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)
Chapter Thirteen
Gabby
There was something almost criminal about how good Webb looked, standing over a cast iron skillet, backlit by firelight, sleeves rolled up, cooking fried chicken as if we weren’t hiding from hired muscle in the middle of the swamp.
I sat a few feet away, pretending to casually throw chunks of chicken skin to the raccoons and not think about how his forearms flexed when he flipped a thigh piece.
There was a war going on inside me.
Half of me was stuck on: You're in danger, focus on survival, Gabby. The other half kept repeating: But what if we kissed behind the cabin, and he held my hips while the world burned down?
Every brush of his arm when he passed me something, every low rumble of his voice, it all buzzed under my skin like a damn electric fence. I was one poorly timed lean away from full-on, unhinged, bad-decision energy. Something had to be wrong with me. Horny in the swamp? Was this what cabin fever did?
“Dinner,” Webb said, handing me a plate, completely unaware that I was imagining a future where I straddled him in a rocking chair.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, taking it and trying to focus on the food. It was surprisingly good—crispy, salty, and hot.
Of course, I immediately tossed a piece of the skin into the bushes. There was a rustle, and Steve emerged like a tiny, fluffy assassin, followed by two of his raccoon minions. They took the offering as if it were a tribute and began munching with alarming speed.
Webb eyed me. “You’re creating a problem.”
“They’re family now.”
“They’re bandits, Gabby. You feed them enough, they’re going to break in and steal every edible thing in the house.”
“We’ve got at least sixteen expired tins of food,” I reminded him. “We’ll hold them off.”
“They’ll eat the food, and then they’ll eat the labels.”
I grinned, feeling the warmth of the fire and him settle around me like a trap. “What if we trained them?”
He stared at me like I'd lost my mind, and maybe I had. “What?”
“The raccoons—what if we trained them to be part of our backup crew? Like distraction units or little swamp commandos.”
He stared at me like I’d sprouted antlers.
“I’m serious,” I chuckled, poking at my chicken. “They’re smart, and they’ve got tiny hands. Imagine the possibilities.”
“You’re insane,” he choked out, half laughing.
“But adorable?”
There was a pause, a heartbeat too long. Then he looked right at me, eyes dark and warm and way too steady.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Crazy but adorable.”
My heart did a full somersault, crashed into my ribs, and rolled to a stop somewhere near my lungs. I refused to show it, though.
Instead, I cleared my throat. “The military’s used dolphins before. Why not raccoons?”
“Because dolphins can’t fit through dog doors and open jars.”
“That sounds like a pro to me.”
He shook his head, still smiling and still looking at me like he was seeing something I hadn’t meant to show. And the worst part was that I didn’t want to look away. I was dangerously close to launching myself across the firepit and climbing him like a tree, so I did the only thing that made sense. I redirected.
Clearing my throat, I stared at my plate like it held ancient wisdom. “So,” I drawled casually, like I wasn’t fighting off an overwhelming thirst for this man, “how did you make the chicken taste so good?”
Webb glanced up, tearing off a piece of thigh meat with a nod of approval. “Probably the skillet.”
My hand stopped halfway to my mouth. “The what?”
“It's cast iron, and the trick is keeping it seasoned.”
My brain conjured up an image of him dramatically sprinkling Lawry’s seasoning all over a pan like Salt Bae. “So, like, you mean adding seasoning every time?”
He gave me a weird look, then shook his head. “No, you season the skillet itself. You've also gotta wipe it down after cooking, don’t ever wash it with soap. It builds flavor and makes the pan better over time.”
I froze mid-chew, then slowly lowered my fork.
“Wait, you don’t wash it with soap and water?”
His face was so calm when he said it, so casually, like he hadn’t just admitted to the culinary equivalent of crime. “That’d ruin the seasoning. You just scrape out the bits and wipe it down. The heat does the rest.”
My entire digestive system did a backflip, and I clamped a hand over my mouth, eyes wide. “Oh my God.”
He frowned. “What?”
I stood up slightly, looking at my plate like it had betrayed me. “I’ve been eating pan bacteria. I just willingly ingested a colony of old chicken ghosts and grease microbes!”
He raised both eyebrows. “It’s fine. It’s the same thing everyone’s grandma does.”
“Okay, but did Grandma survive the Great Salmonella Plague of 2023? Did she?”
He looked so entertained. “Gabby—”
“Don’t ‘Gabby’ me like I’m the unreasonable one. You’ve been seasoning a pan with the hopes and dreams of bacteria! What if I die before the bad guys get here? What if it’s not a bullet that gets me—it’s botulism?”