Chapter Seventy-Three
Isla
One hand on the wheel, the other on his leg near his thigh holster, my brother glanced at me again.
Oh my God.
“What?” I demanded. It’d been three days of this. Highway pavement and judgmental glances. I was over it.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. You keep looking at me like I’m about to snap or like I’m crazy.”
“I’m not.”
“Don’t be a liar,” I argued, because I didn’t want to cry. “And that’s exactly how you’re looking at me.”
“I don’t lie to you.”
“Nice qualifier you tacked on to the end of that sentence.” My feet on the dash, I kicked at the air vent to angle it off me. “Do you always drive with the air-conditioning set to arctic blast?”
“I haven’t spent the last decade living outside.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Wolf sped down the interstate another few miles before he answered.
“With the exception of Iceland, you’ve spent ten years in subtropical or temperate climates where you wouldn’t need air-conditioning or shelter to keep you safe.
Your body’s adjusted to warmer weather. The air-conditioning isn’t at an unreasonable temperature.
You’re barefoot, underdressed, and angry. ”
“Anger makes me cold?” How was I related to this person?
“Anger activates the body’s fight-or-flight response, releasing adrenaline that in turn causes blood flow to be redirected away from your skin and sent to your vital organs and muscles. End result is the coldness you’re experiencing.”
“Oh my God.” Why did I call him? “And knowing all that, you’re going to continue to torture me with subzero air-conditioning.”
“You’re not going to be comfortable at any temperature right now.”
“So, that means, what? You may as well be comfortable, then?”
Same as another infuriating former SEAL I knew, he didn’t respond. He didn’t even glance at me again.
“Fine.” I twisted awkwardly to reach behind our seats and grabbed my backpack. Hating that I was now thinking about how nothing felt comfortable, I fished out a black hoodie I’d stolen from a man who’d lied to me.
Except it wasn’t really a hoodie, and Will hadn’t technically lied to me. He’d said he’d needed time. Then omitted the single most important thing about himself.
Now I needed time. Or distance. Or something. Because I was regretting everything.
Yanking the material over my head that was more workout moisture-wicking material than soft, plush cotton, I inhaled like a junkie as the inside of the SUV temporarily filled with the scent of vetiver, citrus, and a six-foot-four warfighter.
My favorite scent.
Next to how a fifteen-year-old’s hair had smelled after we’d caught fish, then dunked ourselves in the ocean because I’d told Linc it was the quickest shower you could ever take.
He’d laughed, but he’d jumped in after me.
We’d dunked and then lain on the sand to dry.
As we walked back to the house, he’d given me a quick, shy, one-armed hug and told me, “Thanks.” I didn’t know if he was thanking me for the shower tip, or the fishing lesson, or saving him from boredom while Will had to make a quick run to his office, or something else, but it didn’t matter.
That “Thanks” had been everything.
If I could’ve captured the moment and stuffed it into my journal, I would have because it was the best thank-you I’d ever received.
My heart aching over the memory, but my soul smiling, I pulled up the hood of Will’s shirt-thingy over my head and leaned back.
Of course, Wolf noticed.
“New clothes?”
“Borrowed.” Stolen. From a warfighter who’d stolen my heart. Both he and his son had stolen my heart.
I should’ve made that concrete vault after all.