He didn’t warn me it would start to feel like the only thing keeping the wire from burning down the whole damn town is me keeping my hands on it.
And if I’m honest with myself, for the first time all day, there’s another truth braided into that.
I don’t just want to keep her alive because it’s my job.
I want to keep her alive because somewhere between finding Henry at her window and boosting Tallulah into my passenger seat, she stopped being a job I was assigned—
—and started being the one person I can’t lose.
FOURTEEN
TWIGGY
Asgrandasitis, I know Cotton’s house will smell like soup and laundry and crayons. It’ll smell like home.
Bran opens the truck door for me, and I start to stomp up the front steps like I’m not relieved to be here.
I am, though. I also refuse to admit it out loud.
A patch of black ice on the bottom step catches me off guard, and I flail, flapping my arms and bending at the waist until I manage to catch myself.
“Please tell me you’re not going to try to carry me,” I warn him when he comes around to my side, hands outstretched.
He arches a brow. “You going to wipe out on purpose just to prove a point?”
“I’m not that dumb,” I say. “But statistically speaking, stairs plus ice plus my track record is a risky combo. I don’t need to break both our necks.”
He huffs. “Please.”
He lifts me like I weigh no more than a toothpick and settles me against his chest. My legs go around his waist automatically, and my hands clutch at his shoulders. “Bran…”
“Hush.” Eyes focused over my shoulder, he walks up the porch steps.
Cotton must have been watching from the window, because the door flies open before we can knock.
“Savvi’s made soup,” she announces. “Shoes off, please, or she’ll kill you. I don’t think I want to know what this is.”
She’s barefoot, hair in a messy bun, leggings and an oversized sweater that says NOBODY LIKES A HALF-ASSED JINGLER.
I shove against Bran’s chest, and he lets me slide down. Am I imagining it, or is there some reluctance in how his grip loosens?
Dismissing that thought, I roll my eyes. “You know you don’t have to try to mom me, right?”
“Somebody does,” Cotton says. “You’re pretty damn feral. Come inside.”
Bran stretches in the foyer, his henley pulling taut across his shoulders. Catching my eye, he smiles a little, as if to say, “finally.”
I have to grin. Cotton’s family estate, a sprawling equestrian farm, is one of the few places the poor man doesn’t have to try to physically shrink himself to avoid knocking into walls and doorways. He probably feels like he can finally breathe.
“Kitchen,” Cotton directs, already padding away. “We have soup, grilled cheese, and about eight million cookies Saoirse decorated like crime scenes.”
“On brand,” I mutter, following.
The Gallagher kitchen is all warm wood and marble and miles of countertop. Savvi, their longtime housekeeper, is busy pulling a stack of plates from a cabinet.
There’s a crock pot on the one, a giant pot on the stove, and a tray of cookies iced within an inch of their lives. Three of them are definitely supposed to be snowmen. One looks like a penis, and two look like accidental autopsy photos.
“Saoirse has your flair for drama,” I tell her.
