25. Millie
Millie
Millie shoved down her sleeves to stop from scratching at her goose-pimpled arms. She wanted to play with her mobile, but as Strike was extra cautious, Cam had taken the phone and SIM to destroy and would bring her new equipment in the morning.
Her phone was less secure than Strike’s, and they were willing to do anything to eliminate the possibility it had been traced.
Her fingers twitched as she stared at the tent.
Just me and Strike in one fucking tent.
Silence highlighted the sounds of her dragging saliva into her dry mouth. Exhaustion sat deep in her bones. She forced a yawn to convince herself she could sleep, but the proposition of sharing one tent with her first and only love made her breath kick.
“You know you have to get in the tent to sleep in it, right?” Strike asked as he leaned against a nearby tree, his eyes refusing to leave her.
“Give me a minute.” The one tent winked at her, and she fisted her hips.
Two sleeping bags.
“I’ve heard of only one bed, but never only one tent,” she whispered.
“It’s not your favourite trope, then?” he teased, his smirk warming her belly.
“I didn’t expect you to know what a trope was.”
“I like to learn.”
“But you said you didn’t read.”
“Stop avoiding the question,” he grunted.
“My favourite trope is men in uniform. I like all of them, really, although, I guess I’m not a fan of brother’s best friend.”
“Lucky I was never your brother’s best friend. Dexter hated me.”
She froze. “Did he?”
“Whenever he visited, he’d warn me to keep my distance from you. One time, he told me if he heard we were dating or if I did anything else that could impact your future of going to university, he’d ruin my life. He wasn’t always the guy he made out to be.”
“He was probably joking.”
Her reply convinced him she wasn’t ready for the truth about her family, but maybe while they were in their own little world, he could prepare her. “Your family were protective of you. I knew they’d do anything to ensure you had the life they’d planned.”
“Is that why in the summer before you left, we sneaked around more?”
“Partly. You were committed to your studies, and you talked a lot about medicine. I didn’t want to get in the way of that or risk damaging your relationship with your family.”
She hummed slowly.
“I want to know what happened in the past, but not yet. I process by moving and walking. To find out information where I can’t do that would trap me. Tell me when we get to Cornwall,” she insisted. “Promise you’ll tell me then.”
She walked to him and held out her flattened her palm, stretching her fingers.
“Mixie?”
“Promise me like you used to make promises.” His proximity had her squishing her toes.
He sighed as he signed his name across her palm. Then he turned his palm over, and she signed his. He stiffened against the gentle swoosh of her fingertip. “Still ticklish, then?”
Her laugh at his grunt made his heart flutter.
“Bear packed us food in case you didn’t make it home.” Strike walked away and reached into a rucksack. “It’s cold sausages, homemade bread, and slices of his lemon drizzle cake.”
“When did he become a Bake Off contender?”
Strike’s face cracked into a smile. “When he realised Liss adored food. He loves making her happy.”
“They’re cute together.”
“He’s always singing now, especially Whitney Houston ballads.” He laughed, crinkles appearing around his eyes. “They hated each other when they first met.”
She elbowed him in the side. “So there’s hope for us yet.”
“I guess.” His dejected tone surprised her. “Not that I could ever hate you.”
This wasn’t the time to unpack what had happened in the past. Forced proximity without space to get away was a recipe for disaster. “Food then. I’m starving. Let’s have it in the tent.”
“No way. We’re not getting crumbs in there. I’ll be freaking out all night locating them.”
She hid her smile. “You’re a big army man, and not even getting shot at scares you. Crumbs? Really?”
“We’ll eat out here. Bear packed a picnic blanket. He teases me about the crumbs thing, too.” Strike’s mouth twisted to the side, and his cheeks pinked.
“Okay,” Millie relented.
“Getting shot at scared me. It brought back memories. But I needed to be strong for you.”
She wanted to run her fingers across his cheek and tell him that he didn’t need to be anything for her.
Strike turned away, forcing an end to the conversation, but she couldn’t lose their growing connection. “You won’t get much sleep. I’m a wriggler in bed.”
His jaw tightened as he looked back. “According to who?”
“My sleep monitor app.” His smug smile was brief and alluring. “Does anyone think you’re a wriggler?” She peeked at him beneath her lashes.
He shrugged. “The lads from my old platoon told me off for wriggling a few times, but I’ve learnt to sleep without moving.”
“Why?”
“In the army, I faced situations where you needed to be as still as a corpse. Otherwise, you’d end up as one.”
“Oh.” She reached out to him, but he was already walking to the bags.
“But I remember what my therapist says and the ways I take care of myself.”
“You’re in therapy?”
“Yes, although I still can’t get away from all the things I’ve done and how they’ve turned me into this difficult, demanding man. It makes me someone people hate.”
Surely, he couldn’t believe his team hated him. She whispered, almost hoping he didn’t hear, “I don’t hate you, Strike.”
“But you did, and I deserved it,” he said, still facing away from her. “Let’s eat and get sleep.”
As he bent down, she caught sight of the blood now crusted in his hair.
“We’ll eat, and then I’m washing the blood from your hair in the lake.” His eyes widened. “If you’re scared of crumbs in the bed, imagine crusty bits of blood getting lost in your sleeping bag. And before you tell me swimming after eating is dangerous—"
“It is.”
“I said before you tell me,” she huffed. “I’ve been shot at today, and Hugo wants me dead. I can cope with a bit of water, and I’ve got you to keep me safe. I don’t trust anyone more.”
He crossed his arms, grunting a nonsensical answer.