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In this snippet from Tremors, Lachlann and Deidre are still parked on the side of the road in the piney woods of East Texas.
Leaning across the console, he kissed her long and sweetly. Their bodies weren’t touching, but Deidre’s whole body responded as her mouth clung to his.
He broke the kiss abruptly, smiling as he rested his forehead against hers.
“Can we continue this conversation later?” he asked.
“Conversation?” Deidre blinked. What conversation?
He sat back and shrugged. “Like I said, I have a lot to tell you, a whole lot, and none of it’s going to change between now and this evening. But we only have so many hours of daylight left, and I’ve never…”
Oh, that conversation. He wanted to delay it.
Deidre had become a medieval history professor because of a family heirloom -- a medieval drawing of a farmer that she'd loved since childhood. Too bad she couldn't have married him instead of the lying, vicious cheat who had almost ruined her life. Despite the fact that he'd cost her her job, her home, and her relationship with her family, he had failed to destroy her. With a new life in a new city, she'd moved forward. She didn't need anyone, especially another man. But it was impossible to ignore her new neighbor, a gorgeous giant with a strange accent, haunted eyes, and a striking resemblance to her medieval farmer.
She wanted to erase the tormented look in his eyes, to make him as happy as he made her. She wished he would confide in her. But was she ready to confide in him? To explain how she’d lost everything – her life, her family, her self-respect – because of her own poor choices?
Lachlann had lost his entire family to the plague. He’d lost himself by falling through time. He had to go back, to return to the fourteenth century and try to save his family, save his son. But how could he leave Deidre? He needed her like he needed air. And she needed him.
Would she believe him if he told her the truth about himself? Would she reject him once she knew he couldn't stay?
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Keep me away from the wisdom that does not cry, the philosophy that does not laugh, and the greatness which does not bow before children. – Gibran Khalil Gibran