Free Valley of the Moon by Bronwyn Archer Page B

my hand as I led him down the hallway. Pale winter light streamed through the windows at the back of the house, casting shadows behind us as we walked.
    Caleb stopped when he saw the photographs on the wall. Framed pictures and newspaper clippings of my dad in his glory days. Him with his pit crew, him racing, him holding trophies.
    “Is this is your dad?” He read one of the clipping’s headlines. “‘Goodwin Wins Again.’ I can now confirm that your dad is the coolest dad ever.”
    “Maybe he used to be. He raced for a long time, until he crashed. My mom made him quit after that.”
    Caleb regarded me with curiosity. “Well, ex-race car driver sounds a lot cooler than what my dad does. ‘Venture capital attorney.’ It’s so boring I could die.” But probably a little better for paying the bills.
    He moved down the hall to the family photographs. Me as a baby. Me at three. Me at four. Me at five. Me at six. Me at seven.
    My mom was the designated family photographer. There were no photos of me after age seven.
    Caleb stood in front of the last picture on the wall.
    “Is that your mom?” In it, we’re sitting on the front porch of the house, a few weeks before she died.
    “Yeah.”
    He looked over at me. “I guess it runs in the family.”
    “What does?”
    “Strawberry blond hair. And gorgeousness.” I opened my mouth to respond but I forgot what I was going to say, because right there in our creaky hallway littered with dusty photographs, standing right where I’d stood a thousand times in my pajamas, he kissed me. Kissed me like he needed it.
    He pulled away and blew out a breath. “This is officially the best house tour I’ve ever had. Is there anything else you’d like to show me?” I tried to pull my thoughts together, but they’d scattered to bits.
    “Um, no, that’s pretty much it. Except for the bedrooms.”
    “Oooh, I love girls’ rooms,” he said. How many has he been in?
    He tapped on my door. “This one, right?” I nodded. “I can always tell.” Nerves zipped up and down my spine. My brain scanned a frantic mental checklist:
    Embarrassing/unflattering photos of myself stashed under bed? Check.
    Pre-teen novels removed from bookshelf? Check.
    Computer web browsing history cleared? Check.
    Yes, I had prepared a little, just in case. He opened the bedroom door and gestured to me. “After you.”
    He went right over to the crammed bookshelf next to my desk.
    “I haven’t even read half of these. But, I’m not going to start now.”
    He pulled me over to the bed and half tossed, half pushed me onto it. I landed, laughing, and tried to get myself into a less compromising position. Before I could sit up and straighten myself out, Caleb was leaning over me, one hand slipping under me and around my waist, the other pushing the hair out of my eyes. He hoisted me up a little and pressed his body to mine. I closed my eyes and our mouths met. I pulled his head down to mine. He let out a soft groan. His hand slid up my back, under my t-shirt, and I felt his fingers graze the strap of my bra.
    “How long till your dad bursts in here with a shotgun?” he whispered, his face buried in my hair.
    “Probably an hour. Longer if he stops to buy the shotgun.” Our faces were just inches apart. I stared at the individual lashes around his bright eyes and raked my fingers through his hair.
    “Oh Lana,” he whispered in my ear. “You’re killing me.”
    “Should I stop?”
    “Absolutely not. Do not stop.” He gripped me tighter and his mouth was everywhere—my neck, sliding down my neck to my clavicle. My shirt buttons became unbuttoned. My hands were lost in his hair, and my mind was lost in the sensation of lips on skin. His hands moved up the side of my body, swept under my thin t-shirt and over my bra. One hand stopped and cupped my breast.
    Heat swept over me and my stomach muscles clenched tight.
    “Caleb, wait.” His mouth covered mine again. My brain was lolling in a waterbed of