‘Worth it?’ he asked laconically.
She nodded. ‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed.
Her eyes met his, held, and for a moment—just a moment—something was exchanged between them. Something that seemed to go with this slow, unhurried landscape, desolate but with a beauty of its own, lonely but intensely special.
A thought occurred to her, and she heard herself give voice to it.
‘I don’t know your name,’ she said. She said it with a little frown, as if it were strange to have shared this moment with him not knowing it.
He gave her his slow smile, holding out his strong, large hand.
‘Nic,’ he said. ‘Nic Rossi.’
He gave his birth name quite deliberately. He didn’t want complications—he wanted things to be very, very simple.
She took his hand, felt its strength and warmth. Felt more than its strength and warmth.
‘Fran,’ she said. Her smile met his. Her eyes met his. Acknowledging something that needed to be acknowledged between them. The fact that, whatever was going on, from this moment she was no longer a hotel guest and he was not part of the security team, or whatever his role was.
That this was something between them—only between them.
‘Doc Fran,’ Nic murmured contemplatively, his eyes working over her. He nodded. ‘It suits you.’
He didn’t release her hand, only drew her upright as he climbed to his feet as well.
‘We need to head down before the light goes,’ he told her, and carefully they made their way back to the SUV. ‘Hungry?’ Nic asked. He kept his question studiedly casual. ‘Because if you don’t want to head back to the hotel yet I know a diner nearby...’
He let the suggestion hang, let her choose to answer it as she wanted.
She gave her flickering smile—the one that told him she was hovering between holding back and not holding back.
‘That sounds good,’ she answered. ‘A change from the hotel.’
He gunned the engine and they headed off, headlights cutting through the desert dusk that had turned to night by the time they drew up in the car park of a roadside diner.
It was a typical western diner, with a friendly, laid-back atmosphere and staff in the customary western outfits that went with the setting.
They ate at a table overlooking the desert, making themselves comfortable on the padded banquettes. Fran stuck to iced tea, but Nic had a beer, and they both ordered steak.
Hers was so massive she cut off a third, placing it on Nic’s plate. ‘You need to feed your muscles,’ she told him with a smile, refusing to let herself think that it was a strangely intimate gesture.
He laughed. ‘I’ll trade you my salad,’ he said, and pushed the bowl towards her.
‘Salad’s good for you!’ she protested, and pushed it back.
His hand was still on the bowl. Did her fingers brush against his hand? She didn’t know. Knew only that she pulled her hand away and that as she did so she felt it tingle, as though, maybe, she had made contact. Electrical contact...
She started to eat her steak. Made some remark about its tenderness. Any remark.
What am I doing?
The question framed itself. Rhetorical. Unnecessary. She knew what she was doing—knew perfectly well.
I’m on a date. Not official. Not announced. Not planned. But a date, all the same. We’ve watched the sun go down together, and now we’re eating together.
And what would they do next together?
She didn’t answer that one. Didn’t want to. Not yet. Not now.