Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
“You said snakes and spiders after I went in.”
“Well, yeah. I had to wait for that dramatic timing.”
She gaped at me like I’d just confessed to war crimes. “I panicked, Webb. I thought I saw a leg. Not a spider leg, a person's leg.”
“Was it moving?”
“No, but it had a vibe.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. She looked down, suddenly realizing she was completely barefoot, standing on pine needles, twigs, and the vague possibility of a venomous reptile.
Her eyes snapped back to mine. “You didn’t remind me not to go out barefoot.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t think I had to. You’re in a bayou-adjacent forest, Gabby. We’ve got copperheads, fire ants, palmetto bugs the size of small sandwiches, frogs that scream when you step near them, and raccoons with attitude. You’re lucky nothing took your toes for rent.”
She, of course, picked up on the thing I hadn't expected her to. “Frogs that scream?”
“Like banshees. They're total drama queens.”
She froze, looked at the grass between us and the cabin, then back at me.
“I’m not moving.”
I raised a brow. “You’ve made it this far. Ten more steps won’t kill you.”
“They might. There could be, like, a thousand snakes and spiders watching, just waiting for me to take a single barefoot step. I have terrible luck if you haven't noticed, Webb. I’ll be the one who gets bitten on the pinky toe and has to be airlifted out of here.”
“And you want me to... what? Throw down a carpet?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re gonna have to carry me.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Like in my arms?”
“Princess-style,” she clarified, her eyes daring me to say no.
I stared at her, arms crossed. She crossed hers right back.
Then, in a quiet voice, she added, “Please.”
And just like that, sigh included, I set the axe aside, walked over, and bent slightly. “All right, let’s go, menace.”
“You’re a saint,” she praised me quietly, climbing into my arms like this was a scene in a romance movie gone horribly, horribly wrong.
“Don’t push it,” I warned, stepping carefully over a patch of grass. At the same time, she clutched my neck and dramatically lifted her feet like the ground was lava. Because of course she did.
Carrying Gabby wasn’t hard. She didn’t weigh much, not with how skinny she was from stress, adrenaline, and God-knows-what kind of PI diet she’d been surviving on. What made it weird was the way she curled into me like a panicked possum, legs tucked, arms looped around my neck like she was clinging to a life raft.
Every time I stepped over a stick, she made a little noise in her throat like she was expecting it to rise up and bite her.
When we reached the porch, she let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “See, look at me, surviving. Thriving, even.”
I grunted and carried her over the threshold like we were starring in the world’s worst honeymoon.
“Okay,” she tapped me on the shoulder once we were inside. “You can put me down now.”
I started to, then hesitated—mostly because she was still sticky with aloe, and I didn’t trust my grip not to send her sliding straight onto the floor. She must’ve felt it, too, because the second I tried to shift her, one leg slipped, and she yelped. I caught her in both arms just before she could fall—and for a moment, we both froze.
Her face came to a stop about six inches from mine. I could smell coconut, aloe, and whatever soap she’d used. Her hair—her real hair, finally free from that God-awful wig—was soft and messy and stuck to my shoulder. Gabby’s eyes met mine, wide and a little panicked, like she wasn’t sure whether to thank me or headbutt me.
I cleared my throat. “You good?”
“Yeah,” she said, voice squeaky. “Yeah, I’m good. Just... you know, gravity.”
“Big fan of gravity,” I muttered and finally eased her down onto her feet.
She stumbled once, caught herself on the edge of the table, and immediately looked around as if she needed something to do quickly.
“I’m making breakfast,” she declared, already bee-lining for the tiny kitchen like she hadn’t just asked me to princess-carry her over “snake-infested” grass.
“Sure you are,” I said sarcastically, following at a safe distance.
“I’m capable,” she added, flipping open a cabinet. “I’ve done hard things. Things that’d make a normal person quiver, like surveillance, research... oh, and filing my taxes without crying.”
“Impressive.”
She grabbed a carton of eggs, a small skillet, and what might’ve once been butter but now looked more like something from a science experiment. “I’m going to make you the best damn scrambled eggs this backwoods horror cabin has ever seen.”
“That’s a high bar.”
She turned on the single-burner stovetop. It made a noise like a dying cat.
“Confidence,” she pointed a wooden spoon at me, “is key.”
I leaned against the doorframe and watched her stir the eggs with intense focus. They sizzled and then smoked. Like, really smoked.