With that he whisks me out of the house to the safety of the barn. The horse comes to the front of his stall the moment we go in, ears cocked forward expectantly. He’s a beautiful, shiny chestnut color with large, knowing brown eyes. Tucker strokes under his chin. Then he puts on the new bridle his parents gave him.
“You should have told me it was your birthday,” I say.
“I was going to. But then we were almost eaten by a grizzly.”
“Oh, right. What about Wendy?” I ask.
“What about her?”
“It’s her birthday, too. I’m the worst friend ever. I should have sent her something. Did you exchange gifts?”
“Not yet.” He turns toward me. “But she gave me the perfect gift.”
The way he’s looking at me sends butterflies into my stomach. “What?”
“You.”
I don’t know what to say. This summer hasn’t turned out at all the way I’d planned. I’m not supposed to be standing in the middle of a barn with a blue-eyed cowboy who’s looking at me like he’s about to kiss me. I shouldn’t be wanting him to kiss me.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“Carrots . . .”
“Don’t call me that,” I say shakily. “That’s not me.”
“What do you mean?”
“An hour ago you thought I was some kind of freak.”
He tugs a hand through his hair in agitation and then looks directly into my eyes.
“I didn’t ever think you were a freak. I think . . . I thought you were magic or something. I thought that you were too perfect to be real.”
I so want to show him, to fly to the top of the hayloft and smile down on him, to tell him everything. I want him to know the real me.
“I know I said some stupid things today. But I like you, Clara,” he says. “I really like you.”
It might be the first time he’s actually said my name.
He sees the hesitation in my eyes. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”
“No,” I say. He’s a distraction. I have a purpose, a duty. I’m not here for him. “Tuck, I can’t. I have to—”
His expression clouds.
“Tell me this isn’t about Christian Prescott,” he says. “Tell me you’re over that guy.”
I feel a flash of anger at how condescending he sounds, like I’m some silly girl with a crush.
“You don’t know everything about me,” I say, trying to rein in my temper.
“Come here.” His voice is so warm and rough-edged that it sends a shiver down my spine.
“No.”
“I don’t think you really want to be with Christian Prescott,” he says.
“Like you know what I want.”
“I do. I know you. He’s not your type.”
I stare helplessly down at my hands, afraid to look at him. “Oh, and I suppose you’re my type, right?”
“I suppose I am,” he says, and he’s crossing the distance between us and taking my face in his hands before I can even think to stop him.
“Tuck, please,” I manage in a quivery voice.
“You like me, Clara,” he says. “I know you do.”
If only I could laugh at him. If only I could laugh and pull away and tell him how stupid and wrong he is.
“Try to tell me you don’t,” he murmurs, so close his breath is on my face. I look up into his eyes and see the beckoning heat in them. I can’t think. His lips are too close to mine and his hands are drawing me closer.
“Tuck,” I breathe, and then he kisses me.
I’ve been kissed before. But nothing like this. He kisses me with surprising tenderness, for all of his gutsy talk. Still cupping my face, he gently brushes his lips against mine, slowly, like he’s memorizing what I feel like. My eyes close. My head swims with his smell, grass and sunshine and musky cologne. He kisses me again, a little more firmly, and then he pulls back to look down into my face.
I so don’t want it to be over. All other thoughts vanish from my brain. I open my eyes.
“Again,” I whisper.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and then I kiss him. Not so gently this time. His hands drop from my face and grab at my waist and pull me to him. A small soft groan escapes him, and that noise makes me feel absolutely crazy. I lose it. I wind my hands around his neck and kiss him without holding anything back. I can feel his heart thundering like mine, his breath coming faster, his arms tightening around me.
And then I can feel what he feels. He’s waited such a long time for this moment. He loves how I feel in his arms. He loves the smell of my hair. He loves the way I looked at him just now, flushed and wanting more from him. He loves the color of my lips and now the taste of my mouth is making his knees feel weak and he doesn’t want to seem weak in front of me. So he draws back, and his breath comes out in a rush. His arms drop away from me.
I open my eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He can’t speak. His face has gone pale beneath his golden skin. And then I realize that it’s too bright in there, too bright for the shady dark of the barn, and the light’s coming from me, radiating off me in waves.
I’m in glory. Tucker stares at me in shock. I can feel his shock. He can see everything now in all this light, glowing out through my clothes so I might as well be standing naked in front of him. I inhale sharply. Part of me twists painfully at the look of terror in his eyes, and just like that, the light goes out. His presence in my mind fades away as the barn darkens.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I watch the color slowly come back into his face.
“I don’t know what . . . ,” he tries, and then stops himself.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“What are you?”
I flinch.
“I’m Clara.” My name, at least, has not changed. I take a step toward him, put my hand out to touch his face. He shies away. Then he grabs my hand, the one with the cut. I gasp as he jerks the bandage away.
The wound is completely healed. There isn’t even a scar. We both peer down at my palm. Then Tucker’s hand falls away.
“I knew it,” he says.
I’m flooded with a strange mix of panic and relief. There’s no explaining this away. I’ll have to tell him. “Tuck—”
“What are you?” he demands again. He staggers back a few steps.
“It’s complicated.”