Papa squeezed my hand, then stood. “Can we have a minute?” he asked, but it wasn’t really a question. Wrecker nodded, and Parker waved us off.
We stepped out onto the back deck, which overlooked a little yard and a fringe of woods beyond. The air was sharp and cold, but the sun was out, and the deck boards were warm under my feet.
Papa leaned against the railing, then looked at me, really looked at me, the way he always did when he had something important to say.
“You alright?” he asked, soft.
I nodded and then shook my head. “I feel like an idiot. I can’t even remember a stupid drawing.”
He stepped close, so close I could feel the heat from his chest, and cupped my face in his hands.
“You are not an idiot,” he said. “You’re the bravest person I know.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “You must not know many people.”
He didn’t smile. “I know exactly enough. And I know I want you. All of you.”
He bent down, and I thought he was going to kiss my forehead, but instead his mouth found mine, gentle at first, then growing in heat and pressure until my knees nearly gave out. His hands were big and rough, but he touched me like I was something precious.
I opened for him, let him in, and for the first time I understood why people got drunk on kissing. His tongue swept over mine, slow and thorough, and my body woke up in ways I didn’t know it could. My fingers curled into his shirt, needing something to hold on to. I tasted coffee and the deep, dark hunger I’d seen in his eyes.
He broke away, breath ragged, and pressed his forehead to mine.
“I don’t care what you think about yourself,” he said. “You are it for me, Aspen Waters.”
I blinked, stunned. “You mean that?”
He kissed me again, softer this time, like a promise. “Every word.”
I let myself believe him, just for a second, and the ache in my chest turned to something warm and bright.
“Come on,” he said, tugging me back toward the house. “We’ve got a mystery to solve.”
Inside, Wrecker watched the door, but his eyes crinkled when he saw us. “Come on, he grinned. Let’s go back to the tech room.” There Parker sat at her desk, typing furiously, screens filling with images of triangles and esoteric symbols. I glanced around at the screens lit up with numbers and symbols I had no hope of understanding.
I looked down and saw Rocket begging to be picked up. With the little mutt in my arms and Papa at my side, I didn’t feel like an intruder or a liability. I felt like part of a team. Part of afamily, even. We’d find the answer together. Whatever it was, I wouldn’t have to face it alone.
Chapter 10
Big Papa
Aspen sat shotgun in my truck, both hands gripping a waxed paper cup Parker had filled with the last of her fancy pour-over. She was staring out at the moonlit fields as if she expected a ghost to sprint across the road and flag us down; her face was caught half in shadow, half in the faded light from the dash. The roads out here were empty at this hour, when even the deer stayed bedded down.
When we left Wrecker and Parker’s place, she’d been quiet, as if her brain was processing something big. I didn’t push. As a wolf who’d spent his life corralling trauma, I knew to let the ripples settle before skimming another stone. I just let theradio fill the space—old George Jones tonight, music that played like a bruise on your heart—and watched her reflection in the passenger window.
She glanced over as we hit the turnoff for my street. “Is this where you live?” she asked, voice a little excited.
I nodded, tapping the blinker even though nobody for miles would see. “Yup. Two miles down, split-rail fence, mailbox shaped like a tractor.” I could tell she wanted to ask more, but her lips pressed together, holding the words in. I loved that about her; she never filled the silence just to fill it.
We rumbled down the drive and I eased up to the porch, my truck’s headlights cutting a bright wound through the black. I saw her eyes widen as she took in the house—a ranch style, three bedrooms, all wide hallways and overbuilt windows. It was a place made for a man my size who hated feeling boxed in. The wraparound porch looked out over the fields, still flecked with frost even though spring was flirting at the edges of every tree line. A porch swing groaned on its chains in the wind.
Inside, the house was warm, dry, and dimly lit. I’d left one lamp on in the front room and nothing else. The floors were polished wood, smooth enough you could slide in socks all the way from the mudroom to the kitchen. The furniture was as oversized as I was—big armchairs, a sectional that’d seat ten if it had to, every piece of it battered and broken in. The walls were spare except for a few old black-and-whites: my parents on their wedding day, me and the guys from combat years, before the bomb, Mama’s favorite Polaroid of me as a kid covered in pancake batter.
Aspen hovered in the doorway, her whole body drawing up tight to make herself smaller. I stepped past her and dropped the keys on a hook. “You want a tour?”
She hesitated, then smiled, a little lost. “I’d love that, actually.”
I led her through, pointing out the dumb little things: “That door goes to the guest wing, but I never use it. Kitchen’s this way. Those cabinets are original, but I swapped the handles out because the old ones caught on my jeans.” She trailed a finger over the edge of the countertop as if she were reading the house by touch. I wondered how long it had been since she’d been truly welcome in another person’s house. I led her to take a seat on the sofa.
