Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
RHYS
The world ends for a while, then starts again beneath a sweep of thinning clouds. Sun pierces through, winds calm, and the thunder grows distant, lightning evaporating.
The birds return, warbling like the storm never happened.
I rise and head for the window, peering out. The world is sharper, cleaner. Droplets still cling, shimmering in every direction.
I fold my arms, shaking my head. “Shouldn’t have parked there.”
That’s when I get the nerve to look at her again.
Those eyes.
God, they hit harder than they should.
I hear her chattering teeth first. Then, see the pallor of her damp skin, chestnut hair gone dark as mahogany in the rain. It curls at her temples. Small ringlets. The messy bun from earlier swept away with the Jeep.
My chest tightens. Don’t know why.
Her lips press together in a thin, blue line.
I head for the hearth, piling logs in a neat stack. Keep moving. Keep doing. The only way to get through this… and her.
“Yeah,” she says finally, voice dry and hard. “I see that now.”
“You insured that?”
She shrugs, swiping a hand across her face. I don’t know if she’s wiping away rain or tears. “Rental insurance.”
The room goes quiet except for the soft hum of the fire, the pop of new logs building heat.
“Fine print,” I grunt.
“What?” she asks, arching a brow.
“Doesn’t matter if it’s insured. Fine print gets you every time.”
Her face doesn’t relax. If anything, it hardens. And those eyes—Phoenix’s eyes—bore into me. Appraising me. Observing everything. Cold and clinical in a way her brother never was.
I straighten, looking away as I strip the clinging wet denim from my cold skin. I steal a glance in her direction. Sloane’s eyes are wide, expressionless.
“War correspondent?”
Her gaze flicks to my face, trying not to stare. Failing miserably as I throw the drenched cloth aside. Just boxer briefs now. She worries her bottom lip, then nods once.
“You’ve seen worse,” I say. “I’ll find you something dry.”
The sound of her swallowing carries in the small cabin. “No,” she says. “I have my own clothes.”
“Alright.” I stand in front of the small dresser I built. When I drop the boxers, she gasps behind me.
I ignore it, changing into dry jogging pants. Then, I stand with my back to her. Waiting until the sound of zippers and the soft rustle of fabric tell me I can look again.
A pile of wet clothes greets me.
“No washer. No dryer. No shower.” I thumb over my shoulder to the backyard clothesline. “Hang them.”
At the front door, I slip into my boots, then trudge around the back. Red mud slides and cakes my boots. I hang my pants and boxers. Then, move them over slightly, making room.
She follows me wordlessly. Grabbing damp pins and securing her stuff. Pushing mine over farther. Taking her space.
Don’t like that.
Still pale-faced and blue-lipped. She stares at the washout that stole her Jeep like this is still fixable.
“Could’ve picked a better day,” I grunt.
“Picked the first chance I got,” she replies, chin raising defiantly.
“Then I hope it’s worth it.”
“The truth is always worth it.” Her teeth chatter, goosebumps standing up on her arms.
That stops me. “Thought by now you’d know…”
“Know what?”
“There is no truth. Only what we tell ourselves.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her forehead creases as she scrutinizes me. “There is. That’s why I’m here.”
Of course, it is.
“Back inside.” I head for the cabin. At the door, I pause, glancing back. She’s still there where I left her.
“You don’t get to order me.”
“Suit yourself.” I shrug, closing the door and dropping the bar.
“Oh,” she exclaims after a long, motionless moment. She reaches it, not knocking. Just standing there, pressing against it. “Are you really going to leave me out here?”
“Didn’t invite you the first time.”
Anger flashes in her face.
“And I don’t invite twice.”
Worry forms a line between her eyebrows. “What is this? Some kind of house rules thing?”
I rub a hand over my face, insides in tight knots. God, I wish she’d just go away.
But no Jeep. No luck.
I stand there for a long moment. Just breathing.
Just thinking.
Dammit.
I pull the bar and open the door. She’s closer now than I expected, not moving back or betraying she’s startled. She is, though. I see it in the swirl of her eyes.
“Back inside. Won’t say it again.”
Her eyes go hard, hollow. His eyes. God help me. I don’t know how to do this.
“Got it.” She slides past, too close. Close enough that my body notices hers before my brain can shut it down.
I haven’t allowed anyone this close in a very long time. And I shouldn’t let this happen.
But somewhere deep down, I think I knew it was inevitable from the moment Phoenix looked me in the eye and told me to leave him behind.
And I already know that’s not what she came to hear.