Free Midnight (McKenna Chronicles Book 1) by Elizabeth Miller

outside into the cold February air, instead heading to the far
side of the building, opposite to the party, where a long hallway opens into
another much smaller room showcasing the remaining machinery parts on the
walls. There are black-and-white photographs of the factory during its prime, along
with the people who worked here. It’s a beautiful art gallery of true history
and it’s calming: exactly what I need. My stride has slowed as I take in the
many worn faces standing alongside the actual machines they worked at for
decades, the pictures suspended on floating white walls scattered perfectly
throughout the space.
    Without
the swarm of people, the air chills my bare arms, and I rub my hands over them
for warmth. Molly’s dress leaves little coverage and I long for the jacket she
also lent me.
    My
back is to the door, and the only indication that I’m not alone is the acute
and intense surge of electricity that reverberates through me. I tense; there's
only one person who has ever driven this reaction from my body and I was hoping
to avoid him all night. The warmth of his suit coat drapes over my shoulders
before he speaks. His heat radiates from the soft material, warming me all
over.
    “In
the early 1900s these buildings were built to make equipment farmers used
throughout the entire country. We’re standing in what used to be the main
offices; behind us is a portion of the manufacturing plant.”
    Colin isn’t
touching me, but he’s standing close enough that his breath moves through the
loose curls framing my face. His proximity causes my heart to stop; literally,
it stumbles and begins to beat again with a loud, thunderous thump, which I’m
sure he must hear. I try to steady my breathing, the volatile pulse of it a
sure give-away of the effect he has on me.
    “Most of the out
buildings were demolished in the eighties to allow room for new growth, but
many of the materials used in the factory hang on the walls around us in honor
of the men and women who worked here over the course of a century.” There's
passion in his voice, a reverence when he speaks.
    “You’re a history
buff?” I ask, relieved my voice holds a tenor of calm I don’t necessarily feel.
    The subtle shrug
of his shoulders moves the outline of his shadow, which is molded into mine
from the casting light behind us. In shadow we are united perfectly, an
enticing allusion, and I have to look away. But the real thing is just as
tempting. Why does he have to be so damn beautiful? His eyes are
directed at the photograph I was studying when he came in, yet I only see him.
    “History is so
important; it’s what led us to the present and will see us through to the
future. I’ve studied the past, believing it will guide me to the right
decisions.” After a short pause he looks at me, his eyes a keen bright blue. “I
endeavor to know everything about the subject at hand. It’s important for me to
understand every nuance to ensure an appropriate outcome.”
    Our eyes lock as
the electricity thrums, confirmation I didn’t imagine the strange current
between us.
    “How’s your hand?”
    I had almost
forgotten; it happened so long ago. Lifting it palm up, I show him the puckered
pink wound. “It’s fine. You did a great job with the butterfly bandages.”
    I’m shocked when
he slowly runs a finger along the scar, warming the skin below it. “I’m sorry
you were hurt.” He looks me deeply in the eyes and I don’t know if he’s
referring to the injury or his dismissal.
    “You don’t need to
apologize. I’m used to it anyway.” I wave my hand to push us beyond the topic.
    “You’re used to
it?” His brow furrows as he asks the question.
    I shrug and laugh
at his expression. “I’ve grown to expect the unusual. I run into things, trip,
drop stuff on my toes, embarrass myself somehow . . . Thankfully, the
events don’t normally involve blood.” My face pales as I remember it pooling in
the sink.
    We stare at each
other for a