Cherokee. Sheri WhiteFeather
of the most attractive men they had ever seen. Sarah had no idea what to think, since she had yet to catch even a quick glimpse of him. Not that she cared. Southern California overflowed with tall, tan, muscular men.
Tina flashed an excited grin. “Guess what? He wants to talk to you. And he even said it’s personal. I wonder if he’s going to ask you on a date or something.”
Baffled, Sarah capped her orange juice. A date? With a woman he’d never even met? Not likely. “Are you sure it’s me he wants to talk to?” This wouldn’t be the first time Tina had misconstrued a message. The receptionist was the owner’s niece—an inept but permanent employee.
“Of course I’m sure, silly.” Tina grabbed her arm. “Come on. He’s waiting.”
Sarah approached the reception area, then slowed her pace when she saw him. He stood near the front window, almost out of place amid the elegant ambiance of the salon. He wasn’t what she had expected. He wore dark indigo jeans and a blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. But it wasn’t his ranch-style attire that made her stop and stare. She knew immediately that the color of his skin hadn’t been enhanced by the sun, his golden complexion and strong, chiseled profile suddenly reminding her of home. An uncomfortable reminder.
When he turned, their eyes met. And then held. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. He was too unusual to be considered classically handsome. Each riveting feature battled for dominance—eyes too deep, a mouth too full, cheekbones so prominent they could have been sculpted from clay.
He was a mixed blood, she realized. But how mixed she couldn’t quite tell. He wore his hair long, but it was brown instead of black, secured at his nape in a thick ponytail.
Sarah took a deep breath, more uncomfortable than ever. She hated being reminded of home.
He came toward her, his height overwhelming. She had been wrong. California wasn’t overflowing with men like him. His masculine presence commanded attention, but his smile generated warmth. No wonder no woman within breathing distance could keep her eyes off him. Tina leaned over the reception desk, and Claire, the flamboyant makeup artist, craned her neck to get a good look at his backside.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Adam Paige. I work next door.”
Sarah extended her hand, sensing he waited for her to do so. Apparently he had been taught the same protocol. A man didn’t touch a woman without invitation, not even in a greeting.
The handshake sent an electrical charge straight up her arm. She drew back quickly, keeping her voice polite and professional. “I’m Sarah Cloud. How can I help you?”
He pushed at his shirtsleeve, shoving it further up his arm. “Vicki Lester suggested I stop by. She’s a patient of mine.”
Sarah nodded. Vicki was a client of hers, too. And a friend. Vicki lived in the same sprawling apartment complex. “She didn’t tell me to expect you,” Sarah said, hoping she didn’t sound too distrustful. How could her friend neglect to mention this man and all his rugged beauty?
“I saw Vicki this morning,” he explained. “After her appointment, we got into a serious conversation. When I told her about what’s going on in my life, she thought I should talk to you.”
His life? I’m an esthetician, Sarah thought, not a psychologist. If he had problems, the best she could do was ease him with a facial—lift the tension from his forehead, massage the stress from his shoulders.
She glanced up at those broad shoulders and swallowed. Then again, talking might be better. She actually found herself attracted to Adam Paige—a man whose golden complexion and Indian cheekbones reminded her of why she’d left home. “Would you like to sit down?”
He glanced around, caught Tina’s eye and returned her smile, indicating to Sarah that the bouncy blond receptionist appeared to be eavesdropping.
“Maybe we could go across the street to the juice bar instead,” he said.
“Sure, that’s fine.” Sarah had some time to spare, and a cold drink sounded good. She’d left her orange juice on the table, and now her mouth felt unusually dry.
He opened the door for her, and they stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the salon. Ventura Boulevard buzzed around them. Late-day traffic gathered at a red light while summer tourists explored what locals simply called the Valley.
Sarah looked over at Adam as they crossed the street, and he sent her a devastating smile. If she hadn’t been wearing sensible shoes, she would have tripped over her own feet.
Curious, she glanced down at Adam’s feet, wondering what sort of shoes he wore. Lace-up ropers, she saw, California style. No dust, no scuffed toes. In spite of his Western appeal, Adam Paige with the chiseled profile and heart-stopping smile had most likely been born and raised in the Valley.
Sarah lifted her gaze, realizing a case of nerves had set in. Suddenly she felt like the troubled Oklahoma girl she had been. The one who had come to L.A. with nothing more than a battered suitcase and a need to break free of her past.
After Sarah’s mother died, her father had found solace in the bottle, drinking his way into oblivion. And as much as she loved her dad, walking away from him had become her only option. She had learned firsthand how deceptive alcoholics could be, how irresponsible and hurtful.
She glanced toward the sky and recalled his last broken promise, the last devastating lie. She’d graduated from high school two weeks before, and had come home from a new full-time job to find her dad in the backyard. He was dressed in grubby clothes, the old jeans and T-shirt he wore when tending the rose bushes that bloomed every summer. The flowers Sarah loved, the only beauty left in their run-down yard.
Standing in the setting sun, she watched her father reach into a planter and dig below the dirt. And then her breath caught, the threat of tears stinging her eyes.
The bottle that glinted in his hand could have been a knife. When he dusted it off, twisted the cap and took a drink, a sharp pain sliced through her—the sickening stab of betrayal.
He turned and their eyes met. And at that painful moment, she knew. He wasn’t her father anymore, the man she had once admired, the Cherokee warrior who used to tuck her in at night. Too many scenes like this one had destroyed those warm, tender feelings. For Sarah, there was nothing left but emptiness.
Neither said a word. She didn’t accuse, and he didn’t apologize. They only stood, staring at each other. His graduation gift to her had been an impassioned promise, an ardent vow of sobriety, and that gift had just been shattered, along with Sarah’s eighteen-year-old heart.
“We’re here.”
Blinking, she turned to see Adam, not her father, watching her. “I’m sorry. What?”
“The juice bar.”
“Oh, of course.”
Once inside, they ordered their drinks and sat across from each other in a small booth. Sarah fidgeted with her cup. Adam studied her, his gaze scanning the length of her hair.
“Vicki told me that you’re originally from Tahlequah,” he said. “And that you’re registered with the Cherokee Nation.”
She stiffened at the mention of her hometown and her heritage, her memories still too close to the edge. “Yes, I am. Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”
He nodded, his voice tinged with emotion. “I just found out that I was born in Tahlequah and that I’m part Cherokee, too. I know that sounds strange, but up until a little over a month ago, I had no idea that I was adopted.”
Sarah released a heavy breath. He was born in Tahlequah? This gorgeous Californian? No wonder he reminded her of home.
She didn’t want to discuss his newly discovered Cherokee roots, but after his personal admission, how could she just get up and walk away? The least she could do was give him a moment of her time, no matter how uncomfortable the subject made her.
“You