And my pulse won’t slow.
I like her.
She’s brave. She’s smart. She’s compassionate.
She has ghosts, but she’s doing her damnedest to live her best life despite the ghosts.
I admire that.
Ilike that.
Situational attraction, I try to tell myself.You fell off the wagon and licked her pussy, and now you’re confused, but this isn’t real.
Unfortunately, I don’t believe myself.
As I shouldn’t.
She looks up at me when she should be pulling her hand back so that we can get to work. “Do you know what’s incredibly stupid about this whole thing?”
I shake my head.
“The pages I copied for you from the journal Pop has—the writer talked all about how he deserves that treasure and he earned that treasure and he can’t wait to get his hands on that treasure again, but he stole it.He stole it. It shouldn’t belong to him. It shouldn’t even belong to Shipwreck or Sarcasm. It should belong to its original owners. But people arestillhere, over two hundred years later, committing crimes in the name of getting rich. Justwhat the fuck?You know? No onedeservesto be rich. Deserve to be loved? Yes. Respected for who they are? Yes. Rich? Fuck right off. I’d rather be a good person and have fewer things but know that I didn’t step all over people to get what I have.”
Fuuuuuck.
She needs to stop talking, because every time she talks, I like her even more.
And I can’t.
Even if it’s not situational attraction, once we’ve located the treasure and gone through with the fake wedding, we’re done.
Done.
Because I don’t do relationships.
The last time I tried—yeah, I don’t talk about that either.
I swallow.
Then swallow again.
She squints at me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Do the goddamn job, Remington. Look at the diary. Look at maps. Find the treasure. Do the right thing.
The right thing is not kissing Sloane. Again.
It’s not.
Except it is.
This is Denver.
This is obsession.
This is proving to myself that I can do something that I shouldn’t do.
This is danger.
