Chapter 8
The cot was barely wide enough for one of them, never mind both.
But it was the only sleeping surface in the cabin besides the floor, and Cross had insisted she take it.
So naturally, she’d told him to shut up, and she made room for him as well.
There was no way he was sleeping on the floor because of her.
It would be too much like she owed him something.
Now they lay side by side beneath the mosquito net, the gauzy fabric draped like a ghostly veil around them.
The air inside was thick with heat and humidity, and every breath felt as if she were sucking in soup.
Outside, the symphony of insects never stopped—buzzing, clicking, whirring in a rhythm as steady as her pulse.
Which was currently galloping, thanks to the man less than six inches away.
Drew kept her back to Cross, one knee crooked, one arm under her head.
She pretended to be asleep. Had been for what felt like an hour now.
But her body refused to shut down. His presence was too much.
Every inhale drew in his scent—something citrusy, swamp water, and whatever soap he’d used when he cleaned up.
His bare arm brushed hers each time he shifted, and she was hyper-aware of every accidental touch.
Every flare of heat where their skin met.
The thin tank she wore might as well have been tissue paper.
Like a current running under the surface, the tension rose between them. Neither of them said a word. But it was there. Palpable. Suffocating. She tried to remind herself that she’d heard him call Tessa honey. He was involved with someone else. She was over him. What did it matter?
Except it did.
When he shifted again, she felt it—the barest graze of his hand along her hip. Not on purpose. Not exactly. But enough to set her nerve endings on fire. She exhaled slowly, trying not to give herself away.
“You asleep?” Cross’s voice was low. Rough. Too close to her ear.
Damn it. “Trying,” she muttered.
A beat passed.
“How’s that goin’ for you?”
She turned her head slightly, glancing at him in the faint moonlight that filtered through the slatted walls. His eyes were open, watching her. His expression unreadable, but his gaze? That gave everything away.
She swallowed. “About the same as it is for you.”
His mouth curved slightly. “Yeah.”
Another long pause. Her skin tingled where the sheet didn’t touch it. The cot creaked as he shifted again, his hand brushing her stomach this time and not by accident.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” she said, her voice husky.
“Doing what?”
“Being close.”
“I’m trying not to fall off the cot.”
She rolled onto her back, and suddenly his face was right above hers, his upper body propped on one elbow.
They were nose to nose now, breathing the same thick air, eyes locked.
She could’ve pushed him away. Logically, she knew she should.
Could’ve rolled over and told him to knock it off.
But she didn’t. Instead, she reached up and touched the side of his jaw. “This is a bad idea.”
“Probably,” he agreed and then kissed her anyway. It started hesitantly. Testing. Like he was waiting for her to stop him. She didn’t.
Their mouths found each other again, hungrier this time.
The kind of kiss born of tension stretched too long, too far.
She ran her hand up his chest and over his shoulder, pulling him closer.
His weight settled over her, his knee between hers, his hand sliding up her ribs.
Instinct overrode caution, and her body arched against him.
He tasted like tea and trouble and memories. So many damn memories.
His hand slid beneath her tank top and—A sharp knock on the cabin wall cracked through the moment. Both of them froze. Another knock followed, firmer this time.
“Cross!” a male voice called. “You awake?”
Drew sucked in a breath and shoved at his chest.
He muttered a curse, rolled off her, and sat up.
“Yeah! Gimme a second.” He grabbed a shirt off the chair and ducked under the mosquito net.
Drew stayed where she was, heart pounding, pulse thudding in her ears.
Her body still thrummed, skin heated and desperate for something she wasn’t going to get now.
She exhaled slowly, sitting up and leaning against the wall.
Damn good thing they hadn’t gotten around to shedding any clothes, or so she told herself.
Cross opened the door and stepped out into the night. “What’s going on, Rick?”
The voice that answered was deep and gravelly. “Didn’t mean to bust in on you. Just wanted you to know some shady characters were asking about you in town.”
“Yeah, they found me and shot up my place.”
“I heard,” the voice responded. “This was after that. They’re offering a lot of money if someone will tell them where you might be hiding. They think you aren’t too far away.”
“Shit,” Cross growled. “Is anyone talking?”
