Beneath Blackwater River by Leslie Wolfe (love story books to read txt) 📕

He stopped on the side of the road and turned the four-way flashers on.

“This is the road to my house, but if you say no, we’ll head straight to San Francisco. I promised I’d take you there, and I’m a man of my word.”

He looked straight at her, the kindness on his face seemingly genuine, his charm powerful, irresistible.

“Okay,” she said, feeling unexpectedly relieved as the word was spoken.

“All right,” he acknowledged, then drove off. “It’s not far, only a few minutes.”

With each mile they drove closer to his house, her tension grew, her instincts screamed. What would his wife think, when she saw him bringing a teenage girl home with him? She’d probably want to kill her where she stood. If she were the man’s wife, she wouldn’t take kindly to him bringing strays home––definitely not young, slender, teenage blonds.

When he finally pulled onto the driveway of a farmhouse, her heart was in her throat, its loud thump in her ears. He cut the engine, then came around the car and extended a hand to help her climb out without putting too much weight on her leg.

The touch of the man’s skin was electric, sending shivers down her spine, swelling her chest at the same time it froze her blood. Speechless again, she followed him to the house.

Everything was dark; not a single window was lit. The porch light was off, and the security lights by the garage failed to engage as they approached. The house number, 1301, hung crookedly by the door, its brushed metal digits now rusted just as badly as the nails holding the wooden plaque in place.

He unlocked the door and turned on the lights without touching the wall switch, using something that made an almost inaudible beep.

The house was older and furnished with weathered pieces that look as if they were pricey and posh at least thirty years ago. It was as if she’d entered a time capsule, not a shred of anything modern in sight. Even the TV was an antique, an old tube TV set covered in a fine layer of dust.

The kitchen was all white, and the dining set simple, in varnished oak. The entire space was decorated with country accents, plaids, ruffles, and hammered copper roosters, giving the house a homey feel despite the smell of stale air, a little musty and too chilly.

His wife was nowhere in sight. She would’ve probably adjusted the thermostat higher, bringing heat and drier air into the house. She would’ve probably dusted the old TV set or, most probably, told her man to get a new flat panel 60-inch TV instead.

But she wasn’t there.

Unsure if she should be worried or relieved, Kirsten entered the house hesitantly and took a seat at the dining room table, on the chair the man held for her.

He took off his jacket, then proceeded to open the fridge and lay out food in front of her. He brought plates and cutlery, offering her deli meats and cheeses, while he warmed up a few dinner rolls he took out of the freezer in the vintage microwave.

“If you’d like a hot meal, I can—”

“Oh, no, thank you,” she replied, feeling her cheeks kindle and turn red. “This is perfect.”

She gobbled a few slices of cheese, taking advantage of his turned back to swallow quickly and take some more, before he could notice how hungry she really was. The warm rolls smelled amazing when he took them out of the microwave, and her mouth watered promptly.

He cut a dinner roll in half, then buttered both sides, depositing them on her plate. He smiled, the look of tenderness in his eyes intense and unsettling. She wasn’t this man’s kid, lover, sister, or wife. He was a complete stranger to her, but seemed to have forgotten that fact.

He layered a sliver of ham on one of the halved dinner rolls, then added a couple of slices of Swiss cheese and a squirt of mayo. It was delicious. She willed herself to behave like an educated adult, and chewed patiently with her mouth closed.

When she was finished, he cleared away everything, leaving the dishes in the sink. Then he went into one of the bedrooms and returned with a woman’s shirt and some slacks.

“I believe these will fit,” he said, offering them to her.

She took them from his hands and placed them against her body. Yes, they would fit well. His wife must’ve really known how to keep her slim figure. But there was something deeply unnerving about him, the clothes, the stale air in that house, everything at odds with his charm.

“Thank you,” she said, fear coming across in her trembling voice more than she wanted it to. “When do we leave?”

“In a few minutes,” he replied, without bothering to look at his watch. “It’s only about three hours to San Francisco; we have time.” He stood, gazing at her with a strange look in his eyes. “How would you like to take a shower before we leave? I can wait,” he offered. “I can make us some coffee for the road.”

Clothes in her clasped hands, she hesitated. The promise of a hot shower after last night’s ordeal was inviting. She didn’t know when she would get a chance to wash again, probably not for a while.

He took a seat at the table, turned sideways to watch her, as if telling her he had time and he would give her the space to take a shower in peace.

She opened the bathroom door. The light was already on inside. The same musty smell filled the chilly air. She rubbed her hands against her arms, to warm herself up.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he reacted, then sprung to his feet and turned on the thermostat. Within seconds, the smell of burned dust filled her nostrils, carried on jets of warm air coming from the vents in the floor. “I didn’t realize.”

She smiled, embarrassed. “It’s okay.” She entered the bathroom, less