Blackwood by Celia Aaron
I dig. It’s what I do. I’ll literally use a shovel to answer a question. Some answers, though, have been buried too deep for too long. But I’ll find those, too. And I know where to dig—the Blackwood Estate on the edge of the Mississippi Delta. Garrett Blackwood is the only thing standing between me and the truth. A broken man—one with desires that dance in the darkest part of my soul—he’s either my savior or my enemy. I’ll dig until I find all his secrets. Then I’ll run so he never finds mine. The only problem? He likes it when I run.
Author’s Note: This is a mystery/suspense romance with violence and explicit sex. Trigger warning.
“Why are your nails black sometimes?” I took a bite of the most disgusting chicken salad sandwich I’d ever tasted.
“Sheriff Crow comes to visit and all of a sudden you’re chatty?” Garrett leaned against my doorframe and watched as I struggled to eat the “mayo with a side of chicken” sandwich.
“I’ve always been chatty. Now it shows because the drugs have worn off and I’m not in agonizing pain.” I put the sandwich down and focused on the potato chips instead. “You’re the non-chatty one.”
He tossed my phone onto the bed. “Maybe that’s for a reason, Red.”
“What reason?” I picked it up and swiped across the screen. No service. Shit.
“I told you when you got here that I wanted you out.” He sighed. “That hasn’t changed.”
I dropped the phone with a grimace and picked at my sandwich. “Okay. And I told you that I can’t wait to leave, so we’re on the same page. Why would those facts keep you from telling me why your fingernails are covered in filth sometimes?”
“It’s not filth.” He shook his head. “While you’re lying around eating my delicious food all day without lifting a finger, I’m working.”
“On what?” In all the research I’d done, I never found Garrett to have any real source of income other than timber and oil royalties on the Blackwood property.
“Why do you care?” He crossed his arms over his chest, the rolled up sleeves of his shirt revealing some dark ink snaking across his skin.
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Why does it matter?”
I crunched the salty chips. “It wouldn’t matter if you weren’t so stubborn about not wanting to tell me. Now I have to know.”
“You’re calling me stubborn?” He arched a dark eyebrow.
“I see your hearing is working fine.” I plucked out another chip.
His lip twitched, a smile trying to form but failing. “You don’t even know me.”
About the author
Celia Aaron is the self-publishing pseudonym of a published romance and erotica author. She loves to write stories with hot heroes and heroines that are twisty and often dark. Thanks for reading.