“You can trust her.”
“Will she actually answer my questions?”
“Depends on the question,” Giselle says. “I stopped by the sheriff’s office on my way here. They can’t locate Patrick Dixon and they’re looking closer at the evidence from the museum break-in on Saturday night.”
Sloane shivers, and it takes everything in me to not turn around and hug her.
Tell her we’ll move the camper somewhere more remote.
Hide from him—well, hideherfrom him while I go hunt the fucker—and keep her safe and her cat safe with all of the popcorn and tequila and coffee she needs.
Take care of her.
Guard her.
Smell her hair again.
Cinnamon. That’s a new one.
Fucking hell.
I’m falling for her.
These are situational emotions, I remind myself. Not real.
And I need tonottouch her again.
If I touch her, I won’t stop touching her.
As evidenced by last night.
She eyes me, and her cheeks pinken, like she’s thinking about last night too.
Thank fuck, someone bangs on the door before I have to say anything, making Sloane jump and lift the lamp again like she’s ready to swing.
“Open up, Davis,” Cash calls. “We need proof of life. And Aspen wrote you a song about getting a new job. You’re gonna love it.”
I take the lamp. “You don’t need this. They’re friendly.”
“Are they?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t open the door, I’m sending a squirrel in through the window to unlock the door. Pretty sure Levi’s old pet is one of these guys staring at us,” Cash yells.
“These are the people you actually trust?” Sloane says to me.
Fuck me.
My dick’s still half hard, I’m pissed at Levi for sending Giselle, Cash is being an intentional asshole, I haven’t meditated or worked out or had breakfast or my own coffee, there are undoubtedly four hundred more messages waiting for me on the group chat that I abandoned last night when I heard Sloane scream, and I’m smiling.
At a woman.
Who made a joke and might just understand exactly how funny it really is.
Not a crush. Not a crush. Not a crush.
“They’re consistent,” I tell her.
