see.” His face hardened.

Was he angry with her?

“I’m sorry, Aidan. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just… I’ve never talked to anyone about my writing. I mean, not anyone.”

He softened his gaze. “Then I won’t push you. But I’d love to hear about it sometime. When you’re ready.”

Kristen smiled at him. “You know, for some reason, I think I might tell you. Someday.” Where had that come from? Stranger still, she meant it.

He seemed pleased. “I was wondering if you might answer a question for me.”

“What?”

He took a sip of his wine. “Why are you afraid of fire?”

Oh, God. That was another thing she never talked about. “Aidan…”

“Hmm?”

“I…can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s… It’s hard for me to talk about.”

“Maybe I can help you.”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s just part of who I am. I’ve accepted it. What’s the big deal?”

His full lips pursed into a tense line. Damn, she had upset him again.

“I only want to help you.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“I want you to trust me.”

“I barely know you.”

He sighed. “Yes. I know.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Kristen sipped her wine, desperate for something to do with her hands. She looked at the man across from her. His phenomenal male beauty—both outside and inside—ensnared her. Why on earth was he interested in her?

“Because you’re special,” he said.

Dear God, had she spoken out loud?

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re special. I want to know you. Be with you.”

Kristen stared at him, flustered. Her cheeks warmed. He certainly sounded sincere. And he had kissed her like no one ever had. She took a deep breath and gathered her courage.

“I was nine,” she said.

“What?”

“Nine,” she repeated, “when I lost my family.”

“In a fire.” His green eyes—yes, they were green now—were kind.

“Yes. In a fire.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“Yes, I think I do. But I’m not sure why.”

“It doesn’t matter why.”

“I suppose not.”

She finished her wine and glided her glass across the table. He refilled it.

“It happened during the night. My mother and father and baby brother were all killed. And my dog. I was the only one…” Her eyes grew misty. Images brewed beneath the surface of her mind. Images she hadn’t allowed herself to see since that fateful night.

“Stop.” He reached his arm across the table and took her hand in his. “You can tell me the rest some other time.”

Kristen breathed deeply. A tidal wave of relief shot through her. “Thank you.”

Tags: Helen Hardt Paranormal
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