“I dearly hope not,” he says, and there is nothing reassuring in his tone.
We return to the front room, what the brochure for Camelot Lots would call the great room. From here, we can see the kitchen, the dining area, and both the front and back doors, along with the sweeping staircase to the second floor.
Henry’s still scanning, still vigilant. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a place so completely without any character.”
“It’s a showcase home,” I tell him. “It’s not supposed to have character. It’s like a blank canvas.”
He nods, but even in the dark, I can tell he’s unconvinced.
The curtain is still drawn across the large bay window, but the skylight remains unadorned. I stare up at it, pinpricks of cold puckering the skin on my arms. The open concept and large windows were meant to be a selling point, but the room feels cold and cavernous.
“We can set up base somewhere else,” Henry says, as if he feels it too.
“I think here is best. Everything flows into this space.” Oh, honestly, I sound like I’ve stumbled out of a home improvement show. “Which means if something comes our way, we’ll see or hear it.”
Henry gives me a nod of approval and yanks a sheet from a sectional. “Then let’s sit and rest.” As if to demonstrate, he eases the pack from his shoulders and then, once seated, places his feet on the coffee table. “We can work out our next steps, figure out how to make a break for it when this storm ends.”
“If it doesn’t?”
He sinks farther into the couch and pats the cushion next to his. “Then we think of something else.”
The couch seems a great distance away, a yawning gap of a space that starts at the toes of my pink sneakers and stretches to the coffee table, where he’s placed his umbrella and field pack. I slip my own field pack from my shoulders while my umbrella tugs me forward, urging me to deposit her next to her companion. Like we don’t have bigger problems.
Shameless thing.
“Pansy, sit. You’re making me nervous.”
I glance up at the skylight before parting the curtains ever so slightly and gazing at the grayness outside.
“I’m making you nervous?”
He manages to laugh, and it’s this that has me on the couch cushion next to him. From his pack, he pulls a small lantern and flicks it on. Light blazes before he adjusts the intensity to the lowest setting.
In the dim light, his expression is careworn, full of regret and apology. “I’m beginning to think this was one of those rules we shouldn’t have broken.”
I take his hand and give it a squeeze, but I don’t have it in me to disagree.
Chapter 60
Henry
Henry struggled against the seduction. Part of him found the experience curious, how easy it was to slip into the fantasy. Clearly, it was nothing more than that.
And yet, here he was, assessing this space as if he could set up housekeeping. True, he’d prefer something with more history and certainly more character. Even so? The kitchen was excellent, nearly perfect. Oh, the meals he could cook here. The barest hint of an aroma reached him. What was it? Something savory, perhaps with sage, something deeply comforting.
He jerked himself forward on the couch, planted his hands on the coffee table, and sucked in deep breaths. His heart thumped a warning, but nothing in the surroundings stirred. Only he and Pansy were here, and she was currently sleeping beside him. Earlier, he’d tugged additional sheets from the furniture, shook out the dust, and tucked her in as best he could.
Her sleep was deep, and he wondered, not for the first time, if he should wake her. Or was it more dangerous to be alert and susceptible to the seduction? The daydreams and fantasies only clogged his mind, making it harder to plan an escape.
His heart clutched at that thought and thrummed another warning. The house didn’t want them to leave. If he were honest with himself, Henry was fairly certain something deep inside him didn’t want to leave either. These two things were conspiring, or so he imagined.
He pushed to stand, shaking his head. Another circuit, another inventory to keep his mind from wandering. Henry checked both burner phones. Still no signal, no way to alert anyone to where they were. His umbrella merely vibrated with regret when it couldn’t send a pulse, never mind an SOS.
“At least you’re still with me,” Henry murmured.
On the coffee table, Pansy’s umbrella fluttered her ruffles as if to reassure him that she, too, was still here.
“And I appreciate your company as well.”
