Where did Tiegan Moss come from? And why is she suddenly here on the day of the dead, the day the door to the otherworld swings open, the day the veil is thin? I’d hidden in the shadows, content, a life barely lived. You’ve changed everything. You make me want. You make my blood sing. Lost in your kaleidoscope eyes, trapped in the pout of your lips, I can’t escape. And I don’t like it one bit.
Can our two haunted souls find a future together?
“I’ll be there in a moment.”
A smooth rumble resonates through the empty room. It is melodic, almost lyrical. It echoes in my mind, and I am overcome with a moment of bewilderment, a sense of déjà vu. I know that voice. A man dressed all in black appears on the far side of the dining room.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, please, I was hoping for lunch. Are you open?”
His scent hits me first, sandalwood with an undertone of musk. My mouth dries, my throat thickens.
“No, we open at six, for dinner, if you’d like to come back.” His voice, that velvet murmur wraps around me like a soft blanket.
“Oh, I’m sorry. The door was open.”
Razor-sharp, intelligent eyes bore into mine––two bottomless pools of chocolate, flecked with gold. A woman could get lost in those eyes.
“I’m Tomás Ferreira, the owner of Casa Rosalia.” He extends his hand. I offer mine in return.
“And you are?”
“Tiegan…Tiegan Moss.” I am intrigued by those eyes that burn with gold fire, by the liquid heat racing through my veins. Christina’s review of this man was bad, all bad. In the back of my mind, warning bells clang. I ignore them.
With outright arrogance, he turns my wrist, holding my fingers within his. He brushes the palm of his thumb along the ridge of my knuckles. “You’re new around here.”
My breath catches, and I forget to breathe. A daring question? No, not a question, a statement. It strikes me Tomás Ferreira is a man used to getting what he wants. I want to jerk my hand away. I want to trail my fingers along the underside of that square jaw, taste those wide, luscious lips. I wish I were five inches taller. Damn. “Yes, I am. I’m visiting a friend for a few months. I arrived this morning.”
“And where did you come from?” His eyes narrow, leaving me with the impression he is somehow confused.
“From Canada—Mabou, Cape Breton, to be exact.”
“You’ve traveled a long way for lunch.”
“Yes, I guess I have.” I chuckle. “It’s nice to meet you, Tomás, but as you said, the kitchen’s closed. I should be on my way. I’ll come back, maybe another day,” I say, in a voice too quick. I’d like to take those words back—say something eloquent or funny, but I’m not good at off-the-cuff kind of stuff. I make no move to retreat.
“I would like you to stay.”
“You would?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Well, okay. If it’s not too much trouble.”
Tomás guides me to a table for two by the window. He steps to one side, offering a chair.
I sink into the chair, quaking—from the touch of his fingertips strategically placed on the small of my back, each one a slow-burning ember radiating heat.
I write stories that make you laugh, make you cry, and make you love. Thank you, friends, for reading!
In the beginning, there was an empty page.
I am a writer who lives in Muskoka, Canada, with a husband who snores, a hungry cat, and an almost perfect canine––he’s an adorable little shit.
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Great giveaway and lots of great books.
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