Cherokee. Sheri WhiteFeather
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Adam’s kiss.
He made her flesh tingle, her heartbeat accelerate, but she couldn’t be with him. No matter what her mother had said, modern warriors didn’t exist. And neither did dragon slayers.
“Sarah, what’s wrong?”
“I think it’s time for me to go,” she responded, clasping her nervous hands in her lap. She needed to escape this moment, the spicy taste of his kiss still lingering on her tongue.
“But why? Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing. I just want to go home.” She stood, lifted her purse. She couldn’t explain, couldn’t ease his conscience. He hadn’t offended her. He had aroused her, made her feel too good.
He rose from the bench, his gaze searching hers for the answer she refused to give. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Honestly, Adam. I’ll be fine. Thank you for dinner. For the dress.” Something she should have never accepted. Gathering the bag of her old clothes, she left him standing at the bench, Chinatown dazzling around him.
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