Sophie Littlefield - Aftertime

“I was going to say ‘beautiful.’ Those eyes…they’re yours.”

Cass shook her head. “That’s just from being an outlier. The pigment doesn’t fade, even after you recover.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. They’re-” Smoke traced a shape in the air, a gently-tilted oval “-big, and turned up at the corners, just like yours. And she has your nose, your chin. Beautiful, like I said.”

“Oh.” Cass felt warmth creep up the back of her neck.

“What the hell is going on in there? It sounds like they’ve started a war-we were about to come in after you.”

“It’s…”

Moments from the past few days flashed through Cass’s mind like pictures in the View-Master her daddy gave her when she was a little girl.

Her first glimpse of the field, greener than any real lawn ever was.

Mother Cora, arms lifted in prayer.

Monica’s wrecked and bleeding mouth.

The girls, shaved and frightened, walking down the aisle like flower girls at a wedding.

The Beater screaming in excitement when Hannah fell into the cage.

Cass shook her head, unable to speak, her whole body starting to shake.

“Let me take her,” Smoke said, and when he held out his arms, sun-gilded and strong, Ruthie regarded him for only a moment before she offered him one perfect small hand and allowed him to fold it in his own.

He lifted her gently and tucked her in the crook of one arm, and she reached for his face and touched it with her fingers. Ruthie was dirty and bald and her dress was torn and one of her shoes was missing and she was the most beautiful thing Cass had ever seen.

Cass’s entire body ached, but when Smoke circled his free arm around her and drew her close, she went without hesitation, she breathed in the smell of him, salt and soap and worry, and when his lips found hers she kissed him thirstily. She kissed him as though he was sustenance, as though he was life itself.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispered against his mouth, but he held her tighter and she pressed herself against him and kissed him again, deeper, harder, hungrier. Her body was exhausted and spent, but somewhere inside, the tiny part that refused to give up woke to his touch.

She had Ruthie. She had Smoke.

It was enough.

The existence of this book is a testament to the tenacity and vision of two people: my agent, Barbara Poelle, who only accepts “no” when it suits her-and my editor Adam Wilson, who gets it and then some. In the moments when the story shines, it’s because of them.

Thanks, too, to the entire Harlequin team, who made me feel welcome from day one.