Angel Falls (Angel Falls Series, #1) by Babette Jongh (an ebook reader TXT) 📕

Chastened, I sat back as well. He was trying. The least I could do was try, too. His decision wasn’t as black-and-white as I was making it out to be, and he wasn’t going to decide overnight. I had to quit being so damned impatient and let things unfold as they would. Hadn’t I learned anything from my experiences? Fate would have the last word, no matter what I wanted. If I had any sense, I’d enjoy the time I had with Ian and not insist on having everything or nothing. “I’m sorry. It takes me a little while to shift gears. I’ve been angry and upset for so long, it’s hard to let go. I guess it’s going to take some time for me to get used to the fact that you’re leaving.”

“My leaving is only geography, Casey.” His expression softened the words. “Can’t we take some time to see if our relationship develops into something?”

As far as I was concerned, our relationship had developed into something. I was in love with Ian, and that was all I needed to know. The rest was up to him. “I’ll be okay with it,” I said. “Just give me some time to adjust.”

After dinner, Ian drove toward Tuscaloosa, just as I’d thought he would. Maybe he’d stop there, or maybe he’d keep going toward Birmingham. I didn’t much care if we kept driving all the way to Kalamazoo, because we were enjoying each other’s company so much. We listened to one CD after another, comparing musical tastes, or forgetting to listen altogether as our talk veered to other topics. I realized after a while, that we’d been so deep in conversation on the way, I hadn’t even noticed when we passed the place where Melody’s SUV had gone off the road.

Closing my eyes, I said a prayer asking Mel’s forgiveness; for forgetting to remember her when we’d driven past the place she died, for making the decision to abandon Ben and her kids so I could build my own life, and especially, for being jealous of her happiness with Ben.

I woke hours later with a crick in my neck, as late afternoon sunlight knifed sharp rays through the windshield and into my closed eyes. I sat up slowly, careful not to let any abrupt movements escalate the sore muscle into an outright spasm. The highway we traveled wasn’t the familiar one between Birmingham and Angel Falls. “Where are we?”

“Almost there.” Ian reached across to caress my thigh. “Have a nice nap?”

“Um-hmm.” I massaged my neck. “Where are we?”

“You don’t get to know. I’m kidnapping you, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Would you put in another CD? I’m getting fairly sick of this one.”

I rifled through the CD holder and switched out the one playing for U2. Relaxing into my seat, I looked up and noticed a signpost. Exit to Columbia, one-half mile. We were just a stone’s throw from Columbia, South Carolina, where Ian had just bought another newspaper to resurrect from the dead before he moved on.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

I pointed at the road sign. “Why South Carolina?”

“There’s something here I wanted us to see.”

Treetops and buildings sped past as we winged our way onto an overpass. Ian’s secretive smile spread as he took an off ramp that dumped us onto a grid of roads surrounded by tall buildings.

I sat up and wiped my eyes. “I don’t know if I trust you while you’re wearing that Cheshire-cat-grin.”

Ian pulled into a parking garage. “Maybe you shouldn’t trust me. I might just be trying to get into your panties.”

“I’m not worried about that,” I said with an airy wave. “I’m not wearing any.”

“I knew that.” He drove up the spiral parking deck to the second level, taking a hand off the wheel long enough to slide a finger along my panty-less waistline. “But you know it kills me to hear you say it.”

I couldn’t help the wicked giggle that escaped. “I hope it drives you crazy.”

It was mean of me to tease him, especially since it soon became apparent that he’d gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to get orchestra-level seats at The Nutcracker ballet. Though we could’ve gone to Birmingham or Atlanta to see the balletomane’s winter season classic, he had gone to the trouble to find a performance in South Carolina. Getting me used to the commute, I figured.

“Thank you,” I whispered in his ear an hour later, as the Sugar Plum Fairy wowed the audience with the crisp perfection of her technique.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered back, giving me a quick buss on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

I was enjoying it, to my surprise. I had gone to one ballet performance since I broke my ankle and lost my dream job—not only my dream job, but my dream life, my dream of who I could be, my sense of who I was. I had cried through that whole performance, because the one thing that had always given me joy only brought sadness and regret.

Now, because of Ian, the joy had returned. I could watch someone else nail those thirty-two fouette turns and feel nothing but appreciation.

Appreciation, and arousal. Ian’s warmth reached me, the faint spice of his aftershave, his unique combination of pheromones and testosterone.

Plus, my soft velvet dress caressed my bare bottom every time I moved.

I pretended to watch Mother Ginger onstage, but really, I just wanted to get Ian alone and rip off his clothes. Even though I had threatened to withhold sex until he realized he wanted to spend his entire life making love to me, my sensitized nerve endings didn’t give a flip.

After the performance, we walked through the parking deck to the car. Still under the spell of the performance, we didn’t talk. I couldn’t imagine doing anything but checking into the nearest hotel and having my way with him. I sighed with the delicious contentment of being held close to a gorgeous man while cold air nipped at my face.

“Tired?”