Page 12 of Ghost

“Take several,” I said.

A puff of dry desert air wafted his scent into my nose.

The excitement of holding the lethal reptile, the heat from the mid-day sun, and the soul-stirring scent of his manliness proved to be too much. My head spun and my knees went weak. In response, I rested my head against his chest.

At that same instance, he snapped what would be the first picture of many.

“What do I do with this guy?” I asked, nodding toward the snake.

He took the snake from my grasp and handed me the phone. After releasing it fifty feet away from where I stood, he returned just in time to find me posting the photo of my head on his shoulder to my Instagram account.

“Let me see that one,” he said.

I held the phone between us, trying not to smile a cheesy grin at the disgustingly cute picture of me, him, and an exhausted three-foot long rattlesnake.

“I like it,” he said. “Can you send it to me?”

“You can go to my Instagram and get it,” I said.

He choked on his laugh. “I don’t know anything about that shit.”

“Instagram?” I asked, quite relieved by his apparent disgust.

“Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Bumbler, Fumbler, Yourspace, Myspace, any of it,” he said.

My eyebrows raised much higher than I wanted them to. “You’re not social media savvy?”

“I’m not social media interested,” he said. “I’m computer savvy. I don’t think my business is anyone else’s business. I don’t subscribe to any of that shit.”

He had no idea who I was or what I did for a living, that much I was sure of. Thrilled that he was blind to me and my social media following, I contemplated telling him the truth.

“I don’t see why people feel the need to blast their personal business all over the internet,” he said, reaching for his jacket. “It’s fucking ridiculous.”

Okay. Maybe telling him wasn’t such a good idea. At least not yet. There’d be plenty of time to tell him if I felt the need. Hopefully I’d be seeing much more of him at the meetings. If nothing else, I could get his phone number.

“Do you text?” I asked.

“If I have to,” he said.

“But you know how it works?”

He laughed a genuine laugh. “Yeah. I’m not a complete idiot.”

After getting his number, I texted him a copy of the picture. Proof of our successes in accomplishing number fifty-six on my to-do list. I drew a line through two tasks we’d completed and tossed the pad into my purse.

There were four to go, three of which I could tackle with little effort. I doubted the man strapping on his helmet could help me with the fourth, which was number two on my list.

He secured the latch of his saddlebag. Now wearing nothing more than a tee shirt, jeans, and boots, his muscles bulged as he was straddled the motorcycle seat.

Number two.

An unconscious sigh escaped me.

It never hurt to dream.