He obviously wasn’t interested in talking about Driscoll any further. After a moment though, he looked back at her and Harper tilted her head, her gaze moving over his features. He had such beautiful eyes—that blue and gold, sunset blue, and almond-shaped with long, full lashes. His eyes were a contrast to the stark masculinity of the rest of his face—his sun-darkened skin, sharp cheekbones, his square, scruff-covered jaw. And the obvious masculinity of his strong, muscular body. But she wasn’t looking at his body. She refused to do that. She was already distracted enough as it was. Shaken up. Confused. He didn’t want to talk about Driscoll, so she wouldn’t continue questioning Lucas about him. “In some ways . . . you might know my mother better than I do. Or at least . . . a different side of her,” Harper said, returning to the subject he’d seemed comfortable talking about. “But to me, she was comfort and home, and the things I haven’t had since.” She looked behind him, considering her words. “I don’t know, maybe I’m afraid that reading those”—she nodded her head toward the notes—“will dim my other memories of her somehow, and so I’m afraid to.”
He regarded her, and she couldn’t read the expression that had settled on his face. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you’re an honest person. I can tell. I’ve wondered . . . if I’d be able to.”
Harper didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she felt it was a compliment. Even so, he wasn’t completely right. “I’m not always honest,” she blurted. “I keep things inside sometimes.” She paused. “A lot of times.”
“You do?” He looked confused about that, and she laughed quietly. “Sometimes I talk the most when I’m avoiding a topic or keeping something to myself.”
He appeared to think about that and then smiled as though she’d cleared something up that had confused him. He was so very sweet, he really was. “Keeping your feelings to yourself is different than lies. Isn’t it?”
“I suppose. What do you keep to yourself, Lucas?”
He released a breath that may or may not have contained a chuckle. “What don’t I keep to myself? I don’t have another choice.”
She blushed, grimacing slightly at her insensitivity. “That was a stupid question. I’m—”
“It wasn’t stupid. The trees and the birds and all the forest animals know my secrets. I go outside and shout them to the mountaintops sometimes. They all stop to listen.”
She laughed softly. “Does it feel better to get them out? Even to the forest?”
“Yes.” He grinned and her heart tripped all over itself. “Try it sometime.”
“Maybe I will.”
They sat there smiling at each other, the moment heavy with whatever the thing was that flowed between them. Chemistry. Awareness. Deep curiosity. All elements of the undeniable lure that had been flowing between men and women who were attracted to each other since the beginning of time. At dances and in restaurants. At bars and in offices. In caves and in cabins in the middle of the deep, dark forest.
“Anyway,” Harper said, standing and grabbing the purse she’d dropped on the floor next to the bed she was sitting on. “I brought something, and I hope you’ll help me? And a bribe so you won’t say no.”
His eyebrows lowered. “A . . . bribe?”
She smiled. “A payment of sorts. But I was just kidding. It’s more of a gift and there are no strings attached.” She pulled the bottle of Orange Crush from her bag, grinning at Lucas when she held it up.
His eyes widened, lighting up. “Orange drink with bubbles. Crush.”
“Yes.” She twisted off the cap, slowly so it wouldn’t explode, and handed it to him. He looked at it for a second and then tipped it back, taking a big sip. He lowered it, the expression on his face . . . less than impressed. He held the bottle before him, studying it again as he swallowed with obvious effort, cringing slightly. Obviously revolted.
“Not as good as you remember?” she asked, holding back a giggle.
“Not . . . quite.”
She laughed then. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to kiss him and taste the Orange Crush on his lips. She moved that thought aside rapidly. “Anyway, about this thing I need your help with.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a map.” She stepped to the table they’d eaten at the last time she’d been there and sat down on one of the stools, spreading the map over the tabletop and setting