Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Thank you.”
He leaves me alone, and I survey the space around me. There’s a window, a small bedside table, and a couple of framed pictures on the wall. A family with a smiling woman, a stern-looking man, and three identical school-age boys who look like they barely stopped moving long enough to pose for the picture. There’s another picture of the brothers in fatigues, arms around each other’s shoulders, probably mid-twenties.
I’m still looking at the photos when Rhett appears in the doorway. “Do you need anything?”
I shake my head. “I’m going to try to sleep.”
He nods once, his eyes surveying the room before he leaves.
I close the door and stand near it for a moment, listening to the sounds in the cabin. Floorboards creak, and water runs, then shuts off. There are low voices, then silence.
I find my pajamas, change into them, and crawl between the sheets, overwhelmed and exhausted.
It doesn’t take long for me to drift off, and when I do, I don’t dream of the men who chased me through the dark. I dream of the ones who came for me.
CHAPTER 13
BOONE
I’ve been shot at in two different countries, blown sideways by an IED, and once spent sixteen hours keeping a man alive with pressure, morphine, and prayer while the rest of the team fought through terrain that wanted to kill us, but I’ve never been in more trouble than I am right now.
I’m in the kitchen scrambling eggs in the cast-iron skillet when the bathroom door opens. I turn and look because Wren’s the one who’s in there, and I’m a weak man.
I’m not prepared for the fact that she’s wearing one of my flannel shirts.
She’s barefoot, and her hair is loose and messy from sleep. My shirt hangs down to her thighs, where I catch glimpses of the bottom of pink pajama shorts as she hovers in the hall like she’s unsure whether or not to come out into the living room.
“Morning,” she says. Her voice is rough, and there goes another part of my sanity.
“Morning.”
The eggs hiss in the pan, but they’ll have to fend for themselves.
Wren tugs at the hem of the shirt self-consciously. She has the cuffs folded over a few times to shorten the sleeves. “I didn’t have a robe.”
The bottom of the shirt brushes against bare skin on her leg, but I manage to bring my eyes back to her face like a man with superpowers. “No complaints from me.”
Her cheeks turn pink, and that does not help.
The shirt is buttoned, but I catch a glimpse of thin fabric at her chest that’s cut low. Her pajamas must be skimpy, and suddenly, I’m imagining what they look like, or, more importantly, what her body looks like in them.
My hand grips the edge of the island counter, and she notices. The woman notices disturbed animal trails under deadfall and the age of new leaf growth on different types of trees, so of course she notices when a grown man needs to grip a butcher block for strength.
Her gaze drops to my hand, then lifts to my face, and I turn back to the stove before I can do something reckless, like close the distance between us and find out if her mouth is as sweet as it looks.
“You want coffee?” I ask.
“Yes, please.”
“How do you like it?”
“With cream, if you have it.”
“We have it now.” I keep my eyes on the eggs, because her voice is coming closer, and that’s only going to make things harder for me.
“Now? Did you buy cream while I was sleeping?”
“And tea, and yogurt, and those little oranges you had in your motel room.”
“Thank you.” She smiles, and I feel it like a warm touch on my chest.
My weak-willed eyes drop down to her thighs again, and I feel their effects somewhere else.
While I put her eggs on a plate with some bacon, she pours coffee for herself. We move around each other carefully, as if there are trip wires in the kitchen and neither of us wants to take a wrong step.
Rhett comes in from outside, and his eyes go immediately to Wren and to the shirt she’s wearing. When he looks at me, his expression doesn’t change, but I see the flicker of amusement behind his eyes.
Wren says good morning to him as she takes a seat at the table. She pulls one knee up under her, the hem of the flannel shirt slides higher, and Rhett and I both freeze.
She looks around the kitchen. “What?”
“Nothing,” Rhett says.
“Absolutely nothing,” I add.
Wren looks at us over the rim of her mug with suspicion in her eyes. She knows we’re full of shit.
When she’s halfway through her breakfast, her phone rings. She looks at the screen, and her face goes serious. “It’s my supervisor.” She stands to take the call, walks slowly over toward the other side of the room, and paces by the fireplace.