“Why do you always make me look at you?” She frowns as though she’s irritated, and it only makes me smile wider.

“Because I love it when you look at me,” I reply softly. “And I want to see your eyes when you talk.”

“I don’t trust men easily. Well, at all really.”

“You can trust me.”

She starts to say something, then stops herself and takes a drink of her tea.

“What were you going to say?”

She frowns again and shakes her head, but I take her hand in mine. “Look at me. What were you going to say?”

She meets my gaze, straightens her shoulders—good girl—and firms her lips. “I was going to say that in my experience, men haven’t been exactly trustworthy.”

“Well, what if I told you that your assessment was wrong?”

“Bullshit.” She offers me a saccharine sweet smile, then sips her drink.

“I don’t trust easily either, Gabrielle.” Her eyes widen when I use her full name. “But I trust you. And you can trust me, too.”

“I know,” she whispers. “And it’s weird.”

“Weird?”

“Maybe new is a better word.”

“Nothing wrong with new,” I reply as our food is set before us. She stares at her plate for a long minute, then raises her gaze to mine.

“Don’t make me regret trusting you.”

I tilt my head, taking her in, her hair, her eyes, her mouth, neck, shoulders, then return my gaze to her eyes. “Never on purpose.”

She nods and we’re quiet as we eat our fried catfish. She only finishes half of her plate, so I eat what she can’t, then pay the bill and escort her outside, where night has fallen.

“It’s a bit cooler without the sun. Do you want me to put the top up?”

“No way.” She smiles and sits in the car after I open the door for her. “You’re quite chivalrous.”

“They’re called manners, sweetheart.” I wink, walk around the car to join her and pull out of the parking lot, headed back toward the inn. “There was a sign for a scenic outlook up here that I’d like to check out.”

“It’s a pretty spot,” she says and pats her flat belly. “I’m so full.”

“You barely ate anything.”

“I ate half my plate! And portions in the South aren’t small.”

“True.” I take her hand in mine again, kiss her knuckles, and this time rest our hands on my thigh.

“You have some pretty smooth moves, Mr. O’Shaughnessy.”

“Who, me?”

Gabby simply giggles, and to my surprise, pulls her hand out, then links her fingers with mine, still resting on my thigh. Aside from the hug in her kitchen, this is the first time she’s taken the initiative to touch me.

And I fucking love it.

I pull onto the road with the sign for the overlook, and we follow it for about a half a mile before coming to the top of a bluff that looks out over the Mississippi River. The sky is clear, with a full moon, and there is no light noise from the city, so the stars are stunning.

“Wow,” I whisper and kill the engine. “Pretty doesn’t really cover it.”

“No,” she agrees and leans her head on my shoulder, then pops back up. “Oops, that’s your bad shoulder.”

“Touch doesn’t hurt,” I reply and she returns to rest her head there, skims her fingertips up my hand and arm, and holds onto my bicep.

Since when does a woman touching my damn arm give me a hard-on?

Apparently, since now.

“So, this place has a history,” Gabby says and tips her face up to mine, not taking her cheek from my shoulder.

“Do tell.”

“Well, there’s a legend that goes with this place that has been told for a couple of generations, probably longer. It seems there was a young woman, about nineteen, who came here from France with her well-to-do family.” Gabby gently and absent-mindedly brushes her fingertips up and down the inside of my arm, sending goose bumps all over me as she tells her story. “She was lonely at first here, not knowing any English, and not having any friends. Her father had many slaves, as most of the plantation owners did. One of the slaves was a sweet boy about her age, and he helped her learn English. Of course, they had to meet in secret.”

“Of course,” I reply and kiss the top of her head, already knowing where this story is going.

“Well, of course they fell in love, but when her father found out, he was livid.” Gabby shakes her head, as though she’s talking about friends. “He sold the boy so his daughter couldn’t see him anymore, and she went a little crazy. Story goes that she would run away from the plantation, trying to find him. And one stormy night, she came here to these cliffs, and in the dark, she fell to her death.”

“That’s a very sad story.”

“Some say you can still hear her weeping.”

“Of course they do. It’s a tragic ghost story.”

Gabby chuckles, then turns her face into my shoulder, and presses a kiss there. “Does it still hurt a lot?”

“Only when I exercise.”

She kisses it again, then clears her throat. “There’s another story about this place.”

“Why do I think you’re about to share it?” She pushes her finger into my side, and I yelp dramatically.

“Because I want to know just what makes you think I’m that kind of woman?”