“Not sure, but I’ll do some digging. I figured you’d want to know.”
Drew swung her legs over the edge of the cot. Her breath had slowed, her pulse not so much.
Cross rubbed a hand down his face. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“Always.” Footsteps retreated, soft and sure on the wooden planks outside.
Cross shut the door quietly and turned to face her. The tension between them had shifted again. Still heavy. Still charged. But now? There was a new urgency.
She raised an eyebrow. “So, I take it that’s the Navy guy.”
He nodded. “Rick Boudreaux. Quiet type. Used to be recon. Lives three cabins down.”
“And apparently moves around the bayou in the middle of the night like it’s a suburban sidewalk.” Something she could not imagine doing unless her life depended on it, and even then, it was iffy.
“He’s the reason I’ve made it this long out here.”
Drew ran a hand through her hair. “Did he say someone was asking around?”
Cross’s jaw clenched. “He said someone was offering money in town for my most likely whereabouts?”
“Rodriguez,” Drew sighed.
Cross hesitated. “Probably, but it could be any of the bounty hunters who know about the two hundred and fifty K. Who knows how many of them are out here looking for me?”
Drew met his eyes. “Then I guess we don’t sleep tonight.”
His gaze flicked over her, hot and lingering. “Wouldn’t have anyway.”
The air between them crackled again—desire and danger wound tight.
But the moment was gone. At least for now.
And Drew knew one thing for certain. No matter how much she wanted him, no matter how badly she still felt everything when he looked at her like that, getting involved with Cross Morgan was a huge mistake. She’d bet her life on it.
The sky had barely started to lighten, a hazy gray creeping through the moss-hung trees.
The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, brackish water, and something vaguely floral that clung to everything.
Cross stood on the back deck of the cabin, a battered enamel mug of black coffee in his hand, watching the bayou start to wake up.
Rick Boudreaux leaned against the railing beside him, his long frame still and steady, his own coffee untouched. He’d come back at first light to add more details.
“You get a look at the guy?” Cross asked, keeping his voice low.
Rick shook his head. “He was gone before I got there. The description I got was an average-looking guy; average height and weight, medium brown hair.”
“Shit. Do you think someone will give me up?” Cross hated the idea that one of the folks out here would say something, but on the other hand, he couldn’t blame them.
He was a stranger. Most of them had been here forever.
He glanced down along the waterway, just barely able to see the next shack.
It would kill him to think someone here gave him up.
It would hurt him more if any one of them got hurt because someone wanted to kill him.
“Hard to tell. The guy offered twenty K just for information. That’s a lot for people who live out here to pass up.
On the other hand, people out here pretty much keep to themselves and don’t like strangers.
You’ve blended in and kept your head down, helped out when you could. That means something.”
In Cross’s honest estimation, it wasn’t too hard to tell whether someone would be tempted.
Rick shrugged. “The big worry is if someone has loose lips, and I don’t just mean today.
Could’ve happened months ago. Someone casually mentions to someone else that you had a place out here.
You know how the bayou is; gossip travels faster than the gators.
It would’ve only taken one comment to someone in town. ”
“And then when Rodriguez comes asking, that person remembers the comment. The twenty grand could jog a lot of memories.” Cross let out a long breath. “We still don’t know who was asking. Could’ve been Rodriguez and his goons, or it could’ve been the Weasel.”
Somehow, Cross thought, the Weasel would be infinitely worse.
Rodriguez was all temper and bravado. Whatever confrontation happened, it would be over quickly.
Rodriguez would lose his temper and just shoot Cross in the head if he didn’t tell him what he wanted to know.
Probably do it even if he did spill his guts.
The Weasel would be more methodical. He would make it hurt as much as possible.
Cross had no doubt that the majority of the Weasel’s victims begged him to kill them.
There was no way he wanted to be in that situation, but the scarier thought was that the Weasel would grab Drew and use her against Cross. He pushed that thought from his mind.
“The Weasel?” Rick asked, his tone sharp. “He’s involved in this?”
Cross nodded. “Rumor has it.”
“Shit,” Rick mumbled. “He’s not someone you want on your ass.”
“You know him, obviously.”
“Only by reputation,” Rick replied. “And that’s as close as I want to get.”