"That's called paranoia.And ego. Mostly ego."
I shove down the wet jeans, standing there in just my boxers. The cold is starting to hurt now, that deep ache in my bones.
I grab the thermal underwear, yanking it on once I get the boxers off. Then I pull on the sweatpants—which are too short, as predicted—and a long-sleeved flannel. When I turn around, she's still facing the wall, her shoulders tight.
"Okay," I say, moving to hang my wet clothes near the fire. My hands are still shaking, but at least I can feel them again.
She turns, and her eyes do a quick scan before meeting mine.
We stare at each other for a beat too long, and I'm the first to break. "We should eat.”
"Right," she mutters, and follows me to the kitchen area.
The kitchen area is roughly six square feet of space with a small counter, a two-burner camp stove (without any fuel), and a sink that probably doesn't have running water. We're going to have to heat water over the fire for everything.
"Chicken noodle or tomato?" I ask, rummaging through the cans.
"Chicken noodle." She's standing right behind me, close enough that I’m woefully aware of her. "I'll heat the water."
She reaches past me for the kettle, and her hand brushes my arm. It's nothing, barely contact. But my entire nervous system lights up like she touched me with a live wire.
I step aside fast, grabbing the can opener. "I got it."
"I can help?—"
"I said I got it." The words come out sharp.
She goes still. When I glance over, her jaw is tight, eyes swirling with something that might be anger or hurt or both. "Fine. I'll just...sit here. Like a useless lump."
Shit.
She crosses her arms, and I try—really try—not to notice how the movement pushes up her full breasts against that T-shirt. "God forbid I try to be helpful. Might contaminate something."
"Piper—"
She moves past me, shoulder bumping mine, and grabs the kettle herself. "I'll heat the water. You open the can. Then we'll maintain our separate corners like good little enemies."
She fills the kettle from one of the water jugs and carries it to the fireplace, kneeling down to position it on the grate. The firelight catches her profile, all pouty lips and defiant eyes.
The camping trip two summers ago pops into my head…Piper in that sea green sundress, laughing at something Dad said while they set up the picnic table. The sun turned her hair copper and gold.
Jayce had his arm around her waist, proprietary and casual, and I had to get out of there. I made up some excuse about checking the perimeter of our campsite for trash that could attract bears, then spent an hour walking the trails trying to get my head straight.
Or that Christmas dinner…the first one after they'd been dating six months. She'd helped Mom in the kitchen, completely at home, chatting about family recipes and asking questions about Grandpop's traditions. When she giggled at one of Jayce's jokes, and kissed him on the neck, I'd gripped my wine glass so hard it shattered in my hand. Cut my palm right open. I had to pretend it was an accident.
After that, I stopped even trying to pretend. I started being cold on purpose. Because cold was safer than the alternative.
I open the soup and pour it into a battered pot.
"Here." Her voice pulls me back. “Let’s trade.” She's holding out the kettle. “It’s already hot. I’d made coffee with it before you got here.”
I take it, careful not to let our fingers touch, then give her the soup pot.
As she heats the soup, I find bowls and spoons.
We eat sitting on opposite ends of the couch. The soup is bland, but warm, and I force myself to focus on that instead of the way she chews on her bottom lip between bites. She's always done that when she's nervous or thinking.
And I shouldn't know that about my younger brother’s ex-girlfriend.